Chapter 11
Evelyn
Stai bene? Massimo’s rumbled words play through my mind, not quite comprehensible.
I’m good with languages, but I’ve never studied Italian. I wish I’d asked him what he meant, but I’d just stared dumbly as he slipped into the sitting room of the safe house suite.
My hands shake, so I clench them into fists to hide the trauma response.
No one is around to witness my distress, but hiding the sign of unease is an ingrained response.
I have a lifetime of practice at pretending I’m okay, a skill I’ve perfected during my six-year relationship with George. I don’t like to upset him.
George…
Two new, masculine voices join Massimo’s in the next room, speaking in rapid-fire Italian that I can’t even begin to follow. Whatever they’re saying, it’s clear from their sharp tones that the atmosphere is tense.
My mind churns, struggling to process everything.
Massimo and his friends are Italian, not American or Mexican. Are they working with Interpol? I know European agents sometimes collaborate with the DEA on international operations.
Massimo must work with George. It’s the only scenario that explains his presence in the bar earlier this evening and at the clandestine meeting I’d overheard between George and the cartel members.
I want my money.
If I’d tried to save her, they would’ve killed me too.
My chest aches, as though it’s on the verge of cracking open to release all of my inner turmoil on an anguished scream.
I suck in a desperate breath to stave off my panic, and the scent of leather and amber suffuse my senses. I’m wearing the beautiful stranger’s shirt. The smell enfolds me, blotting out the scent of drying blood that makes my camisole stick to my skin.
Massimo’s blood.
He threw himself in front of a bullet to save me.
And George…
He ran.
I hear the door to the suite open, and an unfamiliar man speaks in Spanish, a language I understand. “You were shot? Let me see.”
It’s the doctor, here to treat Massimo’s wound.
I step toward the threshold to the sitting room, peering around the doorjamb to further assess my situation.
Some instinct for self-preservation warns me not to boldly step into the room and join the men.
The Italians had spoken in sharp, angry tones, so I choose to linger in the privacy of the bedroom and take in whatever information I can.
The suite is surprisingly fancy for a safe house, with ornate crown molding and bold crimson walls. Antique furniture with carved mahogany accents gives the space a sumptuous feel, and the highly polished, dark wood floor is cushioned by a large rug with an intricate red, navy, and cream design.
But the men in the room command my full attention.
I get my first look at the two Italians who’d arrived first to interrogate Massimo.
They’re almost identical—clearly related.
Both men are model-handsome and almost as imposing as my dark savior, even though Massimo is a few inches taller.
He faces away from me, but I can clearly see the other two men in profile as they fix him with twin glowers.
The only discernible difference between them is their choice of hairstyle—one military short and the other in loose black waves that frame his granite face.
The clean-cut man barks something else in Italian, and Massimo rolls his shoulders as though shaking off irritation. Then, he grasps the hem of his shirt to reveal the gory wound at his side.
He’s even more powerful than I’d realized, muscles rippling as he moves with shocking grace despite the pain he must be enduring. Blood coats his right side, and a darker gash scores his ribs.
I clap a hand over my mouth to smother my gasp.
The doctor goes to work, inspecting and cleaning the damaged flesh. I swallow down my nausea at the sight and focus on the Italians, who have resumed speaking to each other in their native language.
Amidst the indecipherable words, I catch on to one that they repeat several times: Crawford.
They do know George, then.
Then Massimo speaks to the doctor in Spanish, and my whole world crumbles.
“It’s not serious. Barely a graze.”
My stomach drops. I recognize that oddly accented voice.
Is she innocent?
Massimo was in that basement with me on the night of my kidnapping. He was the one who saved me from the cartel.
He killed my kidnappers.
He murdered them to save me.
That man wasn’t in law enforcement. He’d been familiar with the cartel members.
And Interpol agents don’t murder criminals; they arrest them.
Massimo is associated with Duarte’s men somehow.
Now you’ll have to taste broken glass too. I will make you lick it up like the dog you are.
His macabre threat to the man who tried to roofie me plays through my mind. In that moment, I’d known he was dangerous, but I hadn’t truly considered his capacity for such brutal violence.
And the way he’d handled himself when he’d jumped in front of the barrel of that gun to save me…
Someone had screamed in that alley, and Massimo had been the only man to emerge.
The bedroom spins around me, and I stumble back, desperate to put distance between myself and the lethal man in the next room. The world tilts, and my knees hit the plush carpet.
My heart slams against my ribcage with bruising force, and my lungs burn.
I can’t breathe.
A tinny ringing pierces my eardrums, smothering the heaving sound of my failed breaths. They stick in my tight throat, the air never reaching my oxygen-starved lungs.
“Evelyn.” I recognize that accented voice, even though it’s the first time he’s ever said my name.
How does he know my name?
Big hands reach for me—the same hands that scooped me up and carried me away from danger.
The hands that murdered my kidnappers.
I try to scramble away, and his dark brows draw into dangerous slashes over his stunning wolf’s eyes.
“Please…” My mouth forms the desperate plea for mercy, but no sound comes out.
Massimo’s corded arms enfold me, caging me in a careful but firm hold. One of his hands lifts to the center of my chest, applying pressure over my racing heart.
“Breathe.” His deep voice rolls through my body, compelling my obedience.
My chest loosens, and I manage to heave in a deep breath.
“That’s it,” he praises. “Another. Keep breathing.”
My chest convulses, but I manage to take in the oxygen I so desperately need. I force down another.
One hand remains firmly on my chest, applying that grounding pressure against my heart as its erratic beats slow to a more regular rhythm. His other hand brushes over my scalp, sure fingers trailing through my hair in a soothing motion.
