Catching Bianca: A Dark Mafia Romance (Shadows of Obsession Book 4)
Catching Bianca: Chapter 15

She gives me whiplash, I swear.

Or rather, my reactions to her do. One minute I can barely keep myself from storming out of her apartment and burning rubber back to Columbus, the next I want my lips on hers just because she’s upset over a nightmare.

Whenever her walls drop, whenever she stops spewing the I’m fine bullshit and shows what hides beneath the façade, I’m a goner. So into her it drives me crazy.

But those moments don’t come often. They don’t last long. The morning after her nightmare, she kept zoning out, a sad look taking up residence in her honey eyes. She schooled herself when she noticed me looking at her, and Little Miss Independent came back in full force.

It’s the dreaded Wednesday today. The day she reopens her shop. It came around far too quickly. While sorting out the security systems, I tried changing her mind about working.

A few more arguments ensued, fueling my exasperation. Exasperation doused in the brief moments when she thought I wasn’t watching her like a fucking hawk, and her cold exterior melted away.

As predicted, I failed to change her mind. She’s reopening Bloom today which means I hardly slept and I’m on edge. Keeping her safe in one location is easier than doing it at two, even though the shop is in the same building.

The added threat of strangers coming and going as they please means complete vigilance while on the job. It’s not like I can deny access to anyone who looks shady.

Bianca’s alarm goes off in the bedroom as dawn breaks outside the living room window, my watch showing five in the morning. I’ve been awake a while, ever since I heard Arthur on the hunt for snacks in the kitchen cupboards an hour ago.

Letting out a groan, I stretch my stiff limbs after another night on the blow-up bed. Renting the newly renovated apartment down the hall crossed my mind at least ten times already, but leaving Bianca unattended at night is not something I can do. Not even if Arthur were to sit in her living room, keeping an eye on the door without blinking.

He’s good at his job. He does everything right, ticks all the boxes. The show he put on torturing Amadeus works in his favor too—I know he’s ruthless. I know he’s capable, but no matter how good he is, he’s not me.

He’s here on Carter’s orders; he’s doing a job.

I’m here on Carter’s orders too, but it’s more than an obligation for me.

I’ve developed a soft spot for Bianca. Not because I almost moved the fucking earth to replace her, or because she’s attractive, and definitely not because she’s Hailey’s sister.

There’s more, A feeling I can’t name. It’s not infatuation or attraction. It’s a need to be around her.

Even if she drives me half insane with her attitude, even if I loathe her ice-cold-bitch personality, I can’t shake that need to protect her, keep her safe, wrap her in my arms and tell her everything will be okay.

I stifle a chuckle. No way would Bianca welcome any form of comfort that doesn’t come in the form of good food, warm blankets, and cups of hot chocolate.

Hugs? Forget it.

She rolls out of bed, her footsteps tapping against the floor, the paper-thin walls not keeping any secrets. She was worried about me watching her sleep? Good one. I can hear it every time she turns in bed.

Picturing her stomping across the room to her closet comes easily. The door creaks as she opens it. I make a mental note to fix the hinges. Grabbing some clothes, she tiptoes across the room and her bedroom door cracks open.

“Stop sneaking around,” I say, sitting up and raking a hand through my hair.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” She flicks on the kitchen cabinet lights. They’re not bright but illuminate the space enough that she won’t trip over.

A groan vibrates my chest. She’s wearing a tiny spaghetti-strap night dress, frilly lace kissing her thighs.

She looks… fuckable.

No. That’s not it. She looks freshly fucked and it’s glorious.

Her lips are pursed, hair a tousled mess, cheeks rosy thanks to the hotter-than-hell temperature. No one in their right mind sleeps well in eighty-degree heat.

My eyes slip lower, to the slender neck I’ve imagined wrapping my fingers round for two very different reasons. More frilly lace frames her full, perky breasts, her nipples hard, curves tightly hugged by the soft fabric. My cock responds, swelling and twitching. I map out the line of her hips and smooth legs, the hem ending a few inches below her ass.

Gorgeous. So fucking gorgeous… and yet so, so cold.

“No, you didn’t.” I fall back on the pillow, covering my eyes with my arm. Best to shield myself or she’ll accuse me of being a perv again.

“Okay, well, I’ll go get ready.”

I don’t say anything else, my cock throbbing under the comforter. Once they leave I’ll have the apartment to myself for a couple of hours; I can jack off to my heart’s content.

The shower starts running, the soft sound like ASMR.

