Page 24 of The Billionaire's Distraction

Chapter 13

TonywatchedNaomihurrydown the walk, her ponytail swaying challengingly, her back straight with stubborn resolve.He should have been annoyed at her stubborn resistance.Instead, he felt a flicker of reluctant admiration.She had spunk, no doubt about it.But he was already calculating how to get her to accept the damn car.

Nobody rejected something he’d fixed.

In Tony’s world, gifts weren’t really gifts—they were solutions.He saw a problem, he addressed it.Sal handled the long game, the careful strategy, and Tony took care of implementation as well as eliminating the obstacles in the way.It was a system that had worked perfectly since they were kids running the streets, and Tony had no intention of deviating now.Naomi’s resistance?Merely another obstacle.

Once she was out of sight, he exhaled slowly and closed the door.

Outwardly, his day continued as usual.Meetings, calls, check-ins with his crews across the city.His voice was calm, his movements precise.But Naomi stayed in his thoughts, her fiery defiance simmering in the back of his mind.

By four o’clock, he’d had enough.In the middle of a meeting, he rose, cutting Sal off mid-sentence.

“Gotta go,” Tony muttered.

Sal barely looked up, his daughter asleep against his chest.He was outlining the mess in Minneapolis, where some idiot had taken over after Bianchi went down.

Bianchi—Catarina’s father—was finished.The evidence against him was ironclad.For once, the law wouldn’t look away.His arrogance had been his undoing.The FBI already had a case file thicker than an encyclopedia on the man, from his killing spree down the interstate during his attempt to take over the Chicago territory.Now, the bastard would rot in prison for the rest of his life.

Tony left Sal to the details.He had more immediate priorities.

Earlier, he’d driven Naomi’s Toyota to the Peterson estate himself, knowing she’d have no choice but to use it.Tom Peterson was the type of pompous bastard who wouldn’t allow anything “less than luxury” on his property overnight.His Mercedes and Land Rover fit the bill.Naomi’s Camry?To him, it was trash to be removed before the neighbors noticed.

Which meant she’d have to drive it here if she wanted to give it back to him.His lips curved at the thought.Checkmate, sweetheart.

The next two hours were spent in his kitchen.He wasn’t a chef like Sal, but he was meticulous, and that skill translated to cooking.Pasta boiled until perfectly tender.A sauce simmered low and steady, filling the house with the scents of garlic and basil.His housekeeper had made a dessert, which was currently chilling in the fridge, ready to cap off the evening’s meal.He moved with purpose, a dishtowel slung over his shoulder like he’d been born to this instead of violence.

When the doorbell rang, he knew exactly who it was.He’d watched her through the security feed—her hesitant drive down the back lane, her careful parking job, the way she lingered in the driver’s seat like she was rehearsing a speech.

As expected, the stubborn beauty was still trying to give the car back, he thought with a mental chuckle.Not going to happen.

Tony opened the back door, and there she was on the stoop, chin lifted, eyes flashing with nerves she tried to disguise as steel.

“You dropped something,” Naomi said, holding out the key gingerly, pinched between two fingers, like it was toxic.Her jaw was tight, her knuckles white.But her gaze betrayed her.She let it flicker over him—broad shoulders, rolled sleeves, chest filling out his shirt—and for one hot, suspended second, she didn’t look away.He didn’t mind.He was doing the same.

She looked frazzled, her hair a little mussed, her lips pressed together as if holding back a hundred words.

“The boys a bit much today?”Tony asked casually, reaching out and taking her hand before she could retreat.He tugged her gently inside, into the tiled area.

Some might call the space a mudroom, but not here.His house didn’t allow mud.Or disorder.

The place was a fortress, every inch designed with precision.Two stories visible above ground, six bedrooms—though only one had ever been used.The backyard had once held a pool, but he’d replaced it with a grid of trees and shrubs that concealed cameras and motion sensors.To passersby, it was just another quiet, high-end Chicago home.In reality, it was part of a compound.

Connected by tunnels, his house linked to the others around it as well as the nerve center of their security operations next door, and to Sal’s estate beyond.

Nobody outside the organization had a clue how far their reach spread.

Naomi, standing in his spotless back entryway with fire in her eyes, didn’t care about any of that.

“I’m not taking the car,” she declared firmly, ignoring his question.Her voice shook just slightly, but she masked it with stubborn resolve.

Tony’s mouth twitched, his amusement impossible to hide.She had no idea what kind of war she’d just declared.

He pushed the door closed behind her, his movements smooth and deliberate.“I made pasta with a romesco sauce,” he said.“Are you hungry?”

He didn’t wait for her to answer, just walked deeper into the house.He loved his kitchen most of all—this was where his mind cleared, where solutions to problems fell into place as easily as chopping herbs.He hadn’t learned from his mother directly—she’d been gone too soon—but he remembered her humming, the heavenly way the house smelled when she cooked.Those memories had stayed with him.Cooking was the one thing that made him feel close to her.

Naomi hesitated by the door.“I don’t…” she began, then stopped, her nose twitching.She inhaled, her expression morphing to reluctant wonder.“That smells wonderful!”