15. Lina
Lina
Gio stands near the double doors of the Mayfair hotel suite, his dark wool coat already buttoned to his throat.
The suite itself is larger than my entire apartment back in Maine.
It is lavish, covered in gold leaf and heavy cream silks, and while the quiet in here is slightly suffocating, I know better than to think of it as a cage.
I’m stubborn, but I’m not stupid. After the alleyway, after the garage shootout in Boston, I know exactly why I’m behind these reinforced doors.
It isn't a prison. It’s a shield, and Gio is the one holding it.
He turns to me, his dark eyes analyzing my face. He gestures to the two men standing near the private elevator lobby of the suite. "Lina. Before I go, you need to know who is holding the perimeter."
He points to the taller of the two, a man with a severe, unblinking gaze and a face that looks like it was carved from the same cold marble as the entryway. "This is Dante. He is my second. If he tells you to move, you move."
Dante offers a short, stiff nod. "Signorina."
Gio then gestures to the second man, who is leaning casually against a gilded pillar. He is younger, with a brilliant, white-toothed grin and a leather jacket that looks entirely too expensive for a bodyguard. "And Marco. Try to ignore him."
"A pleasure, piccola," Marco says, his voice dripping with easy charm as he winks at me. "Gio has told us all about the sassy librarian. I must say, you’re prettier than be described.”
Gio grunts and turns back to me. He steps close, his hands going to my waist, pulling me gently against his chest. He kisses me before he walks out—a hard, quiet kiss that tastes like the espresso we drank on the plane, carrying a silent, possessive weight that still has my skin tingling under my soft, beige wool dress.
"I will be back by six," he murmurs against my lips. "Stay inside."
"I'll try," I whisper, though my natural defiance makes me squeeze his arm. "Don't get shot."
A tiny, dry twitch of amusement touches his lips. "I don't intend to."
He turns and walks out, the heavy double doors clicking shut behind him.
Now, I am left in the quiet suite with his men.
I turn around. Marco is already walking over to the plush white sofa, stretching his long legs out over the marble coffee table.
He pulls out a deck of cards, casually shuffling them with one hand with a practiced, fluid speed.
Dante remains by the double doors, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed on the hallway monitor.
Two other tall shooters I don't know are stationed by the private elevator.
"I'm bored," I say, crossing my arms. "And your boyfriend by the door won't let me make my own tea."
"He's not my boyfriend," Marco says, flashing me another brilliant grin. “His fashion sense is too tragic.” He tosses a card onto the table. "And Dante doesn't let anyone touch the kettle because he thinks the hotel staff may have poisoned the water supply. He's paranoid."
"I am observant," Dante says, his flat voice barely carrying across the room. "There is a difference."
"Whatever you call it," I say, stepping down from the window ledge. I walk over to the sofa, my canvas sneakers squeaking slightly against the polished wood floor. “You guys have been looking at me like I'm a piece of glass that's about to shatter. Why are you acting so weird?"
Marco pauses his shuffling. He looks up at me, a strange, unreadable look passing over his face—something soft, almost nostalgic, before his mask of easy charm slips back into place. "We're not acting weird. We're just keeping you safe."
"No, it’s more than that," I say, sitting on the opposite end of the sofa. "You guys act like... like you already know me. Or like I belong here. I'm just a temporary distraction for a business deal, remember? Once this merger is signed, I go back to my coffee shop."
Dante turns his head slightly, his dark eyes locking onto mine. "Nobody who gets close to Gio goes back to being ordinary, Lina."
The weight of his words lands heavily in the quiet room. A small, cold prick of unease touches my chest, but I push it away, my natural stubbornness rising. "I am ordinary. And I like my coffee shop. Now, is it safe for me to go for a stroll, or am I officially under house arrest?"
"A stroll?" Marco laughs, tossing the rest of the deck onto the table. "In London? Gio would peel our skin off if we let you walk out that door alone."
"I didn't say alone," I say, my chin tilting up. "I have four giant men with guns. If someone tries to kidnap me, you can shoot them. Isn't that what you do?"
