The Mafia's Private Gigolo のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 41 - チャプター 46

Chris’s POV The ride back to the mansion was quiet. The same suffocating, engine-hum-only quiet as the morning ride, which gave my brain plenty of room to keep replaying the bathroom incident on a loop, thanks for that, brain, truly a highlight reel. I went straight for my room. Or I planned to. To get there I had to cross the hallway past Rodrigo's door — the door of the man who was currently the object of all my embarrassment and the reason I'd had to think about dead puppies and tax law for a full lecture to get rid of a hard-on in the middle of lecture. So naturally, the plan was: move fast, stay quiet, do not exist in his field of vision. I took the stairs two at a time to the floor where our rooms were, tote bag clutched to my chest like a shield — and froze. Rodrigo's door was open. Slightly. A thin blade of warm light cutting across the hallway carpet. He was ar

Chris's POV You should leave.His voice again. Low, calm — gentler than I'd ever heard it, which somehow made it worse. Like being dismissed by someone who actually meant the opposite of what they were saying and both of us knew it.I remember the warmth of his face under my palms. The prickle of his beard against my skin, rough in a way that should've been unpleasant and absolutely wasn't. Those grey eyes looking up at me — no anger in them, no wall, just tired softness. Like the fortress had finally opened a window and I'd gotten a glimpse of the man standing inside, alone, in the dark.Never in a million years would I have pictured Rodrigo that way. So vulnerable. So — so —"CHRIS!"The shout detonates through my skull and I physically jolt, nearly knocking my highlighter off the table. Aubrey is sitting across from me, elbows on the library table, a pencil twirling between her fingers like a tiny baton, st

Rodrigo's POVIt takes me two more days to close out Brussels — signatures, handshakes, the usual theater of depraved men with blood soiled hands pretending paperwork makes them honest. Then I'm on the jet, and somewhere over the Hindu Kush, the numbers stop adding up.Everything was going right. That's what bothers me. I did everything under the sun to stop this from repeating itself. I tripled cargo security by seventy percent. I had logs pulled on every vessel within fifty nautical miles of our routes. I paid for eyes I didn't need because caution is cheaper than funerals. And still — this. One ship. My ship. Out of Bangkok, of all places, where I'd just finished sitting across from Arthit Veerapong with tea getting cold between us while I assured him — giving him my word — that delivery would be quick and clean. My word was supposed to have been enough. I don’t go back on them.Shit.Who the fuck keeps testing me?The name arrives before I can stop it.Dante.Goddammit. Why didn't