Chapter 4

Dom has been dodging me for three damn days.

Three days of him scheduling things just so — he’d vanish before I got there, always. Three days my texts rotted unread, calls dumped to voicemail like they were some ugly secret. Three days watching him act like I was air at that construction site where I’d ended up helping Dad with god awful invoices.

I’ve never been one for being blanked.

So now here I was  car parked out front of Castellano Construction, 8 PM, staring at those stupid office lights and clocking which of Dom’s guys were still around. His truck squatted in the lot  he was in there, probably elbow-deep in blueprints, pretending to be so buried he couldn’t think about me. Hoping I’d slink off, all wounded pride.

No chance.

Last guy shuffled off around 8:30  I waited, chewing my nail to the quick. Ten more minutes. Then I was out, checking the side entrance. Locked, yeah, but the fake rock still held the spare key, same as always. Some things don’t shift, no matter what.

Inside was mostly shadows  except for that pool of light leaking from his office at the hallway’s ass-end. Bass thumped low behind his door, the kind of beat that made my ribs hum, covered the tap of my boots.

He looked like hell bent over those blueprints, sleeves shoved up, hair wrecked like he’d clawed it all night. Coffee mug ringed on the desk, cold probably since lunch.

“Working late?”

He jerked so hard the chair near ate it. “Christ, Izzy how did you—”

“Get in? Same damn way I did at sixteen when I wanted to climb in your bed.” I shut the door, leaning back against it like I might bolt if I didn’t. “You really should pick a smarter fake rock.”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Probably not.” Arms folded, I sank my shoulder into the door harder. “Yet here we are.”

He stood — slow, like he thought I’d spook. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t. He looked like he’d been dragged through insomnia backwards.

Good. Sleep’s for the innocent.

“If you’re hunting your dad, he’s long gone.”

“Not here for Dad.”

“Izzy”

“Three days.” Pushed off the door, needing to stand on my own feet for this. “Three days you act like that parking lot never spat out the truth. You’re pretending it’s a bad dream you can pinch away.”

“It was a mistake.”

“That so?” Close now enough to see how his jaw ticked. Hands knotted up at his sides. “’Cause felt damn real to me.”

“You gotta leave.”

“Or what?” Step, step, corner him to that battered desk. “You’ll toss me out? Ring up security?”

“Don’t test me.”

“I’m begging for it. That’s the point.”

His breath snagged, shoulders locked. I could watch the war behind his eyes — sense fighting flesh, honor vs. what he’d tasted.

“This is insane,” he muttered but didn’t back away.

“Maybe.” My palms landed on his chest heart hammering like mine. “Or maybe it’s fate and you’re an idiot.”

“Nothing’s fate.”

“Isn’t it?” I searched him, found the same damn ache swimming there. “Then shove me off. Tell me you don’t want this.”

His hands found mine, but instead of flinging them away he trapped them there. Warm. Solid.

“I can’t,” voice sandpaper raw.

“Then quit the act.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I know exactly.” Up on my toes  his breath ghosted my mouth. “Stop seeing Vincent’s brat and see me.”

“I see you,” it fell out of him like it hurt. “God help me.”

“Then do something.”

We hovered, the air crackling  then he broke, split wide open with that growl that was part curse, part yes.

His mouth slammed mine, hunger, fury, all of it. I caved into him, moaning into the heat. Not like the parking lot, this was deeper, messier. He kissed like he wanted to tear me in two, live inside the ruin.

His fingers dove into my hair, yanking my head just so, his tongue cutting through every lie we’d told ourselves. When he tasted me, I felt him everywhere.

Coffee. Mint. Him.

“Izzy,” he breathed, like a prayer he didn’t believe in.

“Don’t stop.” I clawed at his shirt. “Don’t you dare.”

He hoisted me easily, the desk edge dug my ass, blueprints crunched, but who cared. Legs looped around him, dragged him tighter. Needed him fused to the bone.

His mouth scorched my neck, collarbone, that sweet spot that made me break. When his teeth scraped there, I gasped his name, nails sinking deep.

“We should—” he rasped, hands already under my shirt.

“No.” Dragged him back to my mouth. “Not now.”

No pause this time — he ravaged like he’d starve if he didn’t map every curve, every pulse point. My bra clasp fumbled. I helped, greedy for skin on skin.

“You’re unreal,” he murmured into my breast, voice gone to gravel. “So fucking unreal.”

Wanted to tell him the same. Tell him I’d built daydreams around this. But his mouth swallowed words whole.

Urgency, friction, gasped names, fevered hands. When he pushed inside, I bit down on his shoulder to smother the cry. The world stilled, spun, righted itself.

After, we stayed tangled  sweat, breath, regrets that didn’t know where to go.

“Wanted this forever,” I confessed, lips brushing his neck.

“How long?” he rasped, all rough edges now.

“Since eighteen. Came home for Christmas. You were on that ladder with Dad, blue sweater. Eyes like sin.”

He tipped back, studying me like I was unreal too. “Five years?”

“Five years wanting what I swore I couldn’t touch.”

“And now?”

I caged his face, thumbs brushing the worry lines.

“Now I know I’ll die if I lose it.”

His mouth found mine again, softer, a vow. “This ruins everything.”

“I know.”

“Your father—”

“He’ll live.”

“Will he?”

Didn’t get to say it. Voices rose outside the front echoing.

“—told you nine, didn’t I?” Dad.

“Shit,” Dom muttered, panic flicking on.

Not just Dad’s voice. Another one. Oil slick and cold.

“Romano girl’s been nosy,” it said. “New York contact says she hired a PI.”

My stomach flipped.

“You said you’d control your kid,” that oily voice shot back  Marcus. My ex. My mistake in a suit.

“I got Izzy handled,” Dad growled, brittle.

“You’d better. If she links Romano Construction to offshore laundering, we’re all toast.”

My blood iced over. Laundering. Accounts overseas. My father’s fingerprints are all over Marcus's too. Everything that burned my career to ash.

Dom looked at me — hollowed out in the glow.

Footsteps. Closer.

“We need to leave,” he hissed, grabbing at our clothes like salvation.

Too late. Hinges creaked, a door swung wide.

“Dom?” Dad’s voice boomed like a shotgun. “Saw your truck. We need to talk.”