Page 36 of A New Days Don

How the fuck am I supposed to keep her safe if she won’t talk to me?

I make a mental note to search deeper into her history and find whatever was erased from it. Someone is trying to cover their tracks, and they went to great lengths to do so.

Bacon sizzles in the pan, the only thing that is currently distracting me from the fact that Mila is bare, bathing in my bathroom. I could have let her use the guest room’s ensuite. I could also have jumped off the balcony instead of standing here with the torturous image of her milky thighs covered in bubbles. Both are highly improbable situations.

I would sooner burn that guest room down than have her anywhere else, but next to me or in my room.

After we got off the side of the road, I brought Mila back to my condo. We haven’t spoken since I insisted she tell me about whatever went down out front of Le Cochon Rouge—one of the rowdier bars in Vegas. But she wasn’t lost behind her eyes anymore. I expected her to fight me when we showed up here and not back at my club or the station, but she barely noticed where we were until I opened the door for the lobby.

Her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t fight me there either. Her body slumped in the elevator, and when I offered to get her settled in a bath, she accepted without any qualms.

That’s where she has been for the last twenty minutes, and for the last twenty minutes, I have been trying to distract myself from barging in and bathing her silky body by frying bacon, so when she’s done, we can eat.

I flip each bacon slice robotically.

Now that I have seen this version of Mila, my body vibrates with raw need to pull her from wherever she mentally disappeared to.

My phone begins to ring. Fabio’s name illuminates the screen, reminding me that I am not here to play house with Little Miss Law Enforcement.

I answer the phone while removing the various slices and place them onto the paper towel I had prepared, “Yes,”

“What the hell is going on, Massimo?” Fabio growls from the other end of the line.

“You’re always such a delight to speak with,” I drawl while taking the toast out of the toaster.

“You hide away in Chicago for the better part of a decade, leaving your father and I to run–”

“Watch your mouth before I leave your tongue for your wife to find.” I snap, keeping my voice low. I check the hallway toward my bedroom.

Fuck.

I can’t have this conversation right now. Not when she could be out at any moment.

“What do you want? Make it quick, you have two minutes before I hang up.”

“Why have you returned to Las Vegas?” The defensiveness in his tone can be heard loud and clear. Just like when we were kids, he’s running around with a complex, worried that I will best him.

“That’s for me to know,” Fabio groans in frustration on the other end, but I don’t have time for his insolent responses.

“Time’s up.”

I jam my finger down on the end call button, returning my attention to the dinner I’m attempting to make. My phone rings again, but this time I silence it. He can fuck right off.

I haven’t made a meal for anyone since I was a boy, and the last thing I made in recent years was burnt eggs, but I don’t want anyone here. Even a deliveryman settling his eyes on Mila makes my skin crawl with the need to spill blood.

I barely finish placing the lettuce on top of the sandwich before soft padding creeps down the hallway toward me. When I look up, I see her standing shyly at the entrance to the hall.

Her dark hair is damp. Her skin is dewy from the bath. But what makes me freeze is the sight of her wearing one of my t-shirts like some domesticated wet dream.

My t-shirt. My home. My woman. Mine.

I clear my throat, tearing my gaze from the female who has made herself comfortable in my condo—my room—and helped herself to my clothes. My teeth grind together as I try to focus on picking up the two BLTs I made, one of the easiest recipes I could find on the internet.

“I-I should have asked,” her voice cracks, and my heart follows suit in my chest. My breath becomes ragged at the unfamiliar feeling of pain and discomfort.

When she flinches, her blue eyes becoming hazy as she steps back into the hallway’s shadows, “Don’t.”

Mila stops her retreat instantly, the pulse in her neck beating passionately against the column of her neck, calling my name.