Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 93347 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93347 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
He wiped his mouth, his eyes blazing.
Arcangelo kept smiling. "By that I mean your future employment at the House of Diamanti…of course."
I reached for the wine. The crisp acidity steadied me.
"Yes. I’m to be their new fashion stylist. One-month trial."
"That sounds exciting. Are you looking forward to working under Sebastian?"
I caught the double meaning.
Clerical robes or not, this man was no saint.
My cheeks flushed. I sipped again. Then again. Not smart—I’d barely eaten.
Sebastian reached across and took the glass from my hand.
"Arcangelo, you know my rule. No business talk at the table."
"I wasn’t aware we were talking business."
My stomach churned. The air was charged, like a Roman Forum debate where one misstep meant ruin.
I pushed back from the table.
Both men stood.
"I’m not that hungry, after all. Long week. Fashion show. I think I’ll turn in early."
Arcangelo opened his mouth—
Sebastian tipped the wine bottle.
It spilled down his brother’s cassock.
Servants swarmed.
I slipped out in the chaos.
* * *
I collapsed onto the bed, staring at the fire.
What the hell was that?
I’d never endured a more awkward dinner.
I flopped backward.
Italy.
Rome.
Oh crap—I’d forgotten to ask for my phone. Probably for the best. All I’d be missing were my mother’s increasingly nasty voicemails.
I still hadn’t decided if I’d tell her what was happening.
Should I try to find my father?
All I had was a name: Judge Delluci.
My mother had painted him as a monster.
But what if that was just her bitterness talking?
A ruined affair. An unwanted pregnancy. Exile.
Still…did I really want to see the man who'd never wanted to see me?
Probably not.
I was overtired. That’s when my thoughts spiraled.
What I should focus on was Sebastian.
I couldn’t stay here.
The tension was unbearable.
And I was starving.
Just as I debated sneaking to the kitchen, a soft knock came.
Sebastian.
He held a silver tray.
He lifted the cloche. "A selection of panini, fresh fruit, and biscotti with tea."
My stomach growled loudly.
He smiled. "Just in time."
He walked past me and set the tray near the fire.
"Sebastian, I…"
I wanted him to go.
I wanted him to stay.
It was like biting into a pepper.
First, there was that moment of anticipation, where the back of your tongue tingles and salivates.
Then, you open your mouth.
Your heart races.
You sink your teeth into the red flesh.
There’s a strange, almost imperceptible pop as you pierce the skin. Then comes the sting of the juice.
Your heart beats even faster.
Your cheeks warm.
The backs of your eyes sting as the burn intensifies.
You question what you were thinking—biting straight into a pepper.
The pain rises with every breath.
And yet…
Yet you somehow feel strangely alive in that moment.
As if you cheated death.
It’s painful and uncomfortable and stupid, and you regret it the moment you do it.
And then you take another bite.
He came close, brushing a curl behind my ear. "Don’t worry, mia piccola. I won’t disturb your sleep…tonight."
Had he emphasized tonight?
I leaned against the door. "Thank you. I’d like to be alone."
He cupped my cheek. "If you need anything, I’ll be sleeping right next door."
His kiss landed softly on my forehead.
As the door closed behind him, I frowned.
Next door?
CHAPTER 31
SABRINA
Ispent half the night with my ear pressed to the wall, listening for any trace of him—his voice, a cough, even a murmur in his sleep. But the palazzo was silent, its stone walls thick as a fortress. Sebastian had vanished into it like a ghost.
Well, it wasn’t as if I were going to sleep anyway.
I was far too excited for my first day at the House of Diamanti.
When I wasn’t pressing my ear to the wall like an idiot, I went over in my mind everything I’d Googled about the House of Diamanti back in Paris: the history of the company, the previous year’s collections, press coverage of their fashion shows, any formal photo shoot or magazine spread I could find.
And, of course, Sebastian.
I devoured every article, every photograph—Sebastian at charity galas, racing in Monte Carlo, lounging on antique yachts, always perfectly untouchable.
After sorting through countless business articles about major deals, diamond acquisitions, and record-breaking financial performance, I found the personal stuff.
There were also recent articles about his possible involvement in the death of a Sicilian mob boss as part of some revenge scheme for shooting the owner of the Cavalieri winery, but that was just gossip—too sensational to believe.
Oddly, there were no photos of him with any women, apart from his mother and sister.
No girlfriends, love interests, or even a speculative fiancée.
Nothing.
Until me.
A few fashion websites featured photos of me wearing the Yellow Persian diamond and appearing on Sebastian's arm, mainly in France and America, but nothing in Italy.
He had mentioned having a sort of control over the media here, but why would he care if someone photographed him with a woman he was dating?
And even if he did have some sort of influence, something always slipped through. A rogue tabloid. A stranger on the street posting on social media.