I’m confounded. Should I keep arguing the truth when it only pisses him off? I swallow. None of the words in my head seem like the right ones to say.
He reaches for my bra.
I bat at his hands, heart pumping like I just did two back-to-back spin classes. He ignores my feeble resistance. The bra is a front hook and he obviously excels at removing women’s lingerie because it’s off faster than the dress. My breasts spring out with a bounce, and he glares at them, as if I bared them just to tempt him. He examines the bra, then tosses it on the floor and stares at me. His eyes dip once more to my breasts and his expression grows even more furious. “Real tits,” he mutters as if that’s a punishable offense.
I try to step back but I bump into the toilet. “I’m not hiding anything. I’m just a maid. I got hired two weeks ago. You can call Samuel.”
He steps closer. Tragically, the hardened menace on his handsome face only increases his attractiveness to me. I really am wired wrong. My body thrills at the nearness of him, pussy dampening. Or maybe it’s the fact that he just stripped me practically naked while he stands there fully clothed. I think this is a fetish to some people. Apparently, I’m one of them. If I wasn’t so scared, it would be uber hot.
He palms my backside, warm fingers sliding over the satiny fabric of my panties, but he’s not groping me, he’s still working efficiently, checking for bugs. He slides a thumb under the gusset, running the fabric through his fingers. My belly flutters.
Oh God. The back of his thumb brushes my dewy slit. I cringe in embarrassment. His head jerks up and he stares at me in surprise, nostrils flaring.
Then his brows slammed down as if it pisses him off I’m turned on, as if it’s a trick.
That’s when things really go to shit.
He pulls out his gun and points it at my head—actually pushes the cold hard muzzle against my brow. “What. The fuck. Are you doing here?”
I pee myself.
Literally.
God help me.
I freeze and pee trickles down my inner thighs before I can stop it. My face burns with humiliation.
Now, the anger and indignation I should’ve had from the start rushes out. It’s the exact wrong moment to get lippy, but I glare at him. “What’s wrong with you?”
He stares at the dribble on the floor. I think he’s going to... Well, I don’t know what I think he’ll do—pistol whip me or sneer or something—but his expression relaxes and he shoves the gun in its holster. Apparently, I finally gave the right reaction.
He grips my arm and drags me toward the shower. My brain is doing flip flops trying to get back online. To figure out what in the hell is happening and how I can get myself out of this very crazy, very fucked up situation.
Tacone reaches in and turns on the water, holding his hand under the spray as if to check its temperature.
My brain hasn’t turned back on, but I wrestle with his grip on my arm.
He releases it and holds his palm face out. “Okay,” he says. “Get in.” He draws his hand out of the shower and jerks his head toward the spray. “Clean up.”
Is he coming in there with me? Or is this really just about washing off?
Fuck it. I am a mess. I step in, panties and all.
I don’t know how long I stand there, drowning in shock. After a while, I blink and awareness seeps back in. Then I freak out. What in the hell is happening? What will he do with me? Did I really just pee on his floor? I want to die of embarrassment.
Keep it together, Sondra.
Jesus Christ. The mafia boss who stands on the other side of the shower curtain thinks I’m a narc. Or a spy or rat—whatever they call it. And he just stripped me down to my panties and pointed a gun at my head. Things could only get worse from here. A sob rises up in my throat.
Don’t cry. Not a good time to cry.
I stumble back against the tile wall, my legs too rubbery to stand. Hot tears spill down my cheeks and I sniff.
The shower curtain peeps open right by my face and I jerk back. I didn’t know he was standing right outside it.
Nico
Minchia. Shit.
My remaining doubts about the girl evaporate when I hear her crying. If I made a mistake, it’s a really fucking big one. Because I seriously don’t want to have to explain to my head of HR why I stripped one of our employees and held a gun to her head. In my bathroom.
I’ve seriously gone off the deep end this time. The insomnia is fucking with me—making me paranoid and itchy. I need to get my little brother Stefano out here to help me run the place so I can sleep at least an hour a night. He’s the only one I trust.