Page 16 of The Boss

He’s shirtless, and his back muscles flex as he continues to punch. I stare; I have never seen him in this kind of rage before. Sure, I’ve seen him pissed and angry, but never rage like this. I don’t want to stop him from expressing his anger, but he will eventually hurt himself if he keeps going. Then I see his hands; he isn’t wearing gloves, and his knuckles are bloodied, dripping crimson liquid on the floor around him.

Before I second-guess myself, I quietly close the door and walk closer to him, stopping when he’s within arm’s reach. Sweat glistens on his back, droplets cascading down until it’s absorbed by his pants. I knew he had tattoos, but never knew the extent of them, aside from the one on his right forearm of his mother’s birthday in Roman numerals. But now I can see the one on his left shoulder blade that extends down his arm to his elbow. It’s a mountain range at the beginning, fading into a line of trees.

I have so many questions.

He stops, breathing heavily, possibly sensing my presence. Then, he turns to look down at me. His eyes hold an expression of rage I’ve never seen before, but I know it’s not directed at me.

His hands grip my biceps as he breathlessly asks, “Juliet, what are you doing in here?”

“I-I was looking for you. Dinner’s almost ready.” He loosens his grip, satisfied by my answer. “What are you doing?” I ask, grabbing his hands and holding them in mine, looking at the cracks and cuts from the punching he’s done.

“Vanessa thought it would be a good idea for me to release some of my anger.”

“Did it work?”

“I—” he sighs, and he runs one of his hands through his hair. “I don’t know. Sure, punching that bag is helping me relieve the need to punch someone, but it doesn’t fix anything.”

“Not everything you do needs to be to fix something.”

“Right now, it does.” He backs up and walks to the bench near the door, where he sits down and rubs his hands on his thighs as he inhales a heavy breath.

I join him, grabbing a towel on top of the fridge and handing it to him. “Thanks,” he mumbles as I open the fridge and hand him a bottle of water.

He takes a long gulp, and I watch his throat bob. “Juliet, everything I do is being watched and scrutinized. Regardless of what anyone says, I know you, my sister, and the guys are all looking at me for what to do next.” He leans back and takes another swig of water.

“Gino, everyone knows you are working your ass off day and night to get him home. You are putting a lot of pressure on yourself.”

“I have to,” he grits out and leans his head against the wall. I grab the first aid kit that is also on the top of the fridge and sit next to him. “You don’t need to do that.”

“Please just let me help you. Take a break, please.” I look over to him with pleading eyes. He doesn’t reply, doesn’t look at me, just sticks his hand out to me.

Grabbing his hand, I add some antibiotic ointment to the knuckles on his right hand. “Why are you putting yourself through this? None of this is your fault.”

“It is my fault. I’m the one who decided to send him there; I’m the one who didn’t give him any backup. So yes, it is my fault,” he grits out.

I sigh. No matter what I say, he will blame himself for everything until Mateo’s back, and I need to have his back for every decision he makes.

“Did you have a chance to review the budget for the Third Street Project?” he asks, changing the topic.

“Yes, I looked it over, and something seems off. Who is the seller again?”

“One of those real estate brokers we’ve been working with and the city.”

He’s so close to me now. Close enough that our fingers brush, and I swear, a spark ignites.

“I should probably finish dinner.” I try to rush out of the gym before Gino grabs my arm and sits me back down on the bench with him.

“They’re adults, and you’re technically not required to cook for us, ever. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you, but the whole ‘you’re the cook and housekeeper’ is a cover for your protection in case something bad happens; you don’t actually have to do any of that work.”

“I like doing it, so it isn’t a bother.”

“I know,” he sighs, “but I don’t want you to ever feel that it’s an expectation.”

I nod my head. Gino has told me this many times over the years, and every time he tells me, I know he isn’t just saying it; he means it. All the guys here have; every single one has told me at least 100 times. They joke a lot about the only reason I’m around is because of my cooking, but they more often say how much of a value I am outside of that. It's a bonus that I like cooking.

“You were asking about the seller of the Third Street Project, right?” he asks.

“Yes, you said the city,” I reply.