13. Evelyn
“I’ve got you,” Massimo promised, his big hands grasping both of mine as he led me forward. “I won’t let you fall.”
I thought about telling him that the blindfold wasn’t necessary, but he’d been so intent on surprising me that I decided not to argue.
Besides, I trusted him completely; I knew he wouldn’t let me fall.
And whatever he wanted to offer me, I would accept the gift without protest. I didn’t have to fear that anything he gave me came with strings attached. Massimo wanted to spoil me, and I would let him. Because it made him happy.
I would do almost anything to earn his proud, stunning smile. In the aftermath of our intense sex yesterday, I was desperate for him. I needed his touch, his protection, his happiness.
A door opened, and humid air kissed my skin. I tensed for a moment, scared to go outside. If I left Duarte’s fortress, George might get to me.
“You’re safe with me, Evelyn.”
I took a breath and unstuck my feet from the floor. Massimo would never recklessly put me in danger.
A gentle, warm breeze ruffled my hair, carrying the sweet scent of flowers. My brow furrowed.
Before I could ask where we were, the blindfold fell away, revealing a lush rooftop garden. Beautiful flowers bloomed in a riot of color, from soft pink to rich royal blue.
“Carmen told me her friend maintains this garden for her,” he explained. “I thought we might have some privacy here.”
I remembered the first time I’d ever seen him: when he’d been watching me in the market. Our eyes had locked across the flower stall, and his stunning silver gaze had taken my breath away.
“I thought you might like to photograph them,” he rumbled, drawing my attention from the beautiful blooms to his perfect face.
My heart leapt. He was holding a camera, a Canon EOS DSLR. I’d never dreamed I’d be able to afford such an expensive model. For a moment, I couldn’t speak. I could barely breathe.
I hadn’t held a camera in weeks. Even before the nightmare with the cartels had begun, George had restricted my art. He hadn’t let me venture out to take photographs, and on the rare occasions when he accompanied me to do so, he complained about boredom. He’d always made my art seem like a waste of time, an imposition. He’d minimized my passion and repeated the cruel words my parents had always inflicted upon me: that I’d never be a successful artist, and I was a fool for thinking otherwise.
Now Massimo offered me a camera and encouraged me to pursue my art.
You’re an artist, he’d said when I’d told him about the impracticalities of a career as a photographer. He’d refused to allow me to dismiss my dream.
His eyes clouded with uncertainty when I didn’t take the gift immediately. “Do you like it? I can get you a different one.”
My eyes stung. “It’s perfect,” I said thickly, accepting the camera with reverent fingers. It felt familiar and comforting in my hands. “Thank you.”
He studied my pinched expression, trying to read the meaning behind my tears. “If the flowers don’t inspire you, tell me what does. Once we’re in Italy, we can go anywhere you want. Name a place, and I’ll take you there.”
My heart squeezed. Italy.
He still expected me to return to Naples with him.
I’d thought I wanted to go home to Albuquerque, but maybe that wasn’t my home, after all. The house I’d grown up in with my uncaring family hadn’t been a home. The apartment I’d shared with George had seemed like home for a while, but now that I understood what he truly was, I could see the emotional abuse: the years of neglect and gaslighting.
He”d lured me in with a promise of love when I was young and vulnerable, and then he’d parsed it out like a miser. I’d twisted myself in knots to keep it, making myself small to try to earn crumbs of his affection.
Massimo offered me affection freely and often, doting on me almost more than I could bear. When I’d tried to deny his extravagant gestures, he’d simply refused to relent until I accepted them. Deep in my heart, I still didn’t feel worthy of such treatment, but it felt so good to be cherished.
Emotion swelled, flooding my chest. I couldn’t manage to speak, so I simply lifted the camera and framed the shot.
With the first click of the shutter, I captured his shining silver eyes. Then his lush, sensual lips; the masculine perfection of his stubble-shaded jaw; the way the sunlight played over his black curls as the wind stirred them.
“What are you doing?” he asked, staring at me with confusion.
“Photographing what inspires me,” I replied, catching the moment his eyes flashed with hunger.
He stepped toward me and placed his hand on the camera, gently urging me to lower it.
“Do you mind being photographed?”
“No. But I don’t want to damage your new camera. I could buy you another one, but I think it would upset you to see it destroyed.”
“Why would it be damaged?” I allowed him to pluck it from my hands and place it on a glass table that was set up in the heart of the garden.
“Because I’m going to fuck you hard enough to make you scream, and I would probably smash the lens.”
“Oh,” I breathed.
His sensual lips were still tilted in an arrogant smirk when his mouth lowered to mine. Massimo had promised me that he would fuck me hard enough to make me scream, and he always kept his promises.