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And I think about the look in his eyes when he first saw her.
I give a shake of my head.
No. I imagined that. It’s too sick to think otherwise.
I think about last night as I search through the liquor cabinet for the whiskey. About what I said to her about not wanting to hurt her.
How far am I willing to go to bring down Marchese?
Am I willing to bury her too?
With this new condition, I may have to.
Because her brother isn’t dead. He’s alive. Not quite well, but alive.
Which means Marchese has a second heir, the rightful heir, as he called him. The rule of the Marchese inheritance is that it goes to the first-born child, boy or girl. Gabriela is second-born, but considering her brother’s condition, the inheritance had shifted to Gabriela. Marchese plans to shift it back and cut Gabriela out unless I make sure all ties with her brother are severed.
I know from the two times her brother’s come up, Gabriela cares about him.
“So what the fuck is your point, mother fucker?” I say out loud.
Just when I do, I hear a crash out on the patio.
In an instant, I grab the gun I keep in the right-hand drawer of the cabinet and rush out just as my men charge through the front doors, weapons drawn.
Floodlights go on before I even reach the patio and the instant I do, I stop. I raise my hand to the men behind me to do the same, signaling to put away their weapons.
Because there, kneeling by the pool, is Gabriela in a little yellow bikini, startled eyes wide, mouth open, staring back at me, at the men behind me, at those she must see on the roof.
I walk outside, look up, see the two snipers with weapons pointed.
“I got this,” I call up to them, tucking my pistol into the back of my pants. I see what the crash was because there’s that missing bottle of whiskey.
She follows my gaze slowly back to the ground where she’s kneeling in broken glass as if just realizing it.
“What are you doing, Gabriela?” I ask as I near her.
She looks up at me and squints.
“Turn out those floodlights,” I tell my men. “And someone bring some bandages.”
The lights go out and again, she turns her attention to the broken glass, the pool of whiskey.
“I tripped,” she says, sitting back, looking at her knees which are bloody with shards of glass. She then shifts her gaze to her hands, opens her palms. She takes a long time looking at them.
“Is that my whiskey?” I ask her as one of my men hands me a first-aid kit.
She looks up at me as I crouch down to take her hands and gauge the damage. She must have fallen into the broken bottle because the heels of both are badly cut.
“I broke it,” she says, dragging her gaze back to the mess on the ground.
“I see that, but how much of it did you drink before you broke it?” I ask, noting her wet suit and hair.
She doesn’t answer but pulls one hand away to pick a piece of glass out of her knee.
“All right,” I say, cradling her to lift her up. “Let’s go.”
“I want to swim,” she says pointing to the pool.
“Sweetheart, you are in no condition to swim.” I take her into the living room and lay her on the couch. She flinches when she tries to straighten her legs.
“Wait. I need to get the glass out,” I say. I reach to switch on the lamp.
“It hurts.”
“I bet it does. How much did you drink?”
“Not a lot.”
“Really?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Really,” she answers, eyes out of focus as she leans forward to again pick at the glass.
I take her hand and move it off. “Don’t touch it. I’ll be right back.” I go outside to retrieve the first-aid kit and when I get back, she’s still picking.
“Do I need to tie you up so you don’t touch it?” I ask, looking at the bikini again. At her smooth skin. At how much of her it leaves exposed.
I think about all the men here. They’d better not be looking at her.
“No,” she says, laying her head on the arm of the couch so she’s staring up at the ceiling.
I let my gaze slide over her throat, down to her small, high breasts.
The fact that her nipples are hard and the goosebumps on her bare arms and stomach tell me she’s probably cold.
I work quickly, using the tweezers in the first-aid kit to pick out the glass on her knees then do the same to those shards on her hands.
By the time I’m finished, I notice her eyes are closed.
“Gabriela?” I ask, standing.
She doesn’t answer. She’s asleep.
I look her over, see the color she must have gotten today. The yellow of the bikini is pretty on her. She’s thin, but it’s not for lack of eating from what I can see. That makes me smile. It’s good to see a girl with an appetite.
