Chapter 10
Massimo
Istop the bike in front of the high rise building that Duarte owns in the heart of Mexico City. His enemies won’t be able to touch Evelyn once I get her inside.
Rage tightens my jaw, but otherwise, my body is on autopilot; this isn’t the first time I’ve faced down an armed opponent and won.
Under other circumstances, I’d be completely relaxed in the aftermath of the swift, brutal violence. But that motherfucker tried to kill Evelyn. He would’ve shot her in cold blood, and her piece of shit fiancé didn’t lift a finger to save her.
More proof that he isn’t worthy of her.
Her slender fingers are knotted in my shirt, her arms locked tight around my torso.
I place my hands over hers and urge her to let go with a firm squeeze.
Her chest heaves against my back, her breath stuttering.
She must be confused and scared right now.
I’ll protect the fragile little butterfly from further harm.
“Let go, farfallina.” I tug her grasping fingers free from my shirt. She doesn’t fight me. “Good girl.”
I remove the helmet from her blonde head, and her platinum hair shines under the streetlights: a beacon, a target.
I scoop her up in my arms and rush her inside. I barely relax as the bulletproof glass doors close behind us. Two armed guards greet me with familiar nods, not commenting on my precious cargo, despite their curious looks. I tug her closer to my chest, shooting them both a warning glower.
No one will touch her but me.
“Where are we?” she asks in a shaky whisper as I press the button to call the elevator.
“Somewhere safe.”
Her brow furrows. “Like a safe house?”
My muscles tense for a moment, so I force my arms to relax around her. I don’t want to intimidate her with my strength.
She must think I’m associated with law enforcement. I suppose that makes some sort of sense, given my presence at the bar and in the alley outside her apartment just now. She’s probably trying to rationalize my behavior in her fear-addled mind.
All that matters is that she sees me as her protector. As long as she doesn’t try to run away from me, I can keep her safe without scaring her. I’ll prevent her from leaving this building if I have to, but I don’t want to add to her terrible ordeal tonight.
“You’re safe with me,” I reply smoothly: the absolute truth.
The elevator ascends to the fifth floor, where my suite is located. Duarte is an excellent host, and he’s made sure to provide my friends and me with lavish accommodations while we work out the finer details of our business arrangement. Evelyn will be safe and comfortable here.
My friends. Shit.
I have no idea how Gian and Enzo will react to her presence. I haven’t told the brothers about my obsession with George Crawford’s fiancée. They probably won’t like it.
Luckily, they aren’t in the suite when I step inside with Evelyn cradled in my arms.
They’ll return eventually and discover us together, but I can’t worry about that now. She’s all that matters.
I don’t want to release her yet, but she shifts against me. She seems uncomfortable that I’m still holding her despite the fact that we’re safe from imminent danger.
Reluctantly, I set her down on her feet, but I can’t bring myself to break contact.
My hands skim her upper arms, steadying her as she finds her balance on shaky legs.
Her creamy skin is so soft against my rough callouses.
It pebbles beneath my touch, and I’m not sure if that’s a lingering fear response, or if she’s as viscerally affected by our physical connection as I am.
Her light green eyes are wide on mine. When we were at the bar earlier, she must’ve darkened her blond lashes with mascara, but I find her lovely like this: pure and perfect. She glows like some ethereal creature, a tempting angel I want to ravage.
I trail my palms down the length of her slender arms, loving the feel of her delicate body. My fingers brush over wet fabric at her side, and fear punches through me.
A red stain mars the oversized white t-shirt that swallows her fragile frame.
Evelyn is injured. The sight of blood soaking her side freezes the breath in my lungs.
I fist the cotton material in both hands and rip it open, desperate to check the damage and do what I can to stop the bleeding.
She gasps and tries to step away from me. “What are you doing?”
I palm the smaller crimson patch on her pink camisole that she’s wearing under the t-shirt. She doesn’t cry out in pain when I apply pressure to the wound.
In fact, there is no wound.
My own side is burning, a familiar discomfort. This isn’t the first time I’ve been grazed by a bullet.
