Chapter 19
Willow
“Do you need help?” My words are gravel against my throat, but he’s safe, which is the most important thing. Horrible fears terrorized my brain for hours, thanks to stories from Scarlet and Orlando. Flashes of funerals and tear-soaked faces plagued me.
The woman Leo holds against him wears a skimpy dress that reveals every inch of her waif, model-like form; the fabric so tight there’s no room for imagination to play. She’s gorgeous, but she’s a hot mess. Mascara coats the skin below her eyes. Red lipstick stains the skin outside her lip line, although there’s little trace of it on her pale lips, and the whites of her eyes are bloodshot. She’s been through hell.
“The coffee’s hot. I put the kettle on when the elevator dinged. It should be ready in a minute if you’d prefer tea. I have biscuits, fresh bread. That should ease her stomach, absorb some alcohol.”
The woman draped against Leo lifts her head and her eyelashes flutter.
“Hello. I’m Willow. What can I get you? Are you thirsty? Hungry?” The stale smell of cigarette smoke, beer, and sweat wafts off the two of them.
“Is this the wifey?” the woman asks. “You really got married? And she’s what?” She pushes off his chest and wobbles on her stilettos. I hold out an arm, lest she come crashing forward, and Leo grips her elbow. “Are you even eighteen? Did you go and break the law, Leo?”
Her words are slow and slightly off. I haven’t spent a lot of time around partiers, but I’ve been to parties and seen those who imbibe. She seems like she’s still drunk or high. My experience is too limited to know which.
“I found your first aid kit. And the pain pills.” I glance back at the table where I have a mini-medical clinic prepared. “Do you want some water?”
She stumbles forward and pushes her index finger into my chest. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Ohhhh,” she drawls. “So legal.” She sways, and Leo swoops her up. Her head dangles over his arm.
“Is the bedroom ready?”
“Yes.” I push forward, speeding ahead of him to pull back the comforter.
He slows in the doorway, careful to enter so he doesn’t bang her head.
“Will you get Lina undressed?”
“Kinky,” she says with a grin.
“Her shoes, at least.” He pushes past me. “Lina, you need to go to sleep.”
“Should we be worried…” Leo pauses in the doorway to listen to me. He looks both exhausted and annoyed. “About vomit?”
“She hasn’t so far. She’ll be fine.”
He leaves us, and I fiddle with the strap on her heels, removing them. The edges of her toes are tinged with a black, oily stain, as are the tips of her shoes. The smell on my fingers after removing her shoes is nasty.
Her eyelids close and she curls onto her side. I tuck the comforter around her. The drapes are drawn already, as I don’t like the proximity to the windows in this room. I flip the light switch on the way out and pull the door closed.
Leo sits at a bar stool, a coffee mug in front of him. The kettle whistles, and I rush to remove it from the flame lest the shrill cry disturb Lina.
“I’ll bring her a glass of water. She’ll want it when she wakes.” I pause, scanning him for injury. “You’re not hurt?”
“No.” He shrugs out of his jacket, and my gaze falls to the gun holstered at his waist. I focus on pouring the glass of water. This shouldn’t surprise me. My father is a businessman. He’s not an enforcer. But I’ve heard the stories. And Leo is a part of the syndicate. He may call them an alliance, but they must be fierce if they have mafia and cartels under their domain.
In the bedroom, I find Lina passed out cold. I set the glass on the bedside table and softly retrace my steps to the kitchen.
“Can I fix you breakfast?”
Leo shakes his head and pushes the coffee away. He raps the counter with his knuckles. “Thanks for doing all this.”
“No problem. I didn’t know what to expect. I called Scarlet and asked. If you came back with severe injuries, she has a contact in London I could’ve called, but I figured you’d have your own doctor.”
“That’s what the bandages, scissors, and towels are for?”
“I followed Scarlet’s instructions. I didn’t know…you were gone for so long, and you took your gun.”
“You said you’re twenty-two. Did I miss your birthday?”
“It was over a week ago.” I move to the sink to wash my hands of the stench from Lina’s shoes.
“I was gone.” He’s speaking to himself, but I hear him.
