Chapter 11 #2
She sits back, her gaze over all the documents. “My father’s condition has made this easier for them, hasn’t it?”
I shrug. “I imagine they thought so. Probably didn’t count on me stepping in, and when I did, they decided they’d make it look like I was making a power play. Who’d ever believe I’d turn on Antonio, though?”
She gives me a look. “Don’t act so self-righteous. You must worry Don Vitale or Ferraza might or you’d have told them about your deal with my father.”
She’s not wrong.
“If someone is on the inside,” I say, moving the conversation back to the important elements, “We need to be careful.”
“We can’t trust anyone, can we?”
The most insidious part of betrayal is how it poisons everything, making you doubt even those closest to you.
People you've broken bread with, bled for, protected for decades.
“You can trust me and Roman, but that’s it.” I study her, wondering if she’s going to balk at trusting me.
“Do you trust that it’s not me?”
“Yes.” It’s surprising at how quickly I say that.
How sure I am of it, even though she’d be a perfect spy for Blackwood. Isn’t that why she’s here?
“I trust that your love and desire to protect your father are what’s driving you. Do I trust that you won’t throw me under the bus? No. You already have—”
“You can’t blame me.”
“I can. You should know better.” I shoot up from my chair, going to get yet another drink because I hate how much I want to tell her how her mistrust of me guts me.
“I clearly have some faith in you. I’m here, aren’t I?”
“You’re not here because you trust me. You’re here because you fucked up and need a babysitter.”
She glares at me. “I’m showing you everything I’ve collected, even from Agent Blackwood. I’m not doing that because I need a babysitter.”
I have to admit she’s right.
Still, she’s not showing me her hand because she trusts me.
She’s showing it because she wants to get to the bottom of who’s targeting her father.
It’s the reason I shared what little I did.
“We’re on the same side when it comes to protecting Antonio. We can both trust that.”
A small, enigmatic smile plays at her lips.
"I'm keeping my options open where it comes to you." She taps the folders. "And my evidence close."
I get my drink, downing it.
The woman is going to turn me into a lush.
Gabriella stretches, her sweater riding up to reveal a sliver of skin.
I look away when my thoughts turn to wanting to run my tongue over her smooth skin.
“It’s getting late,” I say.
She checks her watch. “Time flies when you’re having fun.” She begins to gather the papers into a pile.
I realize that we've been at this for hours.
I should be exhausted, irritated by Gabriella's presence.
And to a certain extent, I am.
At the same time, I feel like a corner has been turned.
Her animosity toward me is dialed down to the point that sometimes, I don't feel it at all.
“You know, we could feed Blackwood false information,” she says once her papers are all stacked.
“By we you mean you, right? That’s a hard no. The point of this arrangement is to protect you from La Corona. Talking to the Feds makes that impossible.”
“Not if I’m doing it for La Corona.”
It could work, but there’s no way I’m going to let Gabriella be a double agent.
It’s too fucking dangerous.
I think of what happened to Isabella.
She was nearly killed.
Had she died, I’m sure I’d have lost Roman.
It’s another reason to avoid love.
It’s too late for him, but me, I’ll avoid love like the plague.
“For now, let’s focus on keeping your father safe and ferreting out our rat, okay?”
She shrugs. “You’re the boss.”
I snort. “Right. You’ve never listened to anyone.”
She bites her lip. “I listen when it makes sense. But not to old, misogynistic men from the Middle Ages.”
“Old? You called me old and dusty the other day. You didn’t think I was so old when—” I stop myself in horror.
Was I really going to bring up how much she loved fucking me?
She arches a brow. “Then, old meant experienced. Now…” She gives me a once-over and my dick rises to full attention.
Fucking traitor.
She shrugs and turns away as if she too realizes she’s about to go into territory we should avoid at all costs. “I’m wiser.”
“You are that.”
Her eyes flick up, surprise evident. "Did the great Marco Calabresi just give me a compliment?"
"Don't get used to it." I think I just winked. Good God!
She gives me a smirk as if she knows I just freaked myself out. “I’m heading up.” She goes to the door but then stops. "Oh, before I forget, the Winter Village outing is coming up. You're going, right?"
