Page 37 of A Bride for the Mafia King

“Good.” I lean back, exhaling slowly.

There’s a pause. His eyes flicker to the edge of the desk, then back to me.

“You know what that means.”

I do. He’s been under my roof as a ‘guest’, a polite word for keeping the man on a leash since he’d been brought in after the first operation had been sabotaged.

Nico meets my gaze, unflinching.

“I have to leave the penthouse.”

I didn't answer immediately. I’ve held him here for weeks, half a prisoner, half an ally. But I can’t hold him forever.

And after a long moment, I nod. “Fine.”

Relief flashes briefly in his eyes, but he masks it quickly. “Thanks. We’ve got a solid plan. Just need patience and a healthy dose of luck.”

He stands, slipping his jacket on easily. “I’ll check in before nightfall.”

He’s almost out to the elevator door when it dings and slides open smoothly. Yaro steps out, his usual imposing shadow. His eyes sweep the room landing on Nico at the step of the foyer.

“You’re letting him go?” he asks suspiciously.

“I am.” I meet Yaro’s gaze without hesitation.

His brow furrows, doubt etched deep. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

“He knows what’s at stake.”

We both watch in stoic silence as Nico disappears inside the elevator. The light overhead flips through the floors as it descends.

Yaro exhales sharply, crossing his arms. “You’re letting too many people get too close. I’m starting to think you’re the only one trying to keep you alive.”

I ignore the barb. Nodding slowly, I continue, “It’s time to move forward. Nico’s faction will move on De Mello’s next shipment.”

Another pause falls between us as we retreat to my office. Yaro closes the door behind him as I re-take my seat at the mahogany desk.

“What’ve you got?” I ask, pointing to the file tucked under his arm.

He tosses it on the desk. The papers rustle, a cacophony of photos spill out across the polished wood.

“This,” he says, voice low as he sits in the seat across from me, “explains those pictures we found of Eva with the Don. Why we thought she was in his inner circle.”

I skim the photos —Eva at charity events, standing near De Mello, smiles that don’t quite reach her eyes. Yaro reaches across the desk and flips to another page.

“Turns out, it wasn’t proximity. It was pursuit.”

He slides over text logs, surveillance reports—evidence of months, maybe years, of unwanted attention.

“De Mello’s been after her for years,” Yaro says grimly. “Gifts she never asked for. Following her at functions, cornering her when Nico wasn’t looking. People watching her every move.”

My stomach twists.

“He’s been sexually pursuing her?”

“More than that. She never told you?”

“No.”