Chapter 2 - The Interrogation with MarinaraThe Ricci matriarch, Isabella, was a tiny woman with iron-gray hair and eyes that could cut through steel. Dinner that night was a chaotic, loud affair set at a massive table overflowing with roasted meats, pasta, and rich red wine.
I sat at Marco’s right, his hand resting casually on my thigh beneath the table. The heat of his palm was a constant, distracting brand against my skin.
"So, Emily," Aunt Carmela leaned across the table, her diamonds glittering. "You are Marco's assistant. Isn't it a bit... cliché? Sleeping with the boss?"
The table went dead silent. Marco’s grip on my thigh tightened, his jaw locking. I knew that look. He was about to verbally destroy his aunt.
Before he could speak, I smiled sweetly, picking up my wine glass. "It would be cliché, Carmela, if Marco were just a boss. But when you spend fourteen hours a day with a man, you see the truth of him. I see the man who quietly paid for his driver's daughter to go to college. I see the man who never misses a Sunday call to his mother, no matter what global crisis he's managing." I looked at Isabella, who was watching me like a hawk. "I didn't fall in love with the CEO. I fell in love with Marco."
Marco turned to look at me, and for a second, the mask slipped completely. The raw astonishment and burning heat in his green eyes were so intense I almost forgot to breathe.
"Well said, bella," Isabella murmured, a slow, approving smile spreading across her face. "He is a stubborn mule, but he has a good heart."
The rest of the night was a blur of laughter, wine, and family stories. Marco never left my side. He kissed my temple, tucked my hair behind my ear, and pulled out my chair. He played the devoted lover so perfectly that my heart began to ache with the knowledge that it was all a lie.
Around midnight, we were finally excused. Marco led me up the grand staircase to his private wing. He opened the heavy oak door to his bedroom.
I stopped dead in my tracks.
There was only one bed. A massive, king-sized expanse of white silk.
Marco closed the door behind us, the lock clicking loudly in the quiet room. He ran a hand through his dark hair, suddenly looking exhausted.
"My mother's doing," he groaned. "She usually puts my guests in the east wing. This is her way of testing if we're really sleeping together."
"I can take the sofa," I said quickly, my heart hammering in my throat.
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"Don't be ridiculous. The couch is velvet and older than I am." Marco unbuttoned his cuffs, stepping closer to me in the dim light. "We share the bed. It's huge, Emily. I won't touch you. You have my word."
But as I climbed into the massive bed in my silk pajamas, and Marco slid in beside me shirtless, radiating heat, I realized that his promise not to touch me was the exact opposite of what I actually wanted.
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