I groan. “I always go.”
She tilts her head, studying me. "You really hate Christmas, don't you?"
"What's to like? Forced cheer, meaningless traditions, everyone pretending to be happy." I shrug, uncomfortable with her scrutiny. "It's all bullshit."
“It’s not bullshit.” Her gaze doesn’t leave my face, and I feel exposed, like she’s seeing the most hidden parts of my psyche.
"Don't." The word comes harsh, nearly a growl. "Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like I'm some wounded animal that needs saving from my Grinch-like existence. I don't need your pity." I start to pour another drink until I realize it will be my third… or is it forth?
"It's not pity. It's just… sad. Christmas is magical."
I snort. "Christmas is a commercial enterprise designed to empty wallets and fill landfills."
Gabriella's eyes light up, dreamy and wistful, and I immediately regret giving her an opening.
"The lights twinkling, the smell of pine and baked goods, the carols, the way families come together."
"Sounds like a Hallmark movie nightmare."
She sighs dramatically. "I love it. Especially being with family."
I shake my head. "In case you haven't noticed, I don't have family to gather with or children to watch open presents."
"That's your fault," she says, rolling her eyes with an audacity that would get anyone else thrown out of my office. "And of course you have family. You have Roman and La Corona."
"La Corona is business, not family."
"Really?" She raises an eyebrow. "Then why are you working so hard to protect my father? Why did he mentor you when you became Don?"
I don't have a good answer for that.
"Face it, Marco. You've built walls so high, you can't even see the family standing on the other side." She opens my office door. "Maybe instead of hating Christmas, you could try actually experiencing it for once."
"I experienced plenty of Christmases as a child," I mutter. "They weren't worth repeating."
"Then make new memories. Better ones." She says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Surely, you have at least one good Christmas memory.”
I do have one good one, but it’s one I’ve spent the last year trying to forget.
Last Christmas. The library. Gabriella.
For those stolen hours, Christmas wasn't about disappointment or abandonment.
It was warm skin, breathless laughter, and the way she said my name when I made her come.
Now she stands before me again, unaware she's become another reason I hate Christmas.
Because this year, I know exactly what I'm missing.
I guide Gabriella through the east wing of my house to her room.
"Is your room satisfactory?” I ask, stopping at the door farthest from mine.
A deliberate choice.
“It’s fine. I don't think I've been in this one before." She lifts her brows suggestively, and immediately, I’m filled with memories of all the locations I touched her in my home.
The library wall, my office desk, the leather couch in the living room, the kitchen table, the shower, even once on my workout bench.
But she’s right, we never made it to this room.
"No," I manage, my voice rougher than intended. "You haven't."
She reaches for the handle, but I beat her to it, my hand brushing against hers.
The contact sends electricity up my arm, and I freeze as our fingers touch, eyes lock.
I should step back. Open the door. Say goodnight. Walk away.
Instead, I find myself moving closer, drawn by some magnetic pull I’m helpless to resist.
Her breath catches as I reach up, brushing a strand of hair from her face, letting my fingers linger against her cheek.
Time slows. The hallway narrows until there's nothing but her.
A flush spreads across her skin.
Her lips part slightly.
Her eyes fill with challenge, daring me to admit I still want her.
And God help me, I do.
My thumb traces her lower lip, and she leans into my touch, eyes fluttering closed.
One step closer and I could taste her again, feel her body pressed against mine, lose myself in her warmth.
My heart thumps hard. My chest fills with sensations that terrify me.
It jolts me back to reality.
This is exactly what I can't afford.
Not when I can’t give her the promises she deserves.
I drop my hand and step back, the spell broken.
"Goodnight, Gabriella.”
Disappointment flashes across her face before she masks it with indifference. "Goodnight, Don Calabresi."
I wait until she's inside, the door firmly closed between us, before releasing the breath I've been holding.
Then I turn and walk away.
I should have done that a year ago in the library.
But even as I think that, I’m glad I didn’t.
Yes, it torments me.
But at least for one moment, I felt something I’d never felt before or since.
Love.