10. Gio
Gio
I went too far.
The thought is a cold, clinical knot in my chest as I look at Lina.
She is leaning against the damp brick wall of the alley, her eyes wide, dilated with a mixture of terror and lingering gin.
Her face is completely devoid of color, matching the gray mist swirling around her boots.
I killed the first man too loudly. The snap of his neck was a sharp, final crack that echoed off the storefronts.
I should have been cleaner. I should have used the knife.
"Lina," I say, my voice flat, my hands held open at my sides. "Look at me."
"Don't," she whispers, her voice cracking as she shakes her head. She is looking at my hands, at the dark, hot blood coating my knuckles. "Don't come near me. You're a monster. You're a criminal."
"They were going to put you in a van, piccola," I say.
"I don't care!" she shouts, though she is shivering so hard her keys clatter in her fist. "You're crazy. This whole thing is crazy."
I take a step toward her, my spatial awareness tracking her eyes.
She is on the verge of fainting. Her knees are trembling, her weight shifting backward.
Let her pass out, the tactical side of my brain whispers.
It is easier to move a sleeping target. Less noise.
But she doesn't. She keeps her eyes locked on mine, her chest heaving as she tries to find her breath.
Then, her face goes from pale to a dull, sickly green.
She swallows once, her hand flying to her throat. She bends over, coughing, and then the three gin and tonics she had with Maya rush right back up.
I don't hesitate. I step inside her guard, my hand reaching out to grab her wild, dark hair, pulling it back from her face so it doesn't get ruined.
My other hand goes to her shoulder, steadying her as her body rids itself of the alcohol and the adrenaline shock.
She is retching, her small frame convulsing under my touch.
"Get away from me," she gasps between coughs, trying to shove my chest with her dirty hand.
"Hold still, Lina," I command.
She tries to struggle, her boots slipping in the mud, her elbow swinging back to hit my ribs. She’s weak, her muscles entirely spent, but her stubbornness is still burning.
"Let go of me!" she screams.
I catch her wrist in my palm, my fingers wrapping completely around her bones. I pull her flush against my chest, locking her arms between our bodies.
"If I wanted to harm you," I say, my voice dropping to a low, quiet vibration right against her ear, "do you honestly think your struggling would stop me?"
She goes completely still. She looks up at me through her wet eyelashes, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling against mine. The logic of the statement registers in her sharp mind. She looks at my broad chest, at the blood on my hands, and then down at her own small wrists.
Slowly, she nods. "True."
"Good," I grunt.
I slide my arm behind her knees and hoist her up into my arms. She is light.
Too light. I carry her out of the alley, my eyes scanning the rooftops and the street corners.
My men are already moving in the shadows, their dark coats blending into the fog as they pick up Maya’s unconscious body to take her safely to her apartment.
They will clean the wet gravel of the alley.
By morning, there won't be a single drop of blood left on the stones.
I carry Lina up the narrow wooden stairs of our building, her head resting heavily against my shoulder. She has stopped struggling, but her fingers are clutched tightly in the wool of my gray sweater.
I reach the third-floor landing. I walk straight past her peeling green door, stopping at my own.
Lina stiffens in my arms, her head snapping up. "Why are we going in here? Put me down, John. Let me go to my apartment."
"Your apartment is compromised, Lina," I say, turning the key in my deadbolt with one hand.
I push the door open with my shoulder, stepping into the dark warmth of my living room.
I kick the door shut behind us, the heavy lock clicking into place with a final, metallic thud.
I set her down on her feet, but keep my hands locked on her waist until I am sure her knees won't buckle.
"Relax, Lina. I really do not want to hurt you. "
She looks up at me, her eyes dark, wet with tears she is refusing to let fall. "That is what every man says before he hurts a woman."
The words hit my chest like a lead bullet. The guilt is a rot. I am hurting her. Every second I spend playing the neighbor, every lie I tell her to keep her in my perimeter, is a betrayal. But I can't let her go.
"You are incredibly stubborn," I mutter, releasing her waist and pointing toward the tiled bathroom at the end of the hall. "Go inside. Wash up."
The bathroom is warm, lit by a soft, gold light that reflects off the white marble tiles.
I follow her in, turning on the hot water in the sink.
Lina is standing by the mirror, staring at her reflection.
