Claiming What's Mine

Chapter 2: Sofia

Three years ago...

“Well, hello there, handsome." My sister cranes her neck. “Who do we have here?"

At twenty-five, Francesca is already married and living in Philadelphia with her husband. I don't get to spend as much time with her as I'd like. Since we're two years apart, and she's my only sister out of four siblings, we're thick as thieves. I'm always excited when she comes home for a visit.

Our mother has arranged a shopping excursion on Michigan Avenue, along with two dinner parties with friends and family while Frankie's here. If there's time, we'll head up north to spend the weekend at our cottage in Door County, Wisconsin. Escaping the frenetic energy of the city is always a welcome change. I could spend days wandering around the quaint little towns dotting Lake Michigan's eastern shores. Like the family compound which lies north of Chicago, the cottage has been in our family for generations.

I don't bother glancing in the direction where Frankie's eyes are focused. I already know what-or who-has captured her attention. My skin prickled with awareness as soon as he stepped outside.

“That's Roman. He works for Papa," I tell her, ignoring the nerves dancing at the bottom of my belly.

Frankie snorts. “Of course, he does." Still staring at him, she states the obvious. “Damn, but he's hot."

The appreciative tone of her voice makes the edges of my lips curl into a smile. Clearing my throat, I admonish, “Have you forgotten that you're a married woman?"

Francesca and Dante have enjoyed marital bliss for two years, and Frankie is the happiest I've ever seen her. They were high school sweethearts and have known each other since they were children. I can't imagine my sister with anyone other than Dante, who has mastered the art of reining her in when necessary while allowing her to spread her wings and soar. Not an easy feat for any man. Frankie can be a handful. There's no doubt in my mind that the two of them were made for one another.

“Please." She rolls her eyes. “I can appreciate a good-looking male when I see one."

“Uh-huh," I tease, recalling how she threatens her husband with bodily harm whenever she catches him looking at other women. “Can Dante appreciate a good-looking female when he sees one as well?"

“Not if he enjoys having balls."

I burst into laughter. Francesca has nothing to worry about. Dante loves her beyond reason and would do anything for her.

How can I not envy them?

It's difficult to imagine having a relationship like theirs since my past is riddled with courtships that fizzled out around the six-month mark. Of course, being hung up on a man who wants nothing to do with me doesn't help my love life either.

Those thoughts viciously circle through my brain as my gaze settles on Roman. Looking deliciously sweaty, he makes his way into the yard from the basement gym where my father's men work out. I've unintentionally memorized his schedule. Every day like clockwork, Roman spends an hour lifting weights before taking a four-mile run along the trails bordering the wooded property.

I like watching him when he's unaware of my presence. Then I can look at him as much as I want without the fear of getting a glare in return.

I don't know why he doesn't like me.

But he doesn't. You'd have to be blind not to notice his disgust. He doesn't even try to hide it.

I sensed his disdain the first time we met. Each subsequent encounter has only intensified those feelings. I'm not sure what I did to cause this reaction in him, nor do I know how to alter his perception.

What I have learned in the time I've been acquainted with Roman is to give him a wide berth. And yet, knowing his feelings, I still gravitate to this spot at the same time every morning. I just can't help myself.

I must be a glutton for punishment, because I live for these fleeting glimpses of him. I file them away in the back of my mind to take out when I'm alone in my room.

Roman is one of my father's men. His disposition toward me shouldn't matter. But it does. I've racked my brain to come up with a rational explanation for his behavior, but can't find one. As much as it troubles me, I refuse to confront him and ask about it.

That would indicate I give a damn and that his opinion matters.

Which isn't the case.

All right, maybe it is.

I can pretend all I want to the outside world, but I can't lie to myself. I have a sick obsession with the man. I have no idea why he fascinates me.

No one would ever accuse Roman of having a sparkling personality. The man is surly to the extreme. At least toward me, he is. Every time he glowers at me, my breath catches, and my pulse runs rampant. My panties dampen whenever I imagine his big, rough hands stroking my naked body.

I'm not under any illusions that Roman would be a tender lover.

There doesn't seem to be a gentle bone in his body.

He's the strong, silent type, with eyes that constantly assess his surroundings to look for threats. I've never seen him kick back and relax. I'm not even sure if he knows how to smile.