“You’re doing so well, farfallina,” he says, warm and coaxing. “You’re safe.”
I tense again, and he shushes me, cradling my face so that my cheek presses against his bare chest. I inhale the scent of leather and amber, and something deeper that’s purely masculine and unique to Massimo.
Every time my lungs expand, I breathe him in.
With his warm, sure hands soothing me, the scent becomes heady, and the world turns slightly surreal.
The room is no longer spinning, but it’s fuzzy at the edges; my full focus is on him.
Two fingers curl beneath my chin, lifting my face to his. Those shining silver eyes stun me, and my brain blanks for a few merciful seconds.
My next breath comes easier.
“No one is going to hurt you,” he says with the weight of an oath. “I’ve got you.”
Exhaustion rolls over me, making my entire body feel oddly heavy. I recognize that I have no chance of fighting my way free of his strong but careful hold, so I go still in his arms.
“You don’t work with George.” It’s meant to be an accusation, but it comes out breathlessly after the adrenaline dump.
He frowns, but he maintains his gentle grip on my body. “No, I don’t.”
“This isn’t a safe house.”
“It’s not.” The admission is clipped, as though he’s reluctant to say it. “But you are safe here.”
“Who are you?” I ask more clearly.
My terror is fading, kept at bay by his steady hand over my heart. Despite the fact that I should be scared of him, I can’t deny that his touch is subversively comforting. Some instinctive part of me accepts that he’s protected me three times now.
“No one you should fear.” His thumb caresses my chilled cheek.
I barely resist the urge to find comfort in that tender touch. Massimo is a dangerous man. I shouldn’t be soothed by the hands that’ve killed at least two men.
“You were there,” I whisper. “In that basement. You’re the one who…” I trail off, unable to put my roiling emotions into words. He killed for me, but he also saved my life.
“Yes,” he replies, firm and unrepentant. “I will always protect you, Evelyn.”
I have to acknowledge that his actions back up that promise.
He protected me from the man who tried to roofie me in the bar.
He jumped in front of a bullet for me tonight.
But he’s associated with the cartel somehow.
Maybe he’s a good man. Maybe…
“Are you working undercover?” I’m grasping at straws. “Is George?”
I already know the truth in my heart, but I have to ask. A tiny spark of hope still flickers in my chest.
His beautiful features twist into a scowl.
“Your fiancé,” he spits the word like it’s poison on his tongue, “isn’t working undercover. He’s corrupt. He’s a dirty agent. The coward ran. He abandoned you. I saved you.”
“You don’t even know me,” I protest, thoughts tangling as my heart is crushed beneath the weight of the awful truth.
I don’t understand why Massimo is so committed to ensuring my safety if he doesn’t work with Interpol. If he isn’t one of the good guys, why does he care?
“I know you’re innocent. I know you’re a good woman. That’s reason enough.”
But how does he know that?
Is she innocent? he’d asked in that basement, during my nightmarish ordeal with the cartel.
He was in the market last weekend, watching me.
He was in the bar at precisely the right time to scare away that creep.
And he was in the alley tonight, as though he’d been waiting to rescue me.
My blood runs cold. “You’ve been stalking me.”
His jaw ticks with something like irritation, and his arms tense around me ever so slightly.
“I’ve been stalking Crawford. He’s working with Los Zetas.
I’m just doing a favor for a friend.” He shakes his head, glossy black curls swaying around his sculpted face.
“At least, that’s how it started. I won’t lie to you.
I’ve been after Crawford, but you’re the one I care about.
You’re in danger because of him—because of his negligence and selfishness. He’s not worthy of you.”
My stomach churns at the implication.
“And you are?” I shoot back, fear finally surging to the fore along with my defiance. “You’re a criminal. You work for the cartel, don’t you? Let me go!”
I wriggle in his arms, but he doesn’t budge an inch. He simply holds me, fixing me with a shining glower, until I stop struggling.
I cross my arms over my chest and tip my chin back, making my outrage apparent even though I can’t physically fight him off.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he says.
It’s a decree, a vow.
My stomach drops.
“I don’t work for the cartel,” he continues. “But Stefano Duarte is my friend. Your fiancé,” his lip curls in disgust, “is working for his rivals. I’m doing Duarte a favor.”
George’s awful conversation in the alley plays through my mind in a sickening loop.
“All he cares about is power and money,” Massimo growls. “I know men like him. He would sacrifice anything for it, even you. I won’t allow that to happen.”
My insides quake at his formidable frown, but I manage to hold my ground, my defiant stare clashing with his. No matter what’s happening with George, the man holding me so gently just admitted that he’s friends with a drug lord.
“Let me go.”
“No.” It’s a low, firm refusal. There’s no room for negotiation in that hard tone. “It’s not safe for you out there.”
“I’m not safe in here!” My voice is a bit too high pitched. I take a quick breath to quell my mounting panic and hurry on. “You’re a criminal. I don’t know where you’ve brought me, but it’s not a safe house. I want to leave. Now.”
He’s completely unmoved by my outburst.
“Stefano Duarte owns this building. It would take a small army to penetrate his defenses. No one will get to you here.”
My heart sinks. Massimo saved me, but he’s also kidnapped me.
I didn’t understand what was happening when I let him put me on that motorcycle. He managed to capture me with little effort.
All it took was risking his life to save yours, an unwelcome voice whispers in the back of my mind.
I ignore it. The cold, hard facts are that Massimo has been stalking me, and now he’s trapped me in a drug lord’s fortress.
Looking up into his silver eyes, I see a flash of possessiveness, a dark hunger as he studies my face.
Massimo wants me, and he has no intention of letting me go.