Hired a Gigolo Got a Billionaire (Zoey and Christian) novel Chapter 554

Chapter 554

Mia’s POV

“You’ve got five seconds to wipe that stupid grin off your face before I throw you out the window,” I said, folding my arms and glaring at Dante from the passenger seat.

Dante, of course, didn’t lose the smile. If anything, it widened. That smug, infuriating grin he’d worn since we were kids whenever he knew he was getting under my skin.

“Good morning to you too, cousin,” he said cheerfully, hands relaxed on the steering wheel of the fully snow-equipped Land Rover Christian had apparently arranged. “Love the suitcase. Did you pack for a whole month just to ‘check if Gwen is okay’?”

“You gave me fifteen minutes to leave the house,” I shot back. “I didn’t have time to plan properly.”

“Fifteen minutes?” Dante scoffed. “It was forty-five. I timed it while you were ‘just putting on light makeup.

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“I hate you,” I muttered.

“No, you don’t,” Dante said, starting the engine. It purred smoothly, the heater already kicking in. “You love me. Everyone loves me. It’s my natural gift.”

“Your natural gift is being unbearable.”

“That too.”

We pulled out of my building’s parking area, and Dante navigated the streets of Florentia with the confidence of someone who’d done it a thousand times, even though he’d only moved back from Ascia not long ago. Which honestly tracked, considering how many “friends” he seemed to have scattered around the city.

Snow was still falling, though not heavily. In Florentia, it was the light, romantic kind, dusting old rooftops and cobblestone streets in a thin, picturesque layer.

But I knew that as we climbed toward Montelira in the hills, things were going to get a lot worse.

“So,” Dante said after a few minutes of silence, “we’re rescuing the Supreme Workaholic from the middle of a snowstorm because Christian said so. Sounds like a perfectly normal Sunday.”

“She’s not a workaholic,” I shot back automatically, even though it was only half true. Gwen really did live for her job.

“Mia, she sent emails at three in the morning last week,” Dante said. “Three a.m. About second-quarter sales projections.”

“She has insomnia sometimes.”

“Or she’s addicted to work.”

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I rolled my eyes but didn’t argue much. Gwen did take her job seriously. Sometimes too seriously. Especially after my brother had stepped away from Kensington and she felt like she had to prove herself even more to Christian.

I stared out the window as Florentia faded behind us, replaced by snow-covered hills and vineyards sleeping through winter.

“It was better when Marcus was Christian’s right-hand man,” I said after a moment. “He handled everything. All the secret, dramatic missions. I got to spend my Sundays in peace, doing normal Sunday things.”

“Like deep-conditioning your hair?” Dante teased.

“Exactly. And getting my nails done, and going to brunch, and not driving into the middle of nowhere in a snowstorm.”

Dante laughed.

“Oh, come on. Admit it. You were bored. Your life is work, spa, and the occasional dinner with that dull banker you’re dating.”

“Stephen is not dull,” I said defensively, even though it was a lie. Stephen was painfully dull. He talked about interest rates with the same passion other people reserved for their obsessions.

“He explained the Swiss banking system for forty-five minutes at dinner last time,” Dante said. “I timed it. Forty-five minutes, Mia. You had that glazed look in your eyes.”

“I was being politely attentive.”

“You were mentally planning your escape.”

I couldn’t argue with that because it was true.

The road began to climb, the curves sharpening as we approached the hills. The snow here was thicker, blanketing everything in a deep white layer that made the landscape look like it belonged on a postcard.

“Seriously,” Dante said, his tone turning sober for a moment, “Christian sounded genuinely worried when he talked to me. It’s not like him to send two of us to check on someone. Usually it’s just a quick phone

call.”

“I know,” I admitted. “He said someone at the inn mentioned that something had happened to her. That they were trying to contact family.”

“Which means it’s probably not just her forgetting to charge her phone.”

“Probably not.”

We fell silent for a few minutes, the only sounds the low hum of the engine and the tires crunching over packed snow.

“Do you think she’s okay?” I asked finally, letting some of the worry creep into my voice.

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Dante glanced at me, and for a split second I saw something beyond the carefree womanizer. I saw real

concern.

“Gwen’s tough,” he said. “She’s probably fine and going to be annoyed that we interrupted her secret mission.”

“True,” I agreed, feeling a little better. “She’s going to kill us for showing up and potentially blowing her cover.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Dante said, his grin returning. “It’ll be fun.”

“You have a very strange definition of fun.”

“An adventure in the middle of a snowstorm to rescue our cousin from a mysterious situation?” Dante gestured dramatically with one hand, the other steady on the wheel. “That’s the most excitement I’ve had in weeks. Way better than another meeting about quarterly sales projections.”

“You literally fell asleep in the last projections meeting.”

“Exactly my point.”

The snow started coming down harder as we climbed higher. Dante slowed the car, his grip on the wheel tightening as focus replaced his earlier ease.

“It’s getting bad,” I said, staring out the window. Visibility was dropping fast.

“It’s going to get worse,” Dante replied. “But this car was built for it. Four-wheel drive, snow tires, industrial-strength heating. Christian doesn’t cut corners when it comes to equipment.”

“At least one good thing about this ridiculous mission.”

It took nearly three hours to make a drive that normally took an hour and a half. Three hours of increasingly heavy snow, increasingly dangerous roads, and Dante telling awful jokes to keep the tension down.

When we finally saw the sign for Montelira, the relief was overwhelming.

“Almost there,” Dante said. “The inn should be… there.”

He pointed to a large property on the right, an old villa that was beautiful even under a thick blanket of snow. It had that rustic Castorian charm tourists loved.

Dante parked the car, and the moment we stepped out, the biting cold hit us hard.

“Remember,” he said as we walked toward the entrance, “she’s here as Gwen Parker, not Kensington.”

“I know, I know. I’m not an idiot.”

“Debatable.”

We stepped inside the villa, brushing snow off our coats. A woman at the reception desk greeted us with

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