Chapter 6
6
MICHAEL
I glance over my shoulder as I place my palm on the biometric lock beside my front door, expecting to see Gianna right behind me. But she’s not there. Instead, she’s sprinting back down the driveway towards my car. What the hell? Frowning, I abandon the door and follow her.
She grabs the trunk and yanks on it like her life depends on it, but of course it doesn’t budge. It’s locked. Doesn’t stop her from trying though, her chest heaving with the effort. Or is it panic?
“Hey, what’s going on? What are you looking for?” I ask curiously.
She whirls to face me, and I’m floored by the raw desperation in her eyes. “Open it! Open it! Open it!” she screams at me, tears carving tracks through the grime on her flushed cheeks.
My chest constricts painfully, and I rub a hand over it unconsciously as I fish out my key fob and pop the trunk.
She sniffles and dives for it immediately. She pulls it up harder than necessary and starts going at the dead body inside, dragging him this way and that as she frantically searches through his clothes.
I approach her cautiously. “Gianna, talk to me. What is it? What did you lose?”
She doesn’t stop searching or even spare me a glance as she stammers through her heaving breaths and tears, “M-my necklace. I can’t find my necklace.” Her words end on a long, broken sob before she slaps the dead body in frustration and collapses to the floor, defeated.
Necklace?
My hand slips into my pocket and closes around the object I picked up earlier. I pull it out and study the gold chain, my eyes tracing the shield-shaped pendant with the words inscribed on the front.
At the top of the shield, bold letters read: Saint Michael. At the bottom: Protect us .
In the center, an image of a winged figure—presumably the archangel himself—is carefully engraved. Surrounding it are more words, likely in Latin, with small crosses interspersed between them.
On the back, there’s more religious gibberish—a prayer for protection from the angel.
“You mean this?”
Her head snaps up, and the moment she recognizes it, she launches herself at me and snatches it from my outstretched hand, cradling it to her chest like the precious thing it clearly is. “How…?” She hiccups, red-rimmed eyes searching mine. “Where did you…?”
“I saw it on the ground beside his body, and I remembered seeing it on your neck earlier. It’s broken, so I picked it up to fix it.”
She nods but doesn’t release her death grip on the pendant. I watch her curiously as she sniffles again and quickly wipes the tears from her face. What’s so important about that thing that has her almost breaking into pieces?
“S–sorry about that. It was my mom’s. The last thing I have of hers,” she says by way of explanation as she slams my trunk shut.
Well, fuck. No wonder she was losing her mind.
By all accounts, Agnes Cabello, her mother, was a religious fanatic. A way to cope with her criminal husband? I wonder how that affected her daughter.
I study Gianna as she walks towards the front door where she patiently waits for me. She’s only twenty-three, but she’s already endured more than most. And yet, she stands there, steady, unshaken. Strong as hell.
She lost her parents a decade ago, back when she was just thirteen. They were driving home from her school recital that rainy night when they got into an accident, which they might have survived—if they hadn’t been unlucky enough to be attacked by a group of thieves. The bastards killed them, left their bodies in the wreck, and vanished. The men were never found. That part I find odd.
According to the reports, Gianna was unconscious in the backseat, completely helpless. Maybe that’s the only reason they spared her—they thought she was already dead.
Her father was one of the more powerful dons in NYC at the time. How could a man like that just get taken out by some low-level street scum, and the perpetrators were never brought to justice?
Something about the whole thing stinks.
“Are you coming?” she calls, snapping me out of my thoughts.
I nod at her and lock my car again, then make my way towards the front door. She stands there, waiting, arms wrapped around herself like she’s trying to disappear into her damp clothes. I unlock the door and push it open, letting her step in first before locking up behind us.
The sensor lights flicker on as we walk inside, and without a word, I lead her up the stairs to the guest bedroom, trying not to think about how right she looks in my house.
“You should take a bath,” I suggest, my gaze lingering on the mess the night has left on her. No argument from her—just a silent nod as she goes in.
I need a bath myself, but first, I head to my room to grab a change of clothes for her—one of my old shirts and pants. Something comfortable. Something clean.
Back at her door, I knock, but when I get no answer, I crack it open. Empty.
The sound of the shower running filters through from the ensuite. My eyes drift to the bathroom door, and for a second, my mind conjures up an image of her—skin glistening, water streaming down her curves?—
Snap out of it, Michael.
Shoving the thought away, I drop the clothes on the bed and knock lightly on the bathroom door. The water stops instantly.
“What do you want?” There’s a panicked edge in her voice, like she almost expects me to barge in on her. I can’t deny that the thought is tempting, but that’s not why I’m here.
“I left some clothes on the bed for you,” I say. “When you’re done, come down to eat.”
A pause. Then, a clipped, “Alright. You can go now.”
Did she just issue a command to me?
I chuckle under my breath as I leave. Can’t remember the last time someone—other than my brothers—had the audacity to do that and remained alive.
This is the first time in years I’ve been with someone who doesn’t know who I am and isn’t afraid of me because of my reputation.
I like it. I like it too much.
I head back to my room where I exchange my bloodstained shirt for a clean one before stepping out again, taking the steps two at a time. In the kitchen, I swing open the fridge, fully stocked with everything she likes.
So what if, during my research into Gia’s past, I came to learn about the food she favored and stocked up on them? I wonder if she’ll even notice.