His complexion is dark and swarthy. My guess is that he's of Italian descent. His body is hard. Strong. Honed for violence. A thin veneer of civility masks the explosive personality I sense lurking beneath the surface.

My sister and I silently watch as Roman moves through a series of stretches. I'm held prisoner by the sight of his muscles contracting and lengthening. Since he hasn't glanced in our direction, I assume he's unaware of us ogling him from the screened-in porch as we enjoy steaming mugs of coffee.

Roman's dark head angles toward us. His gaze collides with mine, and I realize that he's been aware of us the entire time. Our interest has not gone unnoticed.

The hairs on my arms rise as he stares at me.

“Well, well, well," Francesca murmurs, her voice full of amusement. “What do we have here?"

I try to look away, but can't. I'm transfixed by the sight of him. Other than the long black athletic shorts sitting loosely around lean hips, his sun-kissed skin is gloriously bare. His muscular chest glistens with perspiration in the early morning sunlight. His cheeks are flushed from his exertion in the gym. Dark stubble covers both chin and jawline.

This man is the epitome of tall, dark, and sinfully sexy. I'm not alone in my appreciation. I've seen the way other women watch him. He may not want it, but he attracts female attention without even trying.

My sister elbows me in the ribs. “Have you been holding out on me? Is there some kind of illicit flirtation going on between you and one of Papa's henchmen?"

Without acknowledging our presence, Roman severs eye contact and releases me from the captivity of his stare. Air rushes from my lungs, and my legs turn to jelly as he takes off at a fast clip toward the dense woods bordering the side of the property. I track him until he passes through the tree line.

I shake my head to clear it of the random thoughts that have accumulated. “Of course not. There's nothing going on between us."

“Are you sure about that?" she sing-songs teasingly, letting me know that I'm not fooling her for a minute.

Now that Roman has disappeared into the forest that comprises three-fourths of the property, my heart rate returns to normal and coherent thought floods through my brain.

“He can barely tolerate the sight of me, Frankie." The bitter truth of the words rings harshly in my ears and tastes bitter on my tongue.

Her brows pinch together. “Why do you say that?"

I shrug and murmur under my breath, “You saw the way he stared at me, right?"

“Yeah."

I glance at my sister. Our gazes catch and hold. We've always been adept at silently communicating with one another. It's a childhood trick that came in handy when we were trapped in a roomful of adults.

For the first time in my life, I don't want that mental connection with Frankie. If she looks too closely, she might see the feelings I have for Roman. And I'm not comfortable with owning up to something that scares and confuses me so much.

I casually wave a hand in the air. “He always looks at me that way. It's like he's angry that I'm breathing the same air as him."

“Hmm." She presses her lips together in a thoughtful manner. “Interesting."

None of my father's men have ever made me feel uncomfortable or unwelcome in my own home. But Roman does.

I console myself with the fact that school begins again in less than a month. I'll return to my apartment in the city, where I can immerse myself in classes and forget all about Roman Santori.

For a while.

I'm in my second year of a master's program in Educational Psychology. Most of the people I know who are my age don't spend their summer breaks living at home with their parents, but Mama and Papa are overprotective. They worry about my safety. We have an understanding. I stay at the compound during breaks in exchange for freedom during the academic year.

I really don't mind spending time at home.

Let me rephrase that-I never minded before Roman began working for my father.

I've been uneasy in his presence from the get-go. I've tried being polite and friendly. Not overly so, but enough to pass one another in the hallway or kitchen with a cordial greeting.

My attempts at civility were repeatedly met with cold, emotionless looks and a handful of muttered words that barely passed for conversation. I now go to great lengths to stay out of parts of the house I know he'll be in to avoid any more forced interaction.

As much as Roman intimidates me, I'm still drawn to him. His masculinity appeals to something infinitely female in me. My senses go haywire whenever he's in the vicinity. I don't understand my visceral reaction to him since he's the opposite type of guy I usually find attractive.

“I don't know," Frankie speculates, snapping me out of my musings. “I get the feeling there's more to it."

“You're crazy. I know when someone doesn't like me." My heart clenches as I add, “And for some reason, I rub this guy the wrong way."