đNicole
The party was exactly what I had expected: loud, expensive, and full of people who probably used words like "synergy" and "leverage" in their casual conversations. Marco's penthouse was magnificent, a glass box suspended over the city lights, with a pool that looked like a giant, sapphire martini. I have never really been to pool parties else I would have rated this the most luxurious I had seen.
I stood by the edge, feeling gloriously, aggressively conspicuous in my neon pink dress. It was less a dress and more a public safety hazard. It was my uniform for Operation: Look, I'm Hotter Than Your Fiancée.
I spotted him immediately, leaning against the rail by the bar. Leonardo. He was wearing a dark, open-collar shirt that did absolutely nothing to disguise the coiled power of his shoulders. He was perfect as usual.
I watched him take a sip of his drink, his eyes scanning the crowd with that cool, proprietary indifference. And then his eyes landed on me.
His jaw went rigid. His eyes narrowed, tracing the line of the dress from my ridiculous heels up to the aggressive red lipstick I wore. He didn't just look at me; he analyzed me, calculated the exact percentage of fabric I was wearing, and determined that it was approximately 3%.
I watched, victorious, as he nearly choked on his drink, coughing slightly before recovering his composure.
Score One.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and for a terrifying second, I thought he was going to stride over and physically wrap me in a tablecloth. Instead, he did the most unpredictable thing: he ignored me. He deliberately turned his back, leaning in to converse with the men beside him.
The victory felt like ash in my mouth. It wasn't enough to make him choke; I needed him to suffer the consequences of his cold behavior at dinner. If he wanted to pretend like I didn't exist, I would make sure he had a hard time doing so.
I quickly found the bar, bypassing the polite wine and grabbing the hardest drink available; a clear, stinging liquid that made me cough hard. I needed the numb buzz of alcohol to kill the sharp, stinging pang of jealousy that flared every time I saw him.
The pain was worst when I saw Grace standing near Leonardo, talking earnestly to one of the capos. She looked perfect, and exactly like the woman he deserved. My stomach twisted with a strange, possessive rage that I absolutely refused to acknowledge as jealousy. It was just annoyance at his bad taste, obviously. I could never be jealous of my own sister.
A few drinks in, the music sounded louder, the lights looked shinier, and the rage felt much more manageable. It was time for phase two: The Decoy.
A mid range handsome, floppy-haired guy in a linen suit approached me. Perfect.
"Dance with me hottie," he said, his smile radiating lust.
"Only if you promise to break a Mafia protocol," I slurred slightly, pulling him toward the edge of the pool where the music was loudest.
I stopped caring about the hundred rules Papa had drilled into me for tonight. The dress was designed for movement, and I used every inch of it. I danced too close, my hips swaying against the linen suit, my hands tracing ridiculous patterns in the air. Touching his chest through the open buttons of his suit, I kept my eyes focused over the guy's shoulder, looking Leonardo right in the eyes.
Are you watching, you stupid Greco? Are you regretting calling me sister now?
The music thumped, the air felt sticky with heat and perfume, and I was laughing a loud, slightly hysterical sound that I knew carried across the patio. The guy was saying something about my eyes, but I only heard the silence from Leonardo's corner.
But then, the laughter died in my throat when I saw Leonardo walking towards us.
He was moving. Slowly, deliberately. He straightened up, his stormy gray eyes black holes of focused, lethal fury. He pushed past Marco, didn't spare a glance at Grace, and walked toward me with the predatory silence of a man who was about to kill something.
He didn't speak a word. He simply reached out and grabbed my wrist. His grip possessive, painful, and dangerously addictive or maybe I felt that way cause I was drunk.
The floppy-haired guy tried to say something stupid like, "Hey, man, she's with me."
Leonardo didn't even acknowledge the distraction. He just tightened his grip on my wrist and pulled, hard. The force was enough to rip me away from the dance floor and send me staggering after him.
"Where are you taking me?" I yelled, suddenly sobered by the shock and the speed.
He dragged me through the crowd, his face a mask of absolute, terrifying control. People stepped aside instantly, their talks fading into silence. This wasn't teasing; this was a public display of ownership, if only he knew it and that it was hot enough to melt my pathetic pink dress.
He shoved me into the penthouse kitchen, the massive space empty save for a few hushed staff. Grace, ran after us, her eyes wide with terror.
"Leonardo, please, stop! You're hurting her!" Grace yelled.
Leonardo released my wrist, leaving angry red marks on my skin. He grabbed a glass from the counter and slammed it down, filling it with ice water.
"Drink it," he commanded, his voice raw and low. "Now. You're drunk and you're behaving stupid."
"No," I spat, crossing my arms. I was defiant, but inside, the adrenaline was coursing, making me tremble.
Grace, ever the fixer, grabbed the water bottle. "Nicole, please, just listen to him. You need to sober up."
The water bottle, the idea of cooling down, somehow enraged me further. It was his fault I felt this way. This frantic, dizzy heat.
"No!" I screamed, knocking the bottle out of Grace's hand. It spun across the marble floor, splashing water everywhere. "I feel like my body is on fire! And I want to go dance! And you," I pointed a shaky finger at Leonardo, "Are not my father! We are not friends, we are not dating, and we are not anything! You have fucking been ignoring me and You can't tell me what to do!"
My attempt to stomp past him was futile. He moved faster than I could blink.
He caught my wrist again, his grip tight enough to snap bone, and this time, he didn't pull. He simply held me, trapping me against the counter.
"You're right," he growled, his breath hot against my ear, his familiar scent of expensive cologne, smoke, and pure danger enveloping me. "We are not friends. And you are not going anywhere or getting any stupid guy's hands all over you."
Grace whimpered, "Leonardo, what are you doing?"
He didn't answer her. He pulled me violently toward the back door, dragging me past Grace's outstretched hand. I stumbled, my ridiculous high heels slipping on the marble.
We burst onto the patio, moving away from the crowd and straight toward the glowing, inviting blue of the pool.
"Stop! Leonardo, I swear, I'll scream!" I thrashed in his grip, my heart hammering with sheer panic.
We reached the edge of the water. He simply spun me around to face him, his eyes burning with an emotion that was terrifyingly close to jealousy; raw, possessive, and incandescent but I knew it couldn't be. He just hated me.
He held my arms tight, giving me one last, furious look, before lifting me up and pushing me forward.
I tumbled, shrieking, into the icy pool.
The shock was immediate. The cold water swallowed me whole, soaking the expensive pink dress and ruining my perfect hair and makeup. My head broke the surface, coughing and sputtering.
I swam back to the edge, my dress now clinging to me like a wet towel. My drunkenness had vanished, replaced by a searing, freezing anger. I gripped the tile, glaring up at him, ready to unleash a torrent of fury.
Leonardo stood over me, utterly dry, not caring about the crowd that had formed. His posture radiating satisfaction. He leaned down slightly, his expression now terrifyingly calm.
"You said you were on fire," he murmured, his grey eyes piercing. "I simply helped put it out."