Page 266 of Alessio

“I don’t do tears, fix your face.”

“Excuse you?”

“I can’t handle a woman that cries all the time, so quit it.”

Fuck him.

“Would you shut up?” Ginevra barked back. “You have no idea what my life has been like lately, or what happened to me today! Just … shut up!”

Corrado blinked, murmuring, “You’re kind of a mess, donna.”

“And you’re kind of an asshole. What about it?”

Those tears still hadn’t stopped flowing. Corrado let out a harsh noise, but that time when he looked her way, a sympathy stared back from him. She didn’t know what happened until the tires of the car crunched on gravel, and they slowed to a stop. He came across the seats after throwing off his buckle. He snatched a couple of napkins from the cup holder between them, and with a soft, but quick, hand, wiped the wetness from her face.

And likely what was left of her ruined makeup, too.

He kept stroking away those tears, never saying anything the entire time. Part of Ginevra liked that far too much—the way he looked as he focused on his task of wiping away her tears, and how he did it with such silent intensity that it struck her quiet.

And made her stop crying at the same time.

Finally, she whispered, “Thank you.”

Corrado shrugged one shoulder. “Don’t mention it.”

“Where are we going?”

“Home. Or, a place I used to call home … I’m sure they’ll be surprised to see you with me when I arrive.”

She frowned.

What did that mean?

Who else would he show up with?

“For how long?” she asked.

“Apparently,” Corrado drawled out, sitting back in his seat and buckling up again, “until I am told otherwise. Settle in, I’m sure it’ll be fun.”

Yeah.

But would it really?

“Home sweet home,” Corrado muttered, dropping Ginevra’s box—the one Andino had given her with the forged passport, and other things she might need—to the floor. “Feel free to find a room you like, except the master bedroom, it’s … mine,” he said, after hesitating. “And yeah, that’s about it for now.”

He didn’t say anything else, simply headed down the hall without taking off his blazer, or removing his shoes. Ginevra didn’t feel comfortable enough to walk through this Toronto penthouse without taking her manners into consideration. If he owned the place, then he could do what he wanted—she hadn’t been raised that way.

Hanging up the hat that she had used to hide her face as she escaped from the church, Ginevra noticed the coats hanging along the rack on the wall. It wasn’t that there were coats there that made her hesitate, but more the fact that they were two entirely different styles.

Leather.

Blazers.

She kicked off her shoes, and moved them into one of the cubbies underneath the row of jackets, noticing there, too, were different styles of shoes. And not just a selection of loafers, but rather, combat boots, a pair of Doc Martens, and then next to those, runners, Armani loafers, and a pair of shined, black leather dress shoes that would work with any suit.

And just with a quick glance, she could tell the shoes were two different sizes. Like they belonged to two people.

Two men.