Raised by the Mafia

12. The Wrong Lips (Mila)

I rap my knuckles on Ryan's hotel door for the third time, each knock more forceful than the last. I should have booked adjacent suites. Then, I'd be making a fool out of myself in private.

"Ryan! Open up."

Not a stir inside his room, even though I put my ear to the door.

"You know that I have a key to your room, don't you?"

Wonderful, just wonderful. He dragged me down to the level of making a scene at Plaza. So, to Hell with his feelings. I dig up the keycard out of my purse and touch it to the lock. It flashes seasonal green. The door swings in without a sound.

"Ryan?" I squint to let my eyes adjust to twilight inside his room after the bright hallway. "Where the Hell are you?"

"If you have the key," Ryan's voice calls from the bedroom, "why make all the ruckus?"

"We have dinner reservations at—"

I cut myself off because I sense trouble.

The city lights, filtering through the windows, illuminate his suite. Since the Big Apple sprawls beyond the cool glass, it's not truly dark, but nobody turns the lights off and sits in silence for no reason. If he is...what he's up to?

The plush carpet dampens the sounds of my heels as I navigate the room, searching for clues, like I am the FBI here.

His bed is made and the new suit is strewn on it. Like he laid it out to wear tonight, then abandoned the enterprise. His laptop is sitting on the polished coffee table, though its lid is closed. The familiar wire-rimmed glasses rest on top of it.

Ryan is stretched out in the armchair that fills the nook by the window. He turned it sideways, to face the fireplace so he could watch the flames through hooded eyes.

The phone is playing something instrumental. Romantic even, if he wasn't alone in the room. For a lone man, it's just gut wrenching. But if he isn't alone...

"Are you alone?"

"Did Luca smuggle girls behind your back this often, Naz?"

My jaw tightens. "Once we're done with this fake marriage, I'm out of the relationship market for good, I swear. Can't fucking wait."

His profile silhouettes against the backdrop of the window, highlighted by the fireplace. The barber tamed his bangs and sideburns, shaving off everything that obscured the strong line of his neck. A razor or two might have been sacrificed in the process. But the end result gives man credit. Put a suit on him, and Ryan will look stunning at dinner.

"I'm tired," Ryan says thickly. "It's been non-stop. And we're flying to Vegas tomorrow, where your damn circus starts all over. I need a night off."

"But it's Christmas," I whine with the incredulity of a child. To nod and leave is probably the correct course of action here, but tonight is the fucking Christmas Eve!

I cross the room to sit on the armrest of his chair, and he squeezes my knee instinctively. Once his fingers sense the fine quality of the fabric draping it, his eyelids flutter open. "It's a nice dress, Naz."

It is.

The sheath is royal blue, of heavy silk, ruffles running through the middle of the ankle length skirt. The bodice is picked out in intricate stitched lace fitting like a glove, with the fall off the shoulder sleeves. The cleavage line is just right to dangle a sparkling teardrop gem on a hair-thin chain, where it would remind the eye of sinful pleasures.

Of course, I wear such a chain with just the perfect gem.

I peer into his face. "You aren't tired."