Dante steps away from the door, walking over to the window to check the street. "If you are comfortable with us crowding your perimeter, you can go wherever you want. Gio's instructions were to keep you happy. But we stay within three feet of you at all times."
"Three feet?" I ask, my eyebrows rising. "So you're going to watch me buy souvenirs?"
"I love souvenirs," Marco says, sliding off the sofa and grabbing his leather jacket. "I've been wanting one of those little hats the guards wear. Come on, Dante. Let's go protect the lady."
Ten minutes later, we are walking down the wet sidewalks of Mayfair.
The air is cold and damp, smelling of old stone and diesel exhaust, but the streetlamps are already flickering to life, casting a warm, amber glow over the historic brick buildings.
It is beautiful. It feels alive in a way that Maine doesn't, and for the first time in weeks, the heavy, suffocating weight of Gio's world feels a little lighter.
Dante walks a step behind my left shoulder, his hand casually tucked into his coat where I know his gun is hidden. Marco walks on my right, his head constantly turning as he scans the crowd, but his mouth is still running.
"If we go to the tea shop, you have to buy the loose-leaf stuff," Marco says, pointing a finger at a boutique window. "The bagged tea is just sweeping the floor after they’re done."
"I run a coffee shop, Marco," I say, a small laugh escaping my lips. "I think I know how leaves work."
"Just making sure," he hums.
We duck into a small, upscale souvenir shop filled with dark wood shelves and the scent of cinnamon and lavender. I immediately start browsing the shelves, looking for something to send to Maya. I find a gorgeous, hand-painted tin of Earl Grey tea and a linen tea towel with a map of London.
"She'll love this," I whisper, my fingers tracing the painted flowers on the tin. I miss her. I miss the lopsided cinnamon rolls and the quiet mornings where the biggest problem I had was a broken radiator.
"Is that for the loud friend?" Marco asks, leaning over my shoulder to peer at the tin.
"Her name is Maya," I say, cutting him a sharp look. "And she isn't loud. She has personality."
"She threatened to haunt me," Dante’s flat voice cuts in from the doorway. He hasn't stepped more than five feet from the entrance, his eyes locked on the street outside. "I do not like her."
"She only threatened to haunt you because you look like you eat raw glass for breakfast," I say.
I turn back to the shelves, my eyes catching on a small, ridiculously soft, fluffy brown teddy bear wearing a miniature red guard's uniform.
It is the softest, silliest, most child-like thing in the entire shop.
It is the absolute opposite of the cold, severe granite man who currently rules my life.
Need to refill your reading list?
Search Lokepub on Google and see what looks interesting.
I pick it up, my fingers sinking into the plush fur.
It’s so cute. And so completely not him.
"You're not buying that for Gio, are you?" Marco asks, his voice suddenly thick with suppressed laughter.
"No," I say quickly, my cheeks burning. "Of course not. Why would I buy him a teddy bear?"
Marco grins, and nudges Dante's arm as Dante walks past. "Hey, Dante. Ten pounds says the boss puts it on his desk and glares at anyone who tries to touch it."
"Twenty pounds says he throws it out the jet window," Dante counters, his face completely serious.
"You guys are ridiculous," I say, but my heart does a sudden, ridiculous flutter in my chest. I look down at the fluffy bear, my thumb tracing its little red hat. He’s a killer.
He has scars on his chest. He literally broke a man's jaw in front of me.
But then I remember the way he held me in the dark during the storm, the gravelly, desperate way he whispered I have you, piccola.
I slide the bear onto the counter with the tea tin.
"Don't say a word," I warn them as I hand my credit card to the cashier.
Marco is practically vibrating with amusement, while Dante just shakes his head, a tiny, almost invisible softening in his severe eyes.
After we leave the shop, the drizzle turns into a steady downpour.
We duck into a quiet, dimly lit tea room on a side street.
It is warm inside, smelling of toasted crumpets and dried jasmine.
The owner, an older woman with silver hair, gives us a warm smile as we sit at a corner table near the back.