My eyelids grow heavier, the dull ceiling over my head swimming when sleep smothers my subconscious, but as I’m about to fall, Arthur exits his bedroom, and my blissful sleep runs the fuck away.

I sit up again, kicking the bed sheets aside.

The situation in my boxers is under control as I rise from the bed, snatching a pair of sweatpants from my suitcase.

“Morning,” Arthur whispers, tiptoeing toward the fridge.

“We’re all awake, why are you whispering?”

He shrugs. “Habit, I guess.”

He doesn’t elaborate and I’m not interested enough to ask.

Bianca joins us fifteen minutes later, a ghost of a smile gracing her features at the sight of coffee waiting on the counter.

“How far is the market?” I ask, sinking into the loveseat.

“A few miles away.”

“Do you have a car?”

She shakes her head, taking a small sip, that tight-lipped smile reaching her eyes. Probably because her coffee is just the way she likes it. Cream, two sugars.

Yeah, I pay attention. God knows why, but I do.

Still, instead of her cute, barely there, well-controlled smile being aimed at me, it’s all Arthur’s.

Whatever.

“How do you normally bring flowers back to the shop?”

“I take a cab.”

I can imagine the drivers are thrilled at all the petals, stalks, and leaves collaging their trunks. Snatching the keys to my Jeep from the coffee table, I throw them at Arthur.

“Don’t leave her unattended. Not even for a second.”

The easygoing expression slips off Bianca’s face. “Can I use the toilet unattended? You’re exaggerating. I’ll be fine.”

Is it possible to erase a word from someone’s dictionary? Because I’d love to erase fine from hers. It’s her go-to mood. She’s never sad, annoyed, sleepy, or tired. She’s fine. Always fine.

So fucking fine it drives me up the wall.

“It’s five-thirty in the morning, Winter,” I grit out, waking up my laptop. “Retract your claws and don’t shit all over my mood this early, alright?”

She stabs at me with a glare. I only see it in my peripheral vision, but the heat of her annoyance is unmistakable.

“Now that Koby’s not around, you’ve taken up his mission to replace me the most annoying pet name?”

Koby on her lips wakes an envious beast inside me. I hate everything about my reaction. I hate feeling threatened.

“Do I try out a new one every time we speak?”

Arthur slurps his coffee, his face sour, eyes darting every which way. Bianca and I argue on average seventeen times a day and it’s getting to him. I won’t be surprised if Carter addresses this issue at Saturday’s weekly meeting.

“No, I guess not,” Bianca mutters. “So why Winter? You called me that before.”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“You don’t make conversation easy. I’m trying here. Can you do me the courtesy of not acting like a dick whenever I open my mouth?”

“It’s not my fault you snap whenever I open mine.”

“Ugh, you’re impossible. And you didn’t answer my question. Why do you call me Winter?”

“Because it fits.”

She slams her cup back on the counter, anger following her like a stormy cloud on her way out of the apartment.

Arthur almost breaks a leg chasing after her.

***

I should’ve gone with Bianca.

I’m not getting any sleep, jacking off took six minutes, and now I’m alone, my mind whirring, anxiety mounting. Arthur is capable, he’ll keep Bianca safe. I know that, but rational thinking isn’t my forte this morning.

Instead of relaxing for a couple of hours before it’s my turn to shadow Little Miss Independent, I’m triple-checking the security features in Bloom. Half an hour later, I’m pacing a trench between the front window and the storage room.

I pull my phone out of my back pocket every few minutes, my finger hovering over Arthur in the contact list. I want to check in on them, make sure everything’s okay, but I’m worried the phone call will distract him.

For the eleventh time in the last hour, I shove the phone back where it belongs.

My eyes dart to the clock on the wall, minutes stretching like bubble gum before it’s seven fifty-three and my Jeep rolls to a stop outside the shop window. I all but barge out through the fucking glass door, my pulse on the fast side until Bianca exits the car in one piece.

The guarded delight painting her face disappears as soon as she looks at me, morphing into a stoic, emotionless expression.

Damn, she doesn’t like me much.

On instinct, I let my gaze rove her body, noting the tight jeans I failed to register when she stormed out earlier.

Her ass looks exquisite. The light-blue fabric hugs her hips like a glove, and her V-neck top gives me a peek into her cleavage. Instead of appreciating the view, a different feeling settles deep in my gut—annoyance.

How many men have ogled her this morning?

I round the car, pulling the trunk open. “Everything good?”

“No issues,” Arthur replies, helping me unload.

