Chapter 8
Mina
The pain is blinding.
I’m clutching my ankle with both hands, tears streaming down my face, trying to breathe through the waves of agony radiating up my leg.
The broken sidewalk is hard and sharp beneath me.
My bag is somewhere, contents scattered, but I can’t even think about that right now because my ankle is on fire, and I can’t stand up. I don’t know what to do.
I try to push myself up and gasp as fresh pain lances through me. No, that’s not happening. I collapse back down, my vision swimming, and the tears come faster.
This is humiliating. I’m sitting in a gutter like a child, crying in public, completely helpless. People are walking past on the other side of the street, but no one stops. No one even looks.
I hear the growl of an engine getting closer. I look up through my tears and see a black motorcycle. Sleek. Expensive. Familiar.
Cristiano’s Ducati.
Even before my vision clears, I know it’s him on the bike. I know the shape of him, the way he holds himself, the breadth of his shoulders in that black leather jacket.
He pulls to a stop beside me and kills the engine. The sudden silence is deafening.
He doesn’t get off the bike.
He just sits there, boots braced on the ground, hands gripping the handlebars. Staring at me through that dark visor.
I can’t see his face or make out his eyes. I can only see my own reflection in the black glass, small, crumpled, and pathetic. Dirt on my knees. A girl who can’t even walk home from school without falling apart.
Why isn’t he saying anything?
The seconds stretch. My ankle throbs in time with my heartbeat. He’s so still. So silent. The tension in his body makes my skin prickle with unease. He’s just looking at me. Staring and not moving, and I feel a shiver of fear.
I open my mouth to break this unbearable silence, but before I can speak, he moves.
His hands rise slowly. Deliberately. He grips the helmet and pulls it off. His blond curls are a mess.
And there he is.
Just Cristiano.
The menace I felt evaporates like morning mist.
His amber eyes are soft with concern. He looks worried, like any person would look if they stumbled across someone hurt on the side of the road.
“Are you okay?” His deep voice is gentle. “I was back there when I saw you fall.”
“I’m fine,” I manage, but my voice comes out strained. “I just twisted my ankle.”
He swings off the bike in one easy motion and crouches beside me, close enough that I can smell him. Leather and gasoline. A man’s smell that’s distractingly sexy despite the pain in my ankle.
“Can I take a look?”
I hesitate. Cristiano touching my ankle? It feels too intimate, but my ankle is throbbing and swelling. It could be broken, for all I know, and I can’t exactly run away from him right now.
“Okay,” I whisper.
He’s careful. So careful. His hands cup my ankle like he’s afraid of hurting me, his fingers probing gently along the bone. I wince when he finds a tender spot, and he immediately eases off.
“Sorry.” He looks up at me, genuinely apologetic. “Can you flex it?”
I try, gritting my teeth. It moves. Painfully, but it moves.
“It doesn’t feel broken,” I admit.
“I can take you to the hospital for an X-ray. Just to be sure.”
That means sitting for hours with Cristiano, because he’ll probably insist on waiting with me.
“No.” The word comes out too fast. “No, I just—I just want to go home. Mom can take me later if the swelling doesn’t go down.”
He nods, accepting this without argument.
“I can take you home,” he offers, nodding toward his bike.
I look around at the empty street, the distant bus stop, and the complete absence of any other options.
“I’m heading home anyway,” he adds. “I was just having coffee with Valerie.”
Valerie. The cloud over my head darkens. That must be the girl from the pizza parlor, the one with the big smile and the annoying hand on his arm. It occurred to me that Cristiano might have been following me just now, but of course he wasn’t. He was on a date, and this street is on his way home.
Valerie. What kind of stupid name is Valerie? A rich-girl name, probably passed down from a wealthy grandmother. I’m sure Valerie has a chauffeur and doesn’t trip and wind up in gutters, embarrassing herself.
I find myself glowering at Cristiano’s chest, which is filling my vision. I don’t care who Cristiano has coffee with. I don’t care about Cristiano at all.
I look around again, helpless. No bus. No one I can call. Rosa’s at work. Mom’s at work. Katrina is at basketball practice and Priya is visiting her cousins.
“I don’t want to be a bother,” I say, but my voice is weak.
“It’s not a bother.” He says it simply, like it’s obvious. “We live in the same house. It would be strange not to take you home.”
He offers me his helmet.
I stare at it. Then at the motorcycle. The powerful bike gleams in the afternoon light, all sleek black lines and dangerous curves.