Dante sits with his back to the wall, his eyes never leaving the entrance, while Marco immediately starts flirting with the waitress who brings our pot of English Breakfast.
I pour the tea, my mind drifting back to the hotel, to the man who left me there.
"Dante," I say, wrapped in the warmth of the tea room. I wrap my hands around my hot ceramic mug. "Can I ask you something?"
"You can ask," he says, taking a sip of his tea without looking at me. "I don't guarantee I'll answer."
"Why does Gio have so many scars?" I ask, my voice dropping to a whisper. "He... he said he lived a complicated life. But those aren't just normal scars. One of them looks like a bullet wound."
The silence at the table goes heavy. Marco stops whispering to the waitress, his playful smile slowly slipping away, replaced by the quiet, serious gravity of the soldier I saw in the alleyway. He looks at Dante, as if asking for permission.
Dante looks at his cup, his jaw clenching. "Gio was seventeen when his father died."
"Seventeen?" My throat goes dry. He was just a kid.
"His father, Don Vincenzo, was a good man, but he was too trusting," Dante says, his voice flat but carrying a deep, quiet weight. "He died in a shootout at the docks. Gio was there. He was the one who dragged his father’s body out of the fire. The scar on his ribs? That’s from the shrapnel of the warehouse explosion. "
I stare at him, my heart breaking in my chest. I can feel the phantom pain of it—the wet copper smell, the heat, the terror of a seventeen-year-old boy trying to save his father.
"His uncle, Matteo, took the seat immediately," Marco speaks up, his voice unusually quiet.
"He was supposed to be the regent until Gio turned twenty-two.
But Matteo liked the throne too much. He started cutting Gio's loyalists out of the family business.
He tried to have Gio killed three times before he was twenty. "
"The shoulder scar," I whisper, remembering the round, white mark.
"Yes," Dante says. "A sniper in Palermo. Gio survived because he’s faster than most. But after that, the happy boy he was...
well, let's say he died. He had to become the glacier.
He had to become the enforcer just to keep the rest of us alive.
He took every hit, every bullet, every knife meant for his men.
He built a faction out of nothing but loyalty and blood. "
I look down at my tea, my eyes stinging with sudden, hot tears.
"He never complained," Marco says softly, leaning forward. "Not once. He just... did what had to be done. But since he found you, Lina..." He pauses, looking at me with a strange, fierce intensity. "The ice is cracking. He’s starting to look like a man who actually wants to live, not just survive."
"I... I didn't do anything," I whisper, my fingers clenching my mug so hard my knuckles are white.
"You exist," Dante says simply. "That is enough."
I look out the window at the rain.
I am falling, I think, the realization washing over me like a warm, inescapable wave. I am falling past the point of return.
I know what he is. I know he is a criminal, a killer, a man who lives in a world of violence and blood.
My mother’s voice screams in my head like a warning siren, telling me to run, to find a locked door, to escape the storm before it destroys me.
But as I look at the small paper bag containing the fluffy teddy bear on the chair beside me, the fear vanishes.
I don't want to run.
For the first time since my mother died, I don't feel like a feral kitten waiting for someone to knock on my door. I don't feel like a stranger hiding in a small-town library. With Gio, even with the guards and the bullets and the danger, I feel... safe. I feel like I belong.
He is the safest dangerous thing in my world, and my heart has cracked completely open for him.
"We should go back," Dante says, standing up and sliding his coat over his shoulders. "The meeting should be wrapping up soon. Gio will be looking for you."
"Yeah," I say, wiping a stray tear from my cheek before they can see it. I grab my shopping bag, a soft, stupid smile touching my lips. "Let's get back."
As we walk back through the London rain, the city doesn't feel cold anymore. The gray fog and the wet cobblestones feel like a path leading me straight to him. I am no longer pretending. The arrangement, the deal, the fake girlfriend—they are all gone.
I am in love with the don.
And as we enter the private elevator of the Mayfair hotel, my heart hammering a wild, eager rhythm, I know I will do whatever it takes to stay on his arm. No matter how dark his world gets.