“I’ve got it. You’re off the hook now. Go sleep.”

He nods, his fingers falling away from the big bucket filled with pink roses. There are at least twelve buckets in the trunk, all brimming with flowers. Roses take up most of the space, but there are others, most of which I can’t name.

I lift one bucket out, noting its weight. Immediately, my mind whirs, picturing Bianca hauling these into the flower shop every morning. They’re too heavy for a delicate girl like her.

She grabs one and my protective streak grows thorns. “Leave it. Just show me where you want them all.”

She ignores me, reaching for a bucket of purple flowers. “I can manage.”

“I don’t doubt that, but now I’m here, I’d rather you let me do the heavy lifting.”

“Thanks, but I’m fine.”

Of course she is. She’s always fucking fine.

She lifts the bucket out, her face flushing red, fingers whitening, veins bulging. I expect, I fucking hope she’ll give up and let me deal with it. Wishful thinking.

She powers through, carrying the bucket inside.

I bet most men would replace this admirable.

She’s strong. She can take care of herself and her business. It’s good, but it’s infuriating.

“Would it kill you if you stood back and watched?” I ask, leaving the roses on the workbench she points to.

“I’m not sure; I never tried. Why are you making an issue out of this? I’ve always taken care of myself and I don’t need anyone doing it for me. I’m not helpless.”

“Never said you were, but it’s fine to accept help.”

“I accepted, didn’t I? You’re helping.”

My teeth gnash between my lips. It’s probably misogynistic or some such shit, but all I can think about is tying her to a chair then doing all the heavy lifting alone. I don’t want her straining herself. I don’t want her struggling.

I’m a man. Making her life easier is my job.

The deep eleven marring her forehead is a clear indicator of an upcoming fight. With a grunt, I drop the subject, letting her win this round before it begins.

For the next five minutes, I avert my gaze whenever she lifts another bucket or else the vein on my neck will burst.

“What time do you open?” I ask, settling in to one of the two plush chairs in the tiny waiting area.

It’s in Bloom’s corner, giving me a view of both the front and back entrance as well as the till and Bianca’s workstation. No one can enter without me noticing. My phone’s connected to the laptop in Bianca’s apartment, and the feed from outside the shop is on my screen.

“Nine,” she says, glancing at the clock that shows we have half an hour.

And we spend that half an hour in the utmost silence.

Bianca rushes around, preparing ribbons, tissue paper, tape, and a multitude of other things I can’t name. Once she’s done, with five minutes to spare before the doors open, she brings an armful of flowers from the back.

And it’s as if a switch has been flipped on her emotionless face.

She’s glowing as she carefully spreads roses and tulips across her workbench. There’s a spark in her eyes, a flush to her cheeks, a genuine thrill passing through her, evident by the excited hand-wringing and finger-twitching.

She picks out some white flowers I don’t recognize, every stem covered in tiny buds. Scrutinizing each one from every angle, she adds a few pink roses. The placement looks haphazard, but judging by the determination and focus on Bianca’s face, I don’t think there’s anything random about her process.

Every flower is expertly placed where she wants it, then shifted if it doesn’t quite fit. Two larger pink roses are next, then three pink flowers like oversized daisies. She keeps working, cutting the ends, twisting ribbons, adding green leaves, and I stare as if I’m witnessing the birth of the universe.

Finally, she wraps the bouquet in pink polka-dot tissue paper, ties yet another ribbon, and beams at her creation. The first genuine smile I’ve seen on her to date, despite spending every waking moment either with this girl or staring at her face on my screen for longer than I can count now.

Lifting her head to check the clock, she catches me staring and the glee drains from her features.

“Do you take orders online?” I ask as she crosses the room, placing the bouquet in a tall vase displayed in the window.

“No, why?” She flicks the sign hanging on the door from closed to open.

I jut my chin at the bouquet. “A regular customer?”

“Oh, no. I prepare a dozen or so bouquets every morning for those in a rush—usually men who forget an anniversary, birthday or other important celebration. They come, grab, and go. As you can imagine.”

I can’t imagine.

The men I’ve looked up to throughout my life have been devoted and never missed important occasions. My father showers my mother with gifts, flowers, and affection. Dante drowns Layla in gifts just because. Carter and Broadway never fail to spoil their girls. Forgetting an anniversary or birthday doesn’t sound like something that happens often.

At least not to my ears.