“It’s fine. No worries.” This is an arrangement, after all.
“I stayed away to avoid temptation.” He snorts. “Lot of good that did me.”
I dry my hands and inhale deeply. That deep tone, he sounds like he’s full of regret, even though he said he has none. Does he regret helping me? Me being here? Sex?
“Come on,” he says, extending a hand. “Let’s get some shuteye.”
I take his offered hand, and we walk side by side through the living area. The sun peers above the skyscrapers and Big Ben, and there’s a haze of blue between the buildings.
He stops by the banister that overlooks the stairs and the foyer below. He releases my hand and pushes a button. There’s a low grinding of gears, a whirring mechanical sound, and the stairs fold, then the entire structure flattens against the wall, leaving us with an opening two stories below to the polished concrete floor.
“Can’t trust she won’t try to leave,” he mutters.
“She could still jump,” I say, peering over the railing in spite of the ensuing dizziness.
“She could,” he muses. “Would probably break an ankle. She won’t. Now I can sleep without worrying she’s escaped.” Pressure and warmth on my lower back snaps me out of the foggy haze and disbelief that the two flights of stairs folded into nothing, and I follow Leo back down the hall to his bedroom. “Did you move your things in here?”
“Even my toothbrush. She shouldn’t suspect anything.”
“Good.” He enters his closet and places his gun back in the drawer. “Get in bed. You’ve got to be wiped, too. You could’ve gone back to sleep, you know.”
“I didn’t know…I…You…I” I clench my hand into a fist to stop the stuttering.
“Willow, it’s okay. I went to rescue a friend’s wasted sister. It’s not warfare.”
I follow his instructions and get into bed, still wearing the leggings and oversized, long-sleeve t-shirt. We’ve been intimate, but I don’t want to get undressed, and he wants to sleep, anyway.
The mattress dips with his weight. He adjusts the comforter then tugs me across the bed until I’m nestled against his body.
“Growing up, did people come home injured often?” he asks.
“Not in my home. My father never…but I heard stories. When I got older.” All it took was asking questions and listening, and the people around me shared plenty.
There’s pressure against my crown, as if he just kissed me.
“I’m not like that. Enforcing rules isn’t what I do. I’m a broker, but I have to be armed. And we have to be smart. That’s why we have security.”
“And Lina?”
“My friend’s sister.” He strokes my arm. “I wondered if you’d ask me about her. She has no idea what this world is. No idea that you’re related to the Italian mafia or what her brother is a part of. Thanks to him, she’s never worked a day in her life. She’s a clubber. Does shit on social media. Nick says she’s an influencer. I don’t grasp how that works, but Nick feeds her bad habits.”
“You don’t sound like you approve.”
“Nick gets frustrated with her, but it’s his own damn fault.”
I shift, and my leg drapes over his.
“She and I…we’ve never.” His fingers comb through my hair. “In case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t.” His eyes narrow inquisitively. “She’s not what I envision as your type.”
“Hmm.” The shades are drawn, blocking the light. The sheets are cool, but his body is toasty. My eyelids grow heavier as the earlier adrenaline fades. “You would be correct. She’s not my type at all. Out of curiosity, what do you see as my type?”
I lick my lips and grin. My face is tucked flat against his chest, so he can’t see. “Me. I think I’m your type.”
“It seems you are correct.”
“A good thing for the arrangement, right?” I keep my tone purposefully light and playful. The last thing I want is to scare him away, or to earn a reprimanding reminder of our temporary status.
“You know, Willow, we don’t have to… Sex isn’t… I’d protect you no matter what. You know that, right? With or without sex.”
“I know. You’re a good man.”
He snorts. “You say that, and yet you thought I went out to kill.”
“You’re a good man to me.”
His chest rumbles and I expect him to argue, but whatever he’s thinking, he keeps it bottled inside.
My fingers trace his breastbone, settling over the rhythmic beating of his heart.
“If I’d known about your birthday, I would’ve ordered you a cake.”
“Twenty-two isn’t a big deal. Maybe to Taylor Swift, but not to most people.”
He chuckles. Then, with a low, pained groan, adds, “Jesus. Fucking twenty-two.”