Chapter 1 - The Dark Trade
Roman Rossi did not look at women the way ordinary men looked at them. He did not scan Sadi’s frame for flaws, nor did he offer a practiced, polite compliment designed to ease her nerves. His dark eyes moved over her with a heavy, deliberate intensity—from the emerald silk wrapped tightly around her waist to the soft curve of her throat, and finally to her trembling lips.
"You're late," he said softly, his gravelly voice cutting through the quiet suburban air.
Sadi checked her watch, her pulse hammering against her ribs. "It’s 5:44. You said 5:45."
"I said be ready by 5:45," Roman corrected, stepping past the hood of the matte-black SUV to open the passenger door for her. "That means seated, buckled, and ready to move. Time is the only asset I cannot buy back, Sadi."
She swallowed hard, holding her breath as she brushed past him to slide into the leather interior. He smelled overwhelming at close range—cedar, expensive cologne, and the distinct, dry metallic scent of fresh rain on hot pavement. As he closed the door with a solid, heavy thud, Sadi leaned back against the headrest, her heart executing a frantic, erratic rhythm.
Roman climbed into the driver’s seat, pulling the door shut. He didn't turn the key immediately. Instead, he rested his hands on the leather steering wheel, his broad shoulders filling the cabin space.
"Before we put tires on the asphalt, we establish the rules," Roman said, turning his head to lock eyes with her. "Rule number one: You do not look nervous. If you sweat, tremble, or flinch when I touch you, people ask questions. When people ask questions about me, people get hurt."
Sadi pulled at her purse strap, her knuckles turning white. "I'm not used to... this, Mr. Rossi."
"At this table, my name is Roman," he stated firmly. "Rule number two: You call me Roman. Not Mr. Rossi, not sir. Rule number three: I handle the narrative. If someone asks how we met, we met through mutual acquaintances at a charity gala in the city three months ago. I pursued you for six weeks before you agreed to dinner. You find my lifestyle exhausting, but you find me irresistible. Understood?"
"You pursued me?" Sadi repeated, a breathless laugh escaping her lips before she could stop it. "No one is going to believe that the most notorious businessman in Chicago chased a maid for six weeks."
Roman slowly leaned across the center console. He didn't touch her, but his physical presence trapped her against the seat. His dark eyes flicked down to her mouth, lingering there long enough to send a sharp coil of heat rushing straight down her spine.
"Look at yourself, Sadi," he murmured, his voice dropping into an intimate, dangerous register. "Look in that visor mirror. You think because you don't fit into the fragile little boxes this city builds for women, you aren't worth chasing? Any man with eyes can see you're built like a queen. The idiot at table 4 didn't leave because you were too big. He left because he was too small to hold you."
May you like
Sadi froze. Her breath hitched in her chest. The words were clinical, spoken without a trace of romantic warmth, yet they struck her with the force of a physical impact.
Roman leaned back, snapped his seatbelt into place, and shifted the heavy vehicle into gear. "Rule number four: When we walk into that country club, you belong to me. Act like it."