She’s covered in my blood. It must’ve soaked her shirt while she clung to me on the bike.
I grunt a curse and press a hand to my ribs, hissing out a pained breath at the contact.
“Oh my god!” she exclaims, her cheeks going white as she stares at the blood on my hand.
“You’re hurt!” She’s clearly upset by the sight of my insignificant wound.
“I’m fine.” I try to reassure her, but her delicate features are pinched with something close to panic.
“We have to get you to a hospital.”
She grabs my other hand and tries to tug me toward the door. I stand firm, not so much as swaying in her white-knuckled grip.
“You’re staying right here,” I admonish. “It’s not safe for you out there.”
She rounds on me, her lush lips pinched with determination. “Then I’ll stay at the safe house without you. You need to see a doctor right now.”
Her chin lifts, and she seems to grow a few inches taller as she tries to stare me down.
Despite the pain in my side, my lips curve. She’s cute when she’s being fierce, especially on my behalf.
No one ever cares when I’m hurt, especially not when the injury is so minor. My friends would worry if I were bleeding out, but for this little graze, they’d tell me to sort myself out without complaint. They’d do the same for themselves.
We all learned how to patch ourselves up during the violent, thrilling years of our youth in Le Vele di Scampia, one of the poorest neighborhoods in Naples.
“I don’t need a doctor. I can handle this myself,” I tell her, my voice sure and even.
She’s being brave, but I can tell she’s spooked from seeing the blood on me; she’s not accustomed to the aftermath of violence like I am.
I don’t bother correcting her about the fact that we’re not at a safe house. I’ll figure out how to deal with that particular misconception soon. For now, I need to stop the bleeding that’s upsetting her so much.
Her eyes narrow, fierce and defiant. “If you won’t go to the hospital, at least call for a medic to come help you.”
I take a moment to consider her. Despite her firm demeanor, she’s still shaken. Her cheeks are too pale, and her pupils are dilated with fear.
Fear for me?
My chest warms at the prospect.
“All right, dolcezza,” I capitulate.
She won’t be soothed until I’m cleaned up, so I’ll do what’s necessary to calm her.
Duarte has a private physician, and I’m sure our host won’t begrudge me seeking treatment. He might have questions about how I’ve been injured, but that’s a worry for later. All that matters now is erasing the strain from Evelyn’s pinched features.
I retrieve my phone from my pocket and tap out a quick text to Gian, explaining what I need. His reply comes within seconds.
On our way.
My gut tightens. Shit.
Of course, my friends think I’m gravely injured since I’ve asked them to call a doctor.
Now, I’ll have to deal with the brothers’ questions, and I’ll also have to navigate this situation with Evelyn.
They won’t be happy that I brought her here, and they’ll be even more displeased that I failed to kill Crawford.
I’ve made a fucking mess tonight, and I have no idea how to clean it up.
All I know is that Evelyn isn’t going anywhere. I won’t let her out of my sight until Crawford is dead, the threat to her eliminated.
I take another moment to study her. The ruined t-shirt that swallows her delicate frame must belong to Crawford, smothering her in his scent. It irritates me even more than the sight of blood on her pure body.
My stomach sours with undeniable jealousy. I barely recognize the emotion, and it makes me edgy.
I grasp her dainty hand in mine and lead her toward the bedroom where I’ve been staying for the last few weeks. Her footsteps falter on the carpet, but I don’t slow to give her time to question me.
When we enter the massive bedroom, she sucks in a soft gasp and tries to dig in her heels. She trips over those damned loose shoelaces.
I grasp her waist, steadying her before she falls again, like she had on the concrete outside her apartment.
“Are you hurt?” I ask. “You fell.”
I take her hands in mine and gently lift them so that I can study her palms. They’re smudged with dirt where she hit the grubby sidewalk, but the scrapes aren’t deep enough to have drawn blood.
“I’m fine,” she replies in little more than a whisper.
Her lovely eyes begin to shine, and her throat works as her emotions surge. A single tear rolls down her cheek, and I brush it away.
“You’re safe now,” I promise. “I’ve got you.”
