Then I look past the body and see the last person I expect to see in the world standing in the doorway.
Nico D’Ambrosio.
His handsome face is twisted in rage. The scar down his jaw is glowing silver in the streetlight. But the grin I’ve come to expect from him is no longer on his face. He’s traded his suit for a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled up his forearms.
His raised hand is holding a pistol, and there’s a thin curl of smoke rising from the barrel.
His amber eyes flick over me once, head to toe, and inspect every inch of me for damage.
Then, the stair creaks as he walks up, steps past the dead cop, and comes to a stop in front of me.
"Did he hurt you?" There is a very real anger surging underneath his calm, quiet voice.
I open my mouth but nothing comes out. My eyes drop to the body on the floor and the dark spreading pool. That’s when my knees finally decide that they’re done holding me up.
He catches me as I start to slide down the wall. A thick muscular arm coils around me just like it had three months ago when he carried me into my shower. And just like three months ago, the moment his warmth comes close, it sends a violent shudder through my body.
"How." I taste copper on my cracking voice. "How are you here?"
“I asked you first.” He taps the tip of his gun against my chest. “Did he hurt you?”
I shake my head, and his shoulders slack slightly. He gives the dead man one last look of disgust and nudges the body as if to check that he really is dead, before he turns back to me.
"I followed you," he says. "From the second you walked off that lawn."
"I told Bella not to?—"
"She didn't have to tell me anything,piccola." His jaw clenches. "You know I would never let you out of my sight. And I saw you leave in a damn hurry."
I should be furious. Some distant part of me knows I should rip myself out of his arms and rage at him for following me, for spying on me, for treating me like something he thinks he owns.
But that part of me is very far away right now.
Because he just saved me, and he’s the only damn thing keeping me on my feet.
His eyes leave my face and move past me to take in the details of this house. I can see the questions churning one by one behind those amber eyes.
Why are you here, Lydia? Whose house is this? Who is he, and what did he want with you?
I clamp my jaw shut until it hurts.
I won’t tell him. I would rather choke than hand a single thread of my past to the Don of the D'Ambrosio Family for him to pull on whenever it suits him.
"Don't." My voice shakes, but I get it out before he can speak. "Don't ask me."
Something flickers across his handsome face. Surprise, maybe. Or respect. He studies me for one long second, and then, to my shock, he lets it go—the questions folding back down behind his eyes, locked away for later.
"Fine," he says softly. "But we need to go."
Somewhere out in the dark, sirens start to sound–far off and climbing. Someone must’ve called the cops.
Nico tucks the gun behind him, and bends down to pick up the casing of the bullet, all without ever letting me go. His hand remains soft and gentle as he carries out the bloody work with practiced efficiency.
Then, he returns to me, and drags his left thumb gently across whatever’s running down my cheeks. Tears or blood, I don’t know and I don’t care. Not when his touch leaves a ripple of warmth through me that’s slowly bringing me back to life.
And with it, my voice returns. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
"You don’t have a choice,piccola." His voice rumbles in my chest. "You can hear the sirens same as me. You know as well as I do that not a single badge walking through that door is going to be your friend."
