Right, of course. Lisa pulled the hem of the shirt down over her bare legs. "I'm up." "Good." Luca set a folded stack of clothes on a chair without stepping inside the room.
"These are for you. They should fit." Rosa guessed sizes. If anything is off, tell me and I'll have it fixed. Her brow pulled.
"You bought me clothes?" He shrugged like it wasn't a big deal. "Yeah." "You bought me clothes in the middle of the night?" He let out half a laugh.
You think Conti's taking you back to that diner in the same uniform you were wearing when the senator's people tried to corner you? "Come on." Her mouth parted. "I'm going back to work?" Luca's expression flickered.
"That depends on what work means after today." Before she could ask, Luca's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then at her. His voice dropped, losing the easy tone. "Eat something."
"He's waiting in the kitchen. Don't make him wait." Then he was gone. The door clicked shut and Lisa stood there for a second, heartbeat thudding in her throat. He's waiting in the kitchen.
Something about that hit her harder than expected. Not an office, not a meeting room, not he'll see you when he's free. He's in the kitchen. Waiting for you. She dressed quickly.
The new clothes were simple, fitted black leggings, soft gray sweater, fresh socks, nothing flashy. Nothing that screamed I belong to a man like him. Just comfortable, thoughtful, and yes, they fit perfectly. That detail unsettled her more than any gun or threat ever could. How do you know my size, Marco?
When she stepped into the hallway, she realized how private this place really was. It wasn't sterile like a hotel. It wasn't gaudy rich person taste either. It was controlled, minimal, nothing lying around that didn't need to be there. The kind of space designed by someone who didn't like being surprised.
Cameras in the corners, reinforced doors, locked cabinets. She noticed it all and understood one thing instantly. People don't get in here unless he wants them in here. Which meant he let me in. Her stomach fluttered.
The kitchen wasn't what she expected. She'd pictured cold stone counters and chrome everywhere. Instead, it felt warm. Dim lighting, heavy wood table, coffee already made, steam curling up from two mugs. Marco was leaning against the counter with his jacket off, sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie on the table.
He looked less like a rumor and more like a man this close. Stubble on his jaw, strong shoulders under a white dress shirt, a vein in his forearm that flexed when he moved. He wasn't posing. He wasn't trying. That was the problem.
Her breath stalled for half a second. He looked up. And when his eyes landed on her, his whole face changed. That was the second problem. She'd seen men look at her before, sure.
Quick scans, lazy grins, hands that felt entitled just because she brought ketchup to their table. This wasn't that. Marco didn't look at her like something to touch. He looked at her like something he already considered his. "Morning," he said quietly.