Bianca settles behind her workbench, surveying the remaining flowers. There’s enough to conjure at least five bouquets the same size as the first. She grabs a few long-stemmed red roses and suddenly I’m curious.

“Is there a pattern you follow?”

“No. I never went to school for this, I’m self-taught.”

“So how do you decide?”

She shrugs, a hint of a smile gracing her lips and adding a hundred points to how desirable she looks.

“I mix and match until it looks pretty.”

That’s one way to go about it.

She grabs a handful of yellow flowers, mixing them with the roses.

“What are those called?”

She looks up, her signature skeptical eyebrow raised. “You want a floriculture lesson?”

“Why not? We’re alone and I have nothing better to do.”

She takes a second to decide, scanning my face as if she thinks this is a prank. Or maybe a trap. Satisfied that I have no malicious intent, she beckons me forward.

The air smells sweet, though earthy, a standard flower shop scent, yet it’s overpowered by Bianca’s blend when I come closer. Coconut, sea salt, and something uniquely her.

I stop a foot away, watching her nimble fingers twist the stems until they sit where she wants them. She doesn’t speak for a long beat.

“Those are carnations.” She angles her head, checking whether I’m paying attention, then shoves one in my face. “Smell it.”

I take a whiff, holding her big honey eyes hostage. “I can’t smell anything save for coconut.”

“Coconut?” She frowns briefly before recognition hits and her eyebrows meet her hairline. “Oh, I… I didn’t realize the scent was so potent. I can’t smell it at all.”

“Because you’re used to it. What is it, anyway? Hair shampoo? Conditioner?”

“Body lotion.”

I shouldn’t have asked.

The mention of body lotion alone is enough to fill my head with Bianca lathering it all over her skin. Legs first, I bet, from her ankles, up her thighs, then higher over the swell of her hips, the dip of her waist, those bouncy breasts…

I grit my teeth. Imagining her naked won’t help me stave off this mild obsession bubbling inside me.

She’s gorgeous. The magnetic pull between us draws me closer and closer, but it’s irrelevant. Nothing will happen. Not even one wild night.

Especially not that.

I’ve thought about it a lot since we arrived in Cleveland. We could never be casual. I can’t satisfy my need for her body without things getting awkward later. It wouldn’t work.

“I know those.” I point at the purple flowers she reaches for next. “Hydrangeas. My mother’s favorite.”

“They’re my favorite, too,” she admits, a softness settling over her features and somehow seeping into her voice.

Her whole face changes in an instant, as if someone’s switching her emotions on and off via a button at the back of her neck. She’s soft, delicate, amenable…

Fucking perfect.

“Let’s test your aesthetic streak.” She twists the bouquet left and right. “Pink, yellow, purple. What else would you add?”

“No idea. Blue or white, maybe.”

“White it is.” She scans the workbench, frowning at the white flowers there. “But not tulips. I need…” She stares at the bouquet, deep in thought. “I need peonies.”

She turns on her heel and disappears to the back of the shop, only to emerge a moment later with a handful of white flowers. Peonies, I guess. She works in silence, adding some last touches before tying a few bows here and there.

“Do you…” She pauses, ripping a piece of tape with her teeth. “How long before you can go back to Columbus?”

“You had enough of me already? It’s only been a few days.”

“No, it’s not that, but it won’t be like this forever, right? I’ll get my old life back…?”

A boulder settles deep in my gut for two different reasons. One, that hint of vulnerability is back, and two… did her old life involve a man? I thought she was single.

My mind whirs through everything I know about Bianca, everything I read online, all the pictures I’ve seen, but it comes back empty. Has she kept her relationship private?

My hands ball into fists, the mere thought of another man in her life driving me livid.

“You’re back in your apartment and working in your shop,” I grit out, the annoyance flaring behind my ribs like a scorching fire. “What’s missing?”

I realize, a touch too late, that my hands are in fists and my clipped tone leaves a lot to be desired.

Bianca goes on the offense, unaware that my shitty attitude stems from green jealousy.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she mocks. “Perhaps feeling safe? Not living with two bodyguards?” She ties the last ribbon around the bouquet and storms past me, shoving the flowers into another vase, her cheeks red, chest heaving. “Not having to argue with you every five minutes would be nice, too.”

Her attitude fuels mine, my temper rising.

I push a calming breath down my nose. My lips part, sorry on the tip of my tongue, but the overdoor bell dings and the first customer enters, rendering me speechless.

Bianca’s foul mood evaporates in a flash, her scowl turning upside down into a bright, beautiful smile.

I’m so fucked.