Chapter 20
I pace the living room, a burner phone pressed against my ear. The ocean crashes against the cliffs outside, a rhythmic tempest that matches my mood.
"It's handled," Matteo says on the other end. "Car's being crushed as we speak. No prints, no DNA, nothing to trace."
"The bodies at the gas station?"
"Police have it as a robbery gone wrong. Security footage was wiped before we left. Far as anyone knows some junkies tried their luck and got shot by each other in the crossfire."
I run my thumb along my bottom lip, thinking. "And you're clean? No tail?"
"What do you take me for, a fucking amateur?" Matteo laughs. "I took three different routes, checked mirrors the whole way. We're good."
"Keep your phone close. I'll need you tomorrow."
After ending the call, I stand at the window, watching the darkness beyond the glass. The image of Melania firing that gun replays in my mind. The way her hands shook. The determination in her eyes.
She saved my life.
Antonio Lombardi's daughter put a bullet in a man to protect me.
I head to the guest bathroom, my body aching for hot water and soap to wash away the day's grime. Inside I strip off my clothes, wincing as the skin pulls around the bullet wound.
The shower starts with a blast of cold water that quickly turns scalding.
Perfect. I step under the spray, letting it pound my shoulders.
I brace my hands against the tile wall and Melania's face flashes behind my closed eyelids.
The way she looked at me before I kissed her.
The softness of her lips against mine. The gasp sound she made in the back of her throat when I pulled her closer.
Cazzo.
I grab the soap, working it over my skin more roughly than necessary. The memory of her firing that gun keeps interrupting my thoughts. The way her eyes stretched wide in shock. How her body trembled against mine as I carried her to the car.
She killed for me. For me.
Something shifts in my chest—a tightness I can't explain away. This woman has gotten under my skin in ways no one has since Violet. But Melania is nothing like Violet. Where Violet ran from the violence, Melania faced it head-on.
I turn my face into the spray. The realization hits with the force of a bullet—I don't want to give her back when this is over. Not to her brother. Not to anyone.
Mine. The thought rises unbidden, primal and possessive.
I get out of the shower and scrub dry my body. The clothes Damiano keeps at this safehouse fit well enough—dark jeans and a black Henley that's snug across my shoulders. Better than the blood-stained alternatives.
The house is quiet. Too quiet. I move out to the living area and pause, listening for the sound of the shower upstairs but hear nothing.
"Melania?" I call out, my voice echoing against the glass wall.
No answer. My hand instinctively moves toward my holster before I remember I left my gun on the kitchen counter.
I move quickly through the house, checking rooms until I confirm she's still in the bathroom upstairs.
The sound of water running reaches me now.
Relief floods my system, followed immediately by irritation at my own reaction.
Since when do I panic over a woman taking a shower?
I head to the kitchen, pulling open the refrigerator door. Damiano keeps this place well-stocked for emergencies—the shelves are filled with prepared meals in sealed containers. Pasta. Some kind of chicken. Lasagna. All need just a few minutes in the microwave.
My stomach growls, reminding me we haven't eaten since those cans at the warehouse. I pull out the lasagna and chicken, setting them on the counter. Food first, then we'll figure out our next move.
I grab a tumbler from the cabinet and the bottle of Macallan 18 that Damiano keeps for himself. Pouring two fingers, I take a sip, letting the burn coat my throat. The familiar warmth spreads through my chest, easing some of the tension from my shoulders.
The events at the gas station replay in my mind. The sound of Melania's scream. The gunshot. The way she looked at her own hands afterward like they belonged to someone else.
I take another sip, longer this time.
I roll the glass between my palms, staring at the amber liquid as it flickers in the light. The silence of the house wraps around me while I wait, listening for her footsteps, for any sign she's finished washing away what happened today.
My thumb traces my bottom lip as I think about what comes next. About how everything has changed between us in ways I never anticipated.
I pour another finger of scotch and wait.
The clink of glass against stone is the only sound until I hear soft footsteps on the stairs. I look up and my entire body goes rigid.
Melania descends wearing silk pajamas that cling to every curve of her body. The pale blue fabric hugs her breasts, her waist, her hips. The pants end above her ankles, too short, and the top stretches across her chest, revealing a sliver of skin when she moves.
