The next thing I know, he’s standing up, his hands at his zipper.
His shirt’s already half off, and his tattoos are slithering across the part of his chest I can see. His belt’s open. His hand’s at his fly. His eyes haven’t left mine.
He looks like the devil. Dark. Sinful. Gorgeous. And despite myself, I’m tempted. No, more than tempted. Desperate.
Guess I belong in hell, right next to him.
I’m about to reach out to him when his phone buzzes. Lust drains from my body. My eyes close.
Here we go again.
Of course.
Don’t.
He doesn’t listen.
The phone is picked up, and when I open my eyes, the first thing I see is him reading the message.
“I have to go downstairs,” he grumbles.
“It hasn’t been twenty minutes.”
“This isn’t?—”
“It hasn’t been twentyminutes, Raffaele. You said twenty. You can’t even do twenty.”
“Someone’s at the gate.”
“Someone’s always at the fucking gate.”
He’s pulling on his pants. His gun’s already in his hand.
“Stay here. I’ll be five minutes.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
He pauses at the door, looking back.
“I love you.”
The words are like a cold breeze. They blow the door shut behind him.
Then I’m alone. Again. I lie there, staring at the ceiling. Who knew those three words could feel so empty.
I count three breaths before I get up, not allowing myself to wallow. That’s too dangerous. So, I pull my pants back up and tighten my loosened robe and follow the devil’s ghost out of the bedroom and down the stairs.
We’ll see what’s so important, I think.So much more important than the woman you supposedly love.
I follow his smell to the extravagant foyer. The front door’s open a crack. Cold air slips through. I stop in the entryway, behind the wall, and look out.
Raffaele’s on the porch.
He has his gun raised. It’s pointed at someone in the driveway I can’t see from this angle. I move closer, leaning in to get a better look. Then I see who’s there.
Shit.
Victor Moreno Jr. is standing in the driveway.
