The Mafia’s Angel Ordeal.
Then, standing, he grabbed a towel from the hanger, stepping out first before helping me up.
Carefully, he wrapped the towel around me, drying every inch of my body before he scooped me into his arms.
With steady strides, he carried me into the walk-in closet, setting me down.
“Time to pick our battle armor,” he murmured.
I inhaled sharply.
He grabbed a dark blue suit, sliding into it with effortless precision. The fabric stretched over his broad shoulders, accentuating his power. The crisp white shirt added contrast, but the real danger lay in the way he adjusted his cufflinks—calm, controlled, lethal. He didn’t just wear the suit. He owned it.
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