I shrug as I pull the first plate of food from the fridge. Not that it matters. It doesn’t mean anything. Let her think it’s coincidence if she recognizes anything.
My phone buzzes insistently in my pocket. I frown and pull it out—Rafael. Of course. He called me earlier when we just got home, waking Gia up from her short nap.
“What?” I answer, putting him on speaker so I can work while we talk.
“What’s the status? Do you have her?” he asks as I shove the food, container and all, into the microwave.
“It’s been just three days, Rafael. I’m a tracker, not a magician.”
Silence stretches before he finally asks, “What’s the delay? Have you not found her?”
I pause, weighing my words. I’ve never had a reason to tell Rafael a lie before—I usually don’t give a shit about his reaction to my truths, so I’m always blunt, honest to a fault. But knowing him, the second he finds out I have Gianna, he’ll demand I bring her back to New York immediately.
And that’s not fucking happening.
I just got her. And I’m not ready to let her go. May never be ready.
So I dodge his question. “I mean, we’ve been searching for Emily for years and haven’t found her. It’s been three days, Rafael. Don’t you trust that you’ll be the first person I call as soon as I have her?”
The dial tone is my answer, and I chuckle under my breath as I take out some plates and spoons.
Yeah, mentioning Emilia is a surefire way to piss him off. I don’t know much about what went down between them five years ago, and I don’t give a shit either way, but he really shouldn’t let her get under his skin like this.
People like me will use it against him.
I’m almost done plating the food when I sense her behind me. “Oh, good, you’re right on time. Come on in,” I say without turning around, sealing up the leftovers to put them back in the fridge.
Footsteps approach, and I glance up—then freeze. My mouth goes dry.
She’s drowning in my clothes, the shirt falling almost to her knees, sleeves rolled up multiple times. She looks… claimed .
A cautious step brings her to the table, eyes flicking to the plate I’ve set out. “What’s this?”
The suspicion in her voice makes me smirk. “I think you’re old enough to know what this is. Sit down.” I nod at the chair, and she hesitantly takes her seat.
“I didn’t know you could make ziti. It looks really good,” she comments mildly as she picks up a fork.
I take the seat across from her, watching her closely as she spoons up some of the baked ziti and places it in her mouth. Her eyes pop open wide in surprise before drifting shut, and the small moan of pleasure that escapes her goes straight to my cock. Christ, what other sounds could I draw from that pretty mouth?
“You like it?” I tease. I know she fucking likes it.
She opens her eyes, locking those whiskey-colored irises onto mine. “This is from Bellevue Bistro in Manhattan. How do you have it here?” Her second question is silent but I can read it clear as day on her face: How did you know it was my favorite?
I lean back, playing innocent. “What makes you think it’s from there? I could be a great chef for all you know. Are you being discriminating right now?”
My teasing draws a small smile from her. “You know what? I don’t care how you got it here. Thank you for the meal.” Her voice softens. “It means a lot… having food that tastes like home on what could’ve been a horrible day.”
Something in my chest expands painfully at the way she looks at me, gratitude shining in her eyes. I would do anything— anything —to get her to look at me like that again and again.
She continues eating, and I’m unable to take my eyes off her as she digs into her food with gusto.
I love it. Love watching her eat the food I provided for her with such obvious pleasure. My gaze drops to her lush, pink lips, glistening as she chews. Would she approach other activities with the same enthusiasm? Suck cock?
I shift uncomfortably in my seat as my cock hardens.
Damn it, what is this? The third time I'm getting hard in her presence today? The fourth? Get a fucking grip.
When she finishes, I push a glass of water towards her. She drains it in one go, sighing as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Then those eyes find mine again, and I watch, enraptured, as color blooms across her skin—starting at her ears, spreading across her cheeks, down her throat, disappearing underneath my shirt. Fascinating .
Blood rushes south, draining from my brain to my hard-as-a-rock cock as my mind fills with obscene thoughts of licking and sucking those red splotches, discovering just how far down they go, how pretty she would look with my cum splashed all over?—
“Sorry about that,” she mumbles. “I don’t usually inhale food like that.”
“It’s fine.” My voice comes out rough, so I clear my throat and stand abruptly, gathering plates, trying to distract myself from mauling her. What the hell is it about her that’s got me feeling like a randy teenager who’s after his first tail?
She immediately gets up as well and tries to take the plate from me. Our fingers brush, sending a surge of heat through me, a spurt of precum shooting from my cock as my spine tingles. Fuck.
She jolts like she felt it too, letting go of the plate just as I do. We both watch in suspended animation as it crashes to the floor, shattering the tension along with the ceramic.
“Oh, shit! I’m so sorry. I didn’t?—”
I turn away from her before she can finish, walking off like a man escaping a goddamn war zone. I tug on the collar of my shirt uncomfortably, trying to ignore the throbbing length of cock between my legs. Then I shove open the front door, stepping into the crisp morning air, and slam it shut behind me.
Fuck, if I’d stayed in that room one second longer, I would’ve done something crazy. Like bending her over the damn table and fucking her senseless.
I exhale sharply, raking a hand through my hair. I need to get my head straight. She’s not ready for me like that. No matter how much she drives me insane with lust, no matter how perfectly she fits into my world, I’m not going to push her.
Lucky for me, I have the perfect distraction—a dead body in my trunk to dispose of.
I slide behind the wheel, adjusting myself with a grimace, then turn the key and drive off for some much-needed respite.