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“Oh.”

“So you’re going to have to decide, Tesoro mio, whether you’d rather be my maid or my mistress. Because you can’t be both.”

I turn and march past her, past the couch and the book on the shelf. Down the corridor, out the front door, and into the drive where my car is.

I don’t look back.

If I look back I won’t leave.

4

Rosalie

The mahogany writing desk in the study has been polished twice already this week.

I polish it a third time because if I don’t put my hands on something with a grain, I am going to put them on myself, and I have promised myself I am not doing that in Vincenzo Greco’s space.

The polish smells sharp and lemony. My hands shake a little. Nothing about my body has settled since I stood in his kitchen just over twenty-four hours ago with my sweater brushing his shirt and his hand tilting my head exactly where he wanted it. Not the throb between my thighs, the ache along my scalp where his fingers touched, or the small bruised place at my lower lip where his teeth nipped.

The choice he threw at me will not leave my head no matter how much wood I polish.

Maid or mistress. Both are not an option.

I didn’t sleep well. Since I started working here, I got into the habit of reading or watching movies after work. I go to bed at four in the afternoon and by midnight, I’m ready to get up, have something to eat and start work again. However, yesterday, I lay in bed for hours with my palm pressed flat against my sternum, telling myself I would not touch myself. I couldn’t resist the urge.

I gave up and touched myself anyway. Even then I wasn’t satisfied. My body was restless and my mind kept replaying the images of Vincenzo’s hand in my hair, his voice, low and graveled, saying Rosalie like he was desperate for me. I craved his touch.

Knowing he saw my smutty book, left a mark on it, only made me hornier, despite the embarrassment I felt when I saw the book on the shelf. I can’t believe I forgot the paperback, one of the few I brought with me and re-read many times, on the couch. I shouldn’t read there, but I was always sad that a beautiful couch like that was never used, and occasionally read there.

Eventually, I fell asleep, but at most, I must have slept only a couple of hours.

The rag goes over the wood in slow circles, like the choices he gave me revolve in my mind.

I should quit.

That’s the sensible answer. The man is mafia. He is fifteen years older than me. And he just told me, if I want his hands on me, I must be his mistress. I should run.

I can’t quit.

Not because I want him, although, God, I want him, but because Zidaru has not forgotten Elsie. Marisol texted yesterday while I was pacing the annex floor to say two of Zidaru’s men had come into the café asking about her again. Second time this month.

So no. I can’t quit.

Which means I have to choose.

“Good morning Rosalie.”

Vincenzo’s voice hits me from the doorway of the study and my hand jumps on the rag.

I turn.

He is in dark trousers and a black shirt with the sleeves shoved up to his forearms, and his hair is a little wet at the temples like he has just come out of a shower. He looks like a man who has slept less than I have.

“It’s only five. You’re back early.”

“I’ve been working since I left you in the kitchen. I couldn’t sleep.”

The words go somewhere low in me and stay there.