I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to ride that thing. Cristiano looks so free on it, weaving through traffic, the engine roaring beneath him. Like nothing in the world can touch him.
“I’ll be careful,” he says, reading my hesitation. “I promise I won’t go fast.”
It’s just a ride home. Five minutes, maybe less. It’s not like I have any other options. And if some small, reckless part of me is curious what it feels like to hold on to Cristiano while the world blurs past, no one has to know that but me.
I accept the helmet. It’s heavier than I expected, and still warm from his head. I fumble with the strap until he reaches over and fastens it for me, his fingers brushing my jaw. The touch is brief, impersonal, but my skin tingles anyway.
“Can you stand?”
“I think so.”
He helps me up, his arm around my waist, taking most of my weight. The pain flares when I try to put pressure on my ankle, and I gasp, grabbing onto him for balance.
“Easy.” His voice is low and soothing. “I’ve got you.”
He guides me to the bike and helps me swing my leg over.
The seat is warm leather, smooth beneath my thighs.
He gathers my things up and slides my backpack onto my shoulders, and then climbs on the bike in front of me.
Suddenly I’m pressed against his back, my legs bracketing his hips, my face inches from his shoulder blades.
I don’t know what to do with my hands. They hover awkwardly at my sides, gripping the edge of the seat, but that doesn’t feel secure enough. The bike is tilted slightly, balanced by its kickstand and Cristiano’s boot on the ground, and I’m terrified of falling off before we even start moving.
“Hold on to me.” His voice carries back to me, gentle but firm. “For your safety.”
Right. Of course. For safety.
I put my hands on his waist tentatively. My fingers curl into his leather jacket, feeling the warmth of him beneath. He’s solid and steady, his body a wall of heat and muscle between my hands. My heart is pounding, and I tell myself it’s the pain.
“Ready?”
“Ready.”
He kicks up the stand, and the bike roars to life.
The vibration travels through my entire body. My thighs, my stomach, my chest. It’s overwhelming in the best way, a deep thrum that drowns out everything else. The pain in my ankle. The confusion in my head. The fear that’s been following me for weeks.
We pull away from the curb, and the world begins to blur.
He rides carefully, just like he promised. Takes the turns slow. Avoids the cars around us. The wind tugs at my clothes and whips past my arms, but he’s shielding me from the worst of it, his broad shoulders blocking the rush of air.
I should be scared. I should be tense and anxious and counting the seconds until this is over.
Instead, I find myself relaxing into him.
My grip on his waist tightens. Just for stability.
Just because the movement of the bike keeps shifting me, and I need something to hold on to.
My arms wrap fully around him, my hands flattening against his stomach.
I can feel the muscles there, firm beneath his shirt.
He’s so warm.
I turn my head to the side and rest it against his back, and watch the world through the visor. The city scrolls past us in streaks of color. Buildings and trees and cars, all blurring into nothing. There’s only the road. The speed. The steady thrum of the engine vibrating through both of us.
His hand leaves the handlebar. Just for a moment, just long enough to reach back and clasp my thigh. His touch is firm and warm on my skin. Checking on me. Protective. Reassuring. I hear his silent question.
You okay?
My answer is to press closer, and his hand squeezes once before returning to the handlebar.
It felt good.
It felt really good.
I shouldn’t be enjoying any of this, but my cheek is pressed against his back, and I can feel his heartbeat against my fingertips.
The pain in my ankle has faded to a distant throb.
The fear is gone. The wariness is gone. There’s nothing left but this.
The wind, the speed, the heat of his body against mine.
I’ve never felt so free.
The ride stretches on, and I lose track of time.
The world narrows down to the rumble of the engine, the flex of his muscles as he shifts and turns, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
I’m wrapped around him like he’s the only solid thing in the universe, and for these few perfect minutes, I let myself forget everything.
The wardrobe. The pizza parlor. The four years of silence and the fear that lives in the pit of my stomach whenever he’s near.
Right now, there’s just this.
There’s just us.
And I don’t want it to end.
But eventually, the bike slows. The engine’s roar drops to a purr. The familiar gates of the Montoni mansion rise before us.
We pull into the garage, and he cuts the engine.
Silence.
“Mina.”
His voice is soft.
I blink, surfacing from the dream. We’ve stopped. We’re home. The ride is over. And I’m still holding him. My arms are wrapped tight around his waist. My cheek is pressed against his back. My whole body is melted into his like I belong there.
Oh, God.