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The man had obviously done something to her; otherwise, he wouldn’t be Sergio’s trump card, and my mind ran wild, my heart pounding out an enraged beat. He looked at her like he thought he owned her, like he could have her….
“It doesn’t matter.” It did matter, though.
“Emilia…” I hesitated. “Please just tell me, did he…?” Fuck. “Because I swear to God, if he touched you against your will, I’ll send men to kill him right now. I don’t give a fuck about your uncle.”
“No, he didn’t touch me like that,” she whispered. “But he would. He’s a monster.”
Sergio had given her a choice between bad and worse—a man she clearly knew was awful or a man with a reputation for violence. “So you ran because you knew I was a monster, too.”
And then I had captured her and offered her that deal. I’d made her believe I would send her back to Chicago, forcing her to pick between the same two fates. I was no better than either of them.
“I thought you were,” she said, so quietly I barely heard her.
I stroked over her hair, removing the pins and trailing my fingers through the messy strands. “I am piccola.” But I wouldn’t be, not to her.
We fell into silence, the soft lull of her breaths the sweetest melody.
I held her all night, woke her when the nightmares racked her body, and soothed her back to sleep. Over and over. I had to wonder just how broken Emilia Donato really was behind that armor and why a nineteen-year-old girl was so guarded. What the fuck had Romano done to her to chase her in sleep like that? I’d find out soon enough. I’d promised Donato that Matteo Romano would survive my city. I hadn’t specified in what state.
18
Emilia
I stood on the sidewalk and glanced up at the industrial-style building in front of me. Lights flashed through barred-over windows, heavy music pulsing from within. Apparently, Gio owned a nightclub, and having seen him at that gala, it made sense. He hid behind a mask of legitimacy.
I inhaled the cool night air, happy to be out of the apartment. I’d basically been trapped in there with Tommy for the last two days. Gio had business to handle, and as much as he loved to personally watch me at all times, apparently, it was too dangerous. I thought I would appreciate the space, but I actually missed his presence, which was concerning. I just slept better with him beside me, that was all. My subconscious was evidently a traitor, right along with my body.
I followed him down a dark side alley that stank of garbage and through the back door into the building. Inside was a dark corridor and a set of stairs that led to an office. It was simple—a desk, a leather couch, some monitors showing various security camera angles.
The far wall was entirely glass and looked out over the busy nightclub below. I moved closer, watching people dancing and drinking. They looked so free, as though nothing could touch them but the beat of the music, perhaps the sensual touch of a partner. It seemed like a new, forbidden world that I was suddenly eager to taste. It looked like an escape.
Gio’s hand landed on my hip, pulling me back against him. He said nothing, but he didn’t have to. Ever since I had broken down and cried on him after that meeting with Matteo, I felt like a pane of glass he could see straight through.
It had been two days and I was still grappling to reforge my defenses, but it was hard. I was tired. Tired of fighting a battle it felt like I would never win. Tired of riding the emotional rollercoