It's getting warm in here... enjoy!

***

bring out the accused, who wears a suit and handcuffs. He has dark hair and his face is pale and thin and scruffy, lanky and wan. He sits at the table, and Daniel gives him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, whispering something in his ear. In front of me, the men in black discuss something quietly, and the people across from us—Nero and his group of criminals—are silent and poised in response.

A few moments later, the judge walks into the courtroom and a voice says "All rise," and we all rise. The judge sits and tells us to take a seat, and after the shuffle, the courtroom is quiet, awaiting his every word. He's older and balding, though I know from my dad that he has always been considered fair.

He begins by reading out the charges against the defendant, which range from first-degree murder to drug trafficking in relation to the death of Antonio Milano. The name rings in my ears, and I realize that this is the first time I've heard it. He could still be alive if you weren't such a coward, an angry voice shouts at me from the back of my mind. I purse my lips, feeling a little dizzy.

The judge asks, sounding bored, what the defence pleads, and the man, whose name I think they said was Mario, replies "Not guilty," his voice thin and weak.

In a flash, the judge bangs his gavel and sets a trial date. There is some more talking, which my anxious mind is too worried to bother with, and that is it.

As soon as he exits, his robes swishing after him, the room erupts into noise, everyone talking at once, and I watch the lawyers chatting at the front.

I hope Daniel will be done soon so that we can leave and so that I can avoid a confrontation with Nero, who I'm sure isn't too happy to find me here.

I avoid looking at him at all costs, but I can feel his gaze on my skin from across the room, irritated and waiting.

Unfortunately for me, Daniel waves his hand at me, silently signalling that he'll be five minutes. Damn it. My eyes close and I see red, my nerves fraying.

I'll admit that I'm curious as I sit here, listening to the criminals in front of me chatter away, and Angelo's gruff voice speaking to the others across the aisle, both groups in a constant state of conflict.

As if drawn by force, my head turns to where Nero sits, and sure enough, his eyes find mine, sharp, the darkness in them haunting. My face pales, and he looks as unbelievably gorgeous as always even despite the hardness in his expression.

His hair is mussed yet perfect and his skin is tanned and smooth, dusted with a shadow of dark stubble. Unbidden, I imagine what the skin of his face would feel like on me, warm and rough, but I banish the thought instantly, blushing.

Shauna's taunts flash through my mind, and I catch myself rolling my eyes. I need to start dating again.

Slowly, he tilts his head towards the door, silently commanding me to follow him out. My panic rises and I shake my head ever so slightly, declining.

That was a mistake.

He raises an eyebrow, like asking if I actually dare to refuse him. His face is hard and immovable, as if chiseled from stone. I swallow, knowing that I can either do this now or later.

Now, I know, there are people around—my dad and my brother are right there. I know Nero will find me somehow, and I would rather it be here than at home, where I am completely alone, at his mercy.

With that cheery idea in mind, I follow him out of the courtroom, clutching my purse. His walk is confident and purposeful, and his form is lean and powerful through the grey fabric of his well-tailored suit. I can't help but admire his physicality as he walks, and I kick myself for it. Stupid.

He guides us around corners and through hallways until we reach a secluded corridor at the back of the courthouse, my heals clicking on the shining tiles, not another soul in sight.

Quick as a flash, he turns and pushes me roughly against the wall, and I would've tripped and fallen had his hands not grabbed me by the hips, forcing my back flush against the cool paint.

"Rosalina," he sighs, his voice gruff, full of warning. His nose is dangerously close, his face looming above me. His chest brushes, just barely, against mine, and I find it hard to breathe with him so near. "What," he begins, low and eerily quiet, "the hell are you doing here?"

I gulp, my mouth dry and my stomach fluttering wildly from his proximity. His breath against my face is warm and fresh, and this close, I can smell the heady, expensive scent of his cologne. The feeling of him combined with the nervousness about my safety has a worrying, exhilarating affect on me—every nerve, every sense is bright and attentive. It's terrifying. Intoxicating.

"Nero," I begin, breathy. His hands are still firm against my slender hips, keeping a solid grip on me. "My brother Daniel? The one who visited me the other day?" I see recognition, I struggle to explain before he can overreact. "He and my dad are the defense lawyers, and they asked me to come and watch." I say it softly and then close my eyes, unable to look at him. Those eyes of his are trouble and I know it.

He is silent for what seems like forever, the space between us warm and way too small. Eventually, my eyes flutter open, tentative, to watch him, and my heart beats fast in my chest, my face flushing red.

His nose is almost touching mine, and his lips are right there, a couple small inches away, pink and soft. His skin and his hair and his high cheekbones are all angelic and perfect, and his eyes... oh lord, his eyes. They are dark and smoldering, with anger and annoyance and understanding and frustration and something else that sends a wrong, wrong, wrong, completely delicious spark down deep into my gut, making me hot all over.

I stare back at him, speechless and totally lost. I wait for him to do something—to condemn me or apologize to me or yell at me or hurt me or kiss me—but he just stares, and I can see all the wheels in his mind turning.

I should do something; I should fight back and scream or tell him to let me go or kick him hard and run away, but I don't. He's a stranger, a criminal. He kills people and he hurts them, and he will hurt me, I'm sure. But despite that, all I can do is watch him and stare, my entire body alight and waiting.

"Nero," I whisper, and I sound desperate and needy, begging for I don't know what.

"Dolcezza," he replies, and his voice is dark and low and rough and he sounds torn, indecisive. He brings his nose to brush against mine, slowly, and I close my eyes and take a deep, heavy breath. The feeling of him travels from where we touch to everywhere we don't.

Didn't I say that I should push him away, and run? Somehow, all I want to do is pull him closer. That's how I know I'm insane.

My chest rises and falls and so does his, and we can feel each other through the fabric of our shirts.

There's electricity between us; it's heavy and undeniable, and he feels it too, I know. I know from the way he leans against me, his eyes closed and his breaths short, and I know from the way his hands and fingers clutch my hips through the thinness of my blouse and through the smoothness of my skirt, like he can't seem to let go. I should want him to, but I don't.

I let him stay, tall and perfect and toxic, leaning over me, touching me. I let my nose and the edge of his stay blissfully, sinfully connected, for a good long time.

Eventually, he sighs, and I can feel the vibration, the swell and rise of his abdomen, against my chest. He tilts his face to the side suddenly so he's closer than ever, our lips almost touching. He brushes his nose, soft and gentle, against mine, and it's impossibly tender.

All on its own, my nose angles itself to meet his, and it's innocent and intimate and we both sigh.

And then, more painful than it ever should have been, he moves himself away, and everything is gone—his face and hands and fingers, his breath and his eyes.

Standing there, a foot away, hands at his sides, he looks at me. Really looks. I could run. But I don't.

His gaze sweeps across me from bottom to top, lingering on my face and especially my mouth. There's something in his expression, something dark and full of hidden meanings, something that keeps my heels cemented to the floor. I watch him, still flushed, still shocked, still wanting.

"Rosalina." His voice is low, his tone final. His eyes bore into mine, and it's impossible to look away. "What did you tell them, carina?" Each syllable is heavy, filled with exasperation and warning.

Immediately I shake my head, willing him to comprehend my innocence. "I promise, Nero, I didn't." He raises an eyebrow, and I can see the disbelief etched into the curves of his mouth and the angles of his jaw. "I wanted to say something when they told me they were on the case, but I didn't, I swear." I bite my lip, running my fingers anxiously through the brown waves of my hair. My eyes don't leave his, and I think the desperation in my voice is what causes his eyes to soften. "I couldn't."

He studies me, and his hand goes up to the back of his head. He runs a palm tiredly across his face, and it settles against his mouth, pensive. He looks almost exhausted, as if he can't decide what to do with me.

I do my best to look worried, innocent, and from his expression I know it works.

"Please believe me, Nero." My voice is entreating, tired. "It's killing me, keeping it from them, but I'm doing it anyway." Implicit in my words is that I can't tell them because of him, because he threatened me, because I know he'll follow through. He looks like he believes me, and the softness of his features is startling.

He takes a step towards me, and I stay rooted and still, when I should be running for my life. "Rosalina." His hand reaches out, and I let his fingers rest against my cheek, his thumb caressing my lips. It's so wrong and it's so right, the way his touch makes me hot everwhere. I sigh, and I know that in this moment, we are both on the exact same page. He tilts his head to the side, and he is so beautiful that it hurts to look at him. "If you tell them anything—"

"I won't." My voice is breathy but sure.

I watch his eyes, bright and warning. "I may have given you the impression that I can be kind, dolcezza." He brings his face close, so that I can see every tiny imperfection on his smooth skin. "Maybe you think I..." I inhale sharply as his nose brushes the side of mine, our lips a tiny, minuscule inch away. In my head I know that I could close the distance, that I could kiss him if I wanted to. And I know that he would let me, that he would kiss me back. And I know it would be hot, and soft and wet and my eyes even float down to where our lips almost meet. His words are warm in the space between us. "Maybe you think I like you, because you're quiet and sweet, and because you don't want any trouble."

His voice is so, so low, almost silent, but he's close enough that I can hear every word. I close my eyes, just feeling him, and my breaths are shallow, small. "Don't you, though?" The firmness of my voice surprises me.

My eyes snap open when he chuckles, deep and rough, the sound of it filling my ears. "Rosalina," he begins, his eyes locked on mine, "I'm a dangerous man, gioia mia." He brushes my cheek softly with the edge of a crooked finger. "Don't for a second think that you can cross me and get away with it."

He moves his head away, taking a step back with a final breath. He runs a hand through his thick hair, giving me a last once-over, his lips tilting up into a small, wry smile. "If you tell anyone anything, dolcezza, I will know." His gaze holds mine, and I can't let go. "Understand?"

I nod mutely, and he nods too. And then, without a second thought, he turns and disappears down the hall, leaving me pressed against the wall, flushed and warm. I stare after him, the ghost of his fingers still brushing my face, those lips just a tiny space from mine.

A/N:

Yep, definitely some chemistry between these two... 🧪

Thoughts? If you're enjoying this, please vote or comment to let me know!

XOXO Ami

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