20. Gabriel
I shouldn't have let her see that. The look on my face. That split second where control slipped, and everything underneath showed. The raw, unfiltered hunger I feel every time I'm near her. It's as impossible to suppress as the constant thought: Mine. She's mine.
I drag a hand over my face the moment the door to my bedroom closes behind me again.
Fuck. What the hell is wrong with me? She just lost her husband.
Watched him die. He's not even in the ground yet—and I'm standing there looking at her like—like I want to take her apart.
Like I want to claim something that isn't mine.
A pulse beats at my temple. That's not who I am.
I take what I want. I don't deny myself. That's always been the rule. But this?
This is different.
This is off limits. Even for me.
She's grieving. Broken open. And I'm hungry.
"Jesus," I mutter under my breath.
What kind of sick fuck thinks like that?
A widow. That's what she is now. And I'm already imagining…
No! I shut the thought down hard. Violently.
Because that path? That's not one I get to walk.
Not with her. Not like this. Not yet. I can still feel her.
In my arms. Against my chest. The weight of her.
The way she folded into me without thinking.
Trusted me. Clung to me like I was something solid in a world that just ripped itself apart.
My hands flex at my sides. Like they remember. Like they don't want to let go. Fuck. She is a perfect fit. That's exactly the problem. She fit too well. Like she belongs there. Like she was made to be held exactly like that, by me.
My chest tightens with unfamiliar, unwelcome emotions. Because it's not just want. It's worse. I would've done anything in that moment to stop her pain. Anything. Burn the city. Kill every man in that warehouse twice over.
Hell—I would've brought her husband back from the dead if I could. The useless prick didn't deserve her, but he didn't deserve to die like that either. Not in front of her. Not like that. A sharp breath leaves me.
This is bad. Worse than bad. Because this isn't just physical. If it were, I'd already have her out of my system. One night. Two.
Done.
That's how it works. That's how it's always worked.
But her? She's in my head. Worse, she's under my skin.
In a way I don't like. In a way I don't control.
And I don't do well with things I can't control.
I force myself to stop. To look out over the city.
Vegas stretches below me, alive, loud, untouchable.
Most people see a city. I see a thousand pressure points. Men I own. Men I watch. Men I can ruin with a single phone call. I know where every piece belongs. How every move ends before it begins. Control is what I do. Except when it comes to her.
And that, that pisses me off more than anything. Because I know exactly where this goes if I don't get a grip. I'll cross a line there won't be any coming back from. Not with her. Not if I want her to keep looking at me the way she did in that elevator. With trust.
My jaw tightens again. Control. That's the key. I've mastered it, built my whole life on it. I can do it again. I have to. Failure isn't an option.
The sun is coming up. Vegas shifts with it. The neon fades just enough for reality to creep back in. For most people, that means the night is over, time to crawl into bed. For me, the real work starts.
My phone vibrates in my hand. Massimo.
"Yeah."
"We have two meetings today," he informs me without preamble. "At eight with the boys. Four with Salazar."
Of course we do. Because apparently the universe decided I don't get a break.
"I'll be there," I tell him.
"Keep your head clear, Gabe."
I almost snort. Too late for that. The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone for half a second longer than necessary before slipping it back into my pocket.
Eight. That gives me… not enough time for all the things I want to do.
Not even close. The door to the living room is behind me.
Then there is a hallway, and then the room where Audra is asleep.
Exhausted. Broken. And for some reason, I still don't fully understand, mine to protect. At least for now.
My phone rings again before I can make another move. Mauro. "What?"
"They came for the mother."
Everything in me goes cold at his words, but my body keeps moving. I open the bedroom door to leave the penthouse. "What do you mean came for her?"
"They tried to wheel her out," Mauro explains. "Said she needed more tests."
I have a pretty good idea where this is going but still ask. "And?"
A short breath on the other end. "She lost her shit."
Of course she did.
"I already had that test," Mauro mimics in a rougher tone. "I'm not doing it again."
Despite everything, my mouth almost twitches as I step into the living room.
"That bought us time," he continues. "Jack and Mario stepped in. Stopped them before they got her out of the room."
"Where are they now?"
"In custody. I'm on my way to pick them up."
"Who are they?"
"Cartel." My grip tightens on the phone at Mauro's words. Fucking Salazar. "Los Hijos del Desierto," Mauro adds. "Their tattoos are a dead giveaway."
"Keep them alive," I order, dropping my voice. "I want to know why he's after Stacy."
"On it."
The line goes dead. I lower the phone slowly. Salazar. Impatient. Stupid. Or desperate. Either way, he just crossed a line. There is only one reason Salazar went after Stacy without killing her. He wants Audra.
That is not going to happen. I grind my jaw so tightly, my molars groan in protest.
The moment I make my way through the living area, I stop. Audra is standing there. Barefoot. Pale. Eyes locked on me.
Fuck. She heard.
"How long have you been standing there?" I ask.
Her lips part slightly. "They… tried to take her?"
Her face is an unreadable mask. I search for traces of hysteria or panic, but there are none. Her eyes are sharp as understanding moves through them.
I exhale slowly. "It's handled. She's fine."
Her gaze doesn't waver. "Who?"
There it is. Not is she okay. Not what happened. Just—who.
I study her more closely. Something has shifted. Last night she broke. Now? Now she's putting herself back together. Piece by piece. Harder. Colder.
"Cartel," I tell her, still watching her.