She looks like a ghost who survived a shipwreck—her sweater is damp, her face smudged with soot and dirt from the alley.
"Take the sweater off," I say, reaching for a clean washcloth.
She flinches, her eyes meeting mine in the glass. "No."
"It is wet, Lina. And it smells like the alley. Take it off or I will do it for you."
She glares at me, her lower lip trembling with defiance, but she reaches for the hem of her yellow sweater. She pulls it over her head, her dark hair tumbling down her shoulders in wild, tangled curls.
Underneath, she is wearing a thin, white lace camisole.
My throat goes completely dry. My cock swells instantly, pressing hard against the raw denim of my jeans. The lace is translucent, the soft, pale curve of her breasts visible beneath the fabric, her nipples dark and rigid from the chill of the rain. She isn't wearing a bra.
I force my eyes up to her face, my hand clenching the damp washcloth. I step closer, my massive frame completely trapping her between my body and the marble counter.
"Hold still," I murmur.
She doesn't pull away this time. She stays completely quiet, her breath catching as I raise the warm cloth to her face.
I gently wipe a smudge of dark dirt from her temple, my thumb dragging across her skin with an agonizingly slow pressure.
I trace the soft line of her jaw, sliding the cloth down to her neck, wiping away the cold sweat from her collarbone.
She trembles under my touch. Her eyes are locked onto my mouth, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling so fast the lace of her camisole brushes against the wool of my gray sweater.
"John..." she whispers, her voice a soft, broken sound.
"Quiet, piccola," I mutter, my voice rough, carrying a dark, heavy hunger I can barely contain.
I run the warm cloth over her shoulder, my fingers brushing the delicate lace strap.
I want to rip the fabric away. I want to pin her against the marble sink, lift her thighs, and slide inside her wet heat until she forgets everything.
The possessive beast in my head is clawing at my chest, screaming at me to mark her, to make her mine.
I let out a low, ragged breath and step back, tossing the washcloth into the sink. I reach for a thick, white plush towel on the rack and hand it to her, along with a clean black t-shirt of mine.
"Wash the rest," I say, my voice flat. "I'll be outside."
I walk into the dark kitchen, my hands shaking as I pour myself a glass of neat bourbon. I drink it in one long, burning swallow, my eyes fixed on the surveillance monitors. The alley is clear. The street is quiet.
Ten minutes later, I walk back into the bathroom.
Lina is sitting on the edge of the marble countertop, her legs dangling. She has washed her face, her hair damp and loose around her shoulders. She has wrapped the thick white towel around her chest, tucking the edge tightly under her armpit.
The towel is too small for her. It barely covers her hips.
"Drink this," I say, handing her a glass of warm water.
She takes it, her hand brushing mine. Her fingers are warmer now, her breathing steady. She takes a slow sip, her eyes clearer as the alcohol wears off, leaving her tired and sharp.
"Why did you bring me here, John?" she asks, her voice quiet. "My apartment is five feet away. I have my own bed."
"Your door has a cheap deadbolt that can be bypassed with a piece of plastic, Lina," I say, leaning my hip against the opposite counter, my arms crossed tightly over my chest to keep my hands to myself.
"And your kitchen window leads straight to the fire escape.
Until my men secure the perimeter, you are safer here. "
She hums, staring down at the water glass. "You speak like a soldier. Not a neighbor."
"I am a man who keeps his things safe," I say.
"I'm not a thing," she says, her chin tilting up with that familiar, stubborn pride.
"No," I say, my eyes tracking the soft curve of her throat. "You aren't."
She runs a hand through her wet hair, tilting her head back to shake the damp strands away from her neck. The movement is completely natural, but as her arms rise, the short white towel rides up her thighs.
It slides up. Way too high.
It exposes the smooth, creamy curve of her thigh, the soft flesh of her hip, and the dark shadow where her legs meet.
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth grind. A low, territorial growl catches in my throat, my eyes burning as they lock onto the bare skin of her hip. My blood is roaring, my cock throbbing with an intense, violent frustration that has been building since I kissed her in the shop.
I take a step forward, my shadow falling over her, my breathing ragged.
"Are you trying to lead me to hell, piccola?" I growl, my voice dropping to a dangerous, raw vibration.