“I don’t understand…” Her chest heaves, but she forces in a deep breath. “What’s happening? I don’t even know your name.”
“I’m Massimo.” Suddenly, I crave to hear the sound of my name in her breathy whisper. “I’m not going to let anyone hurt you ever again.”
She swallows hard and blinks away more tears, summoning up the quiet strength I’ve glimpsed before. I want to tell her that she doesn’t have to be strong around me; she can cry, and I’m more than happy to hold her.
But she’s still wearing Crawford’s shirt, and I won’t be able to shake the last of my rage until she takes it off. My fingers itch with the urge to finish ripping it off her, but that’ll scare her even more.
I step away from her and quickly stride to the chest of drawers where I’ve stashed my own clothes. I grab a soft black t-shirt—a clean version of the blood-soaked shirt that covers my injured torso.
Now that the adrenaline is fading, the burning in my side is becoming more insistent, and I’m aware of how the wet cotton sticks to my skin. The graze probably isn’t deep enough to need stitches, but I’m still bleeding sluggishly.
I drape my clean shirt over her shaking hands, which are still palms-up where I’d lifted them to inspect her for damage. She’s frozen, posed like a doll, and her eyes are going glassy with shock.
I cup her chilled cheeks in both hands, trying to imbue her with my warmth.
“Look at me,” I command, a firm order.
She blinks, and her lovely eyes focus on mine once again.
“Good girl.”
Some of the tension eases from her slight body.
I stroke the lines of her cheekbones, leaving a crimson smear over her creamy complexion.
Shit.
My hand is still wet with my blood, and I’ve marred her with the sign of violence.
I quickly brush it away with my other thumb, but a pink flush marks the spot where my blood taints her perfection.
I force myself to pull away before I imprint her with more signs of violence.
“Change out of that bloody shirt,” I order, my voice holding a harsher rumble than I’d intended.
I need her out of Crawford’s shirt, all signs of his claim over her destroyed.
“Now,” I prompt, crossing my arms over my chest to prevent myself from tearing it off her.
Her hands tremble slightly as she tugs his ruined shirt from her body, revealing modest curves that are barely concealed by the fitted pink camisole. Somehow, I force my gaze to remain steady on hers rather than studying her feminine form; now isn’t the time to devour her with my hungry gaze.
She drops the bloody shirt to the floor, and I kick it farther away. I’ll burn the damn thing later if I get the chance.
To prevent myself from helping her, I keep my arms tucked tight to my chest while she pulls my shirt on over her blonde head. She’s shaking, but I’m worried that I’ll spook her if I invade her personal space. I never want Evelyn to fear me.
I enjoy seeing myself as her protector far too much.
“Massimo!” Gian’s voice booms from the sitting room as my friends burst into the suite.
I mutter a curse in Italian, and Evelyn blinks up at me, confused by the change in language. I’ve been speaking to her in English this whole time. Hopefully, she doesn’t understand Italian, so I’ll be able to talk to my friends without her understanding the conversation.
“Stai bene?” I ask if she’s okay in Italian, testing her.
Her brow furrows. “What?”
“Stay in here,” I reply in English. “I’m going to see the doctor now. I’ll just be in the next room.” I gently squeeze her hand in reassurance. “No one will touch you here. You’re with me now.”
She swallows and offers me a small, reluctant nod.
I don’t know how long it will take her to figure out that I’m not law enforcement, and this isn’t a safe house. But for now, my burning side is becoming a distraction, and I need to soothe my friends’ worries for my health.
My fingers linger against hers as I slowly pull away. She releases a shuddering sigh when I break contact, and she sways toward me slightly.
Is it possible that she doesn’t want me to leave her?
“I’ll be right back,” I promise.
I gather all my considerable willpower and stride out of the room. I straighten my shoulders, bracing myself to face Gian and Enzo’s questions. My friends won’t be impressed by how I handled the situation with Crawford, and they’ll wonder why I need a doctor for such a minor wound.
I’ll have to figure out how to tell them that I’ve taken Evelyn, and I don’t plan to let her go.