My eyes trace the path from her collarbones to the curve of her hip. She's carved from my deepest fantasies—all soft curves and dangerous edges. Perfection.
She catches me staring and tugs at the hem of the top. "These aren't exactly my size."
I clear my throat, but my voice still comes out rough. "They're perfect."
Her eyes open round as saucers as she looks at me then down.
"You could wear a fucking sack and it would look like a Gucci piece." The words escape my mouth before I can filter them, raw honesty breaking through my carefully maintained control.
A flush seeps up her neck as she holds my gaze. Something electric passes between us, dangerous and inevitable. I force myself to look away first, gesturing at the food containers.
"We should eat." I clear my throat again. "I found lasagna and chicken. Just needs heating."
Melania fingers start unconsciously twisting her mother's ring. "I'm not sure I can."
The vulnerability in her voice cuts through my desire. I remember her trembling hands at the gas station, the horror in her eyes after she pulled the trigger.
"That wasn't a suggestion," I say, my tone softening despite my words. "It's a command from your captor."
She attempts a laugh. The sound is hollow, nothing like the genuine one I heard when we cooked carbonara together.
I move toward the microwave, giving her space while keeping her in my peripheral vision. "You need to eat. Your body needs fuel after a shock."
Her fingers continue twisting the ring, more agitated now. "Is that what this is? Shock?"
"Among other things." I punch buttons on the microwave, the beeps filling the silence between us.
I managed two bites of food before my stomach turned against me. The image of that man's face as my bullet hit him flashes behind my eyes every time I try to swallow.
Alessio watches me from across the counter, his dark eyes tracking every movement. He's finished his meal with gusto, like fueling a machine. Meanwhile I push pasta around my plate, creating patterns in the sauce.
"You need to eat more than that," he says.
I shake my head. "I can't."
My hands tremble slightly as I set down the fork. The metal clinks on the ceramic plate, the sound unnaturally loud in the cavernous kitchen. My whole body feels wrong—like I'm piloting it from somewhere far away.
"I need to lie down," I murmur, my voice catching.
I don't recognize myself—this fragile, broken thing asking for permission to rest. The strong, defiant woman who faced down her father and stole from Raymond seems like someone else entirely.
"Of course." Alessio nods, standing to clear the plates. His movements are sober, like he's afraid sudden motion might shatter me completely.
I remain frozen in my seat, twisting my mother's ring around my finger. The smooth metal grounds me, a connection to something real when everything else feels like a nightmare.
I open my mouth, close it, then try again. "Can you—" The words stick in my throat.
Alessio pauses, plate in hand, waiting.
"Can you come with me?" I finally manage. "I can't be alone right now. I just—" I can't explain the hollowness inside me, the way the shadows in the corners of the room seem to pulse with threat.
He doesn't demand explanations or reasons. Simply sets the plate down and rounds the counter. His large hand envelops mine, warm and solid. "Let's go."
He helps me stand and I let him lead me to the stairs. My legs feel unsteady beneath me, like I might collapse without his support. His thumb brushes my knuckles in small, soothing circles as we climb the steps.
The bedroom is cast in the soft glow of a bedside lamp when we enter, shadows stretching across the walls like reaching fingers. Alessio guides me to the king-size bed that dominates the room, his hand still clasping mine as if I might float away without his anchor.
I sink onto the mattress, the linen sheets cool beneath my fingers. My body feels impossibly deadweight, yet hollow at the same time.
Alessio steps back, his expression unreadable as he moves to a chair in the corner. The scrape of wood as he lowers his bulk makes me flinch.
"You don't have to sit over there," I whisper. "This bed is enormous. Big enough for an entire family probably."
He freezes, his hand gripping the armrest. His jaw flexes rapidly and I watch his thumb lift to trace along his bottom lip—that unconscious gesture I've noticed whenever he's thinking.
"I don't think that's a good idea, piccola ."
"Please," I say, hating the desperation in my voice but unable to stop it. "I just... I can't be alone with my thoughts right now."
Our eyes lock across the room. Something shifts in his expression—a softening around the edges of his mouth, a slight furrow between his brows.
"Are you sure?" he asks, his accent thickening as it always does when his guard slips.
I nod, pulling back the covers and sliding beneath them."I'm sure."