Chapter 10 Trilby #3
A warmth envelops me from behind, but I’m too lost in the music to question it, surrounded by sweaty bodies grinding to the bass.
Two hands rest on my hips, moving with me as I gyrate.
My lids open a little, and I see Cristiano out of the corner of my eye still standing at the bar.
His cheekbones look like razorblades from this angle, and his eyes seem darker.
I let whoever owns the hands on my hips move closer until I feel something pressing into my lower back.
It feels obscene and too intimate, but I’ve come this far . . .
In what is quite possibly the most uncharacteristic thing I’ve ever done, I arch into it, relishing the sensation of one man’s arousal against my backside while I bask in another man’s thunderous glare.
The music is my excuse. I’m completely lost, living vicariously through it. My fingers interlace with those on my hips, and I rest my head back against a shoulder.
Short, sharp breaths stutter past my ear. “Fuck, you are so sexy.”
I quirk a lazy smile and look at Cristiano as I skim against the other man’s erection. I’m so lost in the moment my brain doesn’t catch up with what my eyes are seeing until it’s too late.
Screams break out in every direction as the hands on my hips disappear, unbalancing me.
I land hard on the floor and find myself staring up at the man who just had his hard-on practically between my ass cheeks. He’s holding his hands up in a kind of surrender. Then I pan to his face and see why.
He has the barrel of a gun pointed at his head.
I follow the outstretched arm to a thick chest I’m fast becoming far too familiar with. Cristiano has this poor, innocent guy held up at gunpoint. If that fact doesn’t shake my core, the next one I recall sobers me up and rocks my foundation.
I was flirting.
I’m engaged to be married, and I was brazenly flirting with another man. In front of my fiancé’s brother. And not just any fiancé—the head of the Di Santo crime family.
I clamber to my feet and reach for Cristiano. “Put it down,” I plead. “Put the gun down, Cristiano. He did nothing wrong. It was me—all me.”
“What was you?” His focus doesn’t waver from the guy now sobbing and shaking like a damn leaf. “What exactly did you do?”
I take a deep breath. I have to come clean, be honest, and hope it’s enough to get him to lower the gun. “I was flirting. I was dancing up against him. It was me. I did that, not him.”
“He fucking liked it,” Cristiano says with gritted teeth.
“It doesn’t matter.” Panic lurches into my bloodstream. “He doesn’t know me or you. He doesn’t know who I’m engaged to. He didn’t mean any harm. Please . . . put the gun down. Please, Cristiano.”
A small hand rests on my arm, and I almost collapse with relief at the sound of Sandrine’s voice. “What the f—?” She leans into me and whispers, “He’s got a gun, Trilby. Step the hell away.”
I turn and mouth, “I know.”
She jerks her head back toward the exit. “Come on.” Her face is filled with panic. She truly does have no idea what family I’m marrying into.
I furrow my brow in apology. “You go. I’ll call you in the morning.”
The music has stopped, and the club is now almost empty. Security guards are dotted around the edges, and it strikes me they haven’t stepped in to stop Cristiano and help this innocent guy being held at gunpoint.
I glance at their faces. They wear the same expressions as the bartenders and the waiters. They’re not surprised by Cristiano’s actions, because . . . they’ve seen this show before.
It dawns on me even this place, situated at the opposite end of the city, is owned by the Di Santos.
Sandrine’s gaze darts between me and Cristiano. She shakes her head in confusion.
“Seriously,” I urge. “Go on home, Sandy. I’ll be fine, and I’ll make sure this guy is too.”
She backs away slowly, her eyes wide and terrified. Yep, she likely has no idea what her lover boy is involved in either.
I turn back to the scene to find nothing has changed. Cristiano still looks as calm and lethal as a sniper with a thousand lives in his holster. The guy I was dancing with looks like he’s actually pissed himself.
It’s already become clear Cristiano doesn’t listen to me, so I have to try something else.
I walk around the back of him and slip my hand into his free one. It’s bone-dry, no sweat to speak of, and as still as a sleeping baby. If his pulse has ratcheted up a notch for holding someone at gunpoint, there’s absolutely nothing on his person to make that obvious.
I look up at his face. It’s completely still. But then his jaw squeezes tight, just for a second, and his fingers curl around mine.
My heart flutters up my chest.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s go.”
He doesn’t respond, but the feel of his fingers sends tendrils of fire up my arms.
“Cristiano,” I whisper up at him. “Take me home.”
His chest expands, then he shoves his gun into the guy’s head, forcing him to stagger to the ground. His voice is pure venom as he directs it at the trembling mess now scooting backward along the floor.
“If you so much as look at this woman again,” he hisses, “you won’t be alive to see dawn. Do you understand?”
The man turns his face and nods manically. “I-I promise . . .”
Cristiano faces me, and I feel the full strength of his loaded stare.
It’s hard and flinty—the polar opposite of his soft fingers, which are threaded through mine.
His voice dips even further. “And don’t even get me started on what will happen to you if you so much as breathe in another man’s direction. ”
My instinct is to argue, because I don’t let anyone tell me who I can or can’t look at, speak to, breathe in the vicinity of . . . But Cristiano isn’t bluffing. There’s something dark and unequivocal in his expression, so I just blink at him rapidly.
A sinister growl erupts from deep in his chest. Before I can question it, Cristiano’s striding toward the exit, and since my hand is still enclosed in his, I can do nothing but try to keep up.