She tenses. "The same ones?"
It's not really a question. I nod once.
"They're not going to stop, are they?" She wants to know, her voice detached, dispassionate.
I don't lie. "No."
She nods as if she's expected that all along. As if she just made a decision. One I'm not sure I'm going to like.
I'm right too. Her next words take me nearly off balance. "I want to see them." That gets my full attention. "The men you caught," she clarifies. "I want to see them."
"No." I've never meant that word as much as I do right now. There is no way in hell I'm letting her get more involved than she already is.
Her eyes flash. "You don't get to decide that."
"I do," I counter, stepping closer. "When it comes to your safety—I absolutely do."
"This is about me," she snaps. "My husband is dead. They just tried to take my mother. You don't get to shut me out of this."
Her voice doesn't rise. It sharpens. I see it now, too. Clear as day. That look in her eyes. I've seen it before. Right before someone decides they have nothing left to lose. Fuck.
This is exactly what I didn't want.
"You don't know what you're asking for," I warn her.
She takes a step toward me. Her expression changes into a hard mask. One I would've never thought she'd wear.
"You see, that's where you're wrong," she tells me quietly. "I'm not asking."
My eyes narrow. There it is. The steel I knew was simmering underneath her fa?ade the entire time. Cold, unyielding determination. She lifts her chin, meeting my gaze head-on.
"I know who you are, Gabriel D'Amato." Hearing my full name on her lips does something I don't like. Or maybe I like it too much.
"I know what people say about you," she continues. "Mafia. Dangerous. Untouchable."
She's not wrong.
"I don't know why you're helping me," she adds. "And right now… I don't want to know."
Smart.
"Whatever it is you want—" She doesn't hesitate. "—I'll give it to you."
My body goes still. Completely still.
"If you help me avenge my husband," she finishes, "and keep my mother safe."
Silence crashes between us. Heavy. Charged. Those words echo in my head: Whatever you want.
Fuck. My dick turns hard as a rock. Instantly.
Blood drains from my body, my brain. So much so fast, dizziness overcomes me, followed by a desire that is older than time.
My hands curl into fists as something dark and instinctive rises up inside me.
Take it. That voice. That part of me that doesn't ask.
Doesn't wait. Doesn't care. Take her. Now.
She's offering. Right there. All I'd have to do is step forward—close the distance—push her back against the wall.
The image hits fast. Sharp. Her against the wall. Those lips?—
Fuck.
My hand twitches at my side. I want to know what they taste like, what she tastes like.
What she'd sound like if I made her lose that control.
If I made her forget everything except me.
The thought slams into me hard enough to knock the air out of my lungs and turns my already hard-as-a-rock dick to granite.
Before I can stop myself, I take a step forward.
She doesn't move or flinch. She just watches me. Waits.
Trusting me? Or daring me?
I don't even know which is worse.
My hand lifts, then stops. Mid-air. Because suddenly it hits me. What this is. What she's offering. Not desire. Not want. A bargain. A sacrifice.
I don't take things like that. Not from her. Not like this. A rough breath leaves me as I drag my hand back through my hair.
"Fucking hell…" I mutter. I take a step back.
Put space between us. Before I do something I won't come back from. "I'm not taking you up on that." My voice is rougher than I'd like.
Her brows pull together slightly in confusion. Good. Let her be confused. Because I'm barely holding the line as it is.
"Not like this," I add, quieter.
Not when she's grieving. Not when she thinks this is the price.
Not when I'd take it and never forgive myself for how I got it.
My gaze locks on hers again. Hard. I reclaim the distance I put between us.
Her lips part slightly. A flicker of fear sparks in her eyes.
Good. Instinctively, she steps back. Once.
Then again. Exactly where I want her. Her back hits the wall.
I follow. Unrushed. Possessively. I brace my hands on either side of her head, caging her in before lowering my mouth close to her ear.
"When I take you up on that offer," I murmur, keeping my voice low and controlled, "you'll not only be willing." Her breath hitches. "You'll be begging for it." I pause. Just enough to let it sink in. "I want to hear you scream my name."
Her fingers curl slightly at her sides as tension and awareness wake in her.
"You don't get to turn yourself into a sacrifice," I add, quieter now, more dangerous because of it. "Not to make yourself feel better about wanting me."
That lands. I feel it. In the sharp inhale she can't quite control. In the way her body goes still instead of pulling away. I know that reaction. I've seen it before. Want. Deeply buried and denied. Fighting hard to stay that way. She's grieving. I know that. She loved her husband. I know that too.
But love and desire?
They're not always the same thing.
And what's in her—that heat, that pull, that restless edge she doesn't understand yet—isn't new. I saw it that first time, at the police station. I recognized it the moment she looked at me like she shouldn't… but couldn't stop. She's just not ready to admit it.
Not yet.
I keep her caged for a few more heartbeats, move in close enough so that she can feel my erection, just to make sure there are no misunderstandings of how much I want to take her up on her offer.
Only when her pupils dilate, right before she'd do something she'd hate herself for later, do I lower my hands, gently brushing my knuckles over her soft cheeks. Then I step back. I measure her from head to toe.
"You want revenge?" My voice is cold again. "I'll help you get it." I pause. "But not because you think you owe me something."
Because when she gives herself to me, it won't be like this. It won't be out of pain. Or desperation. Or debt. It'll be because she wants to. That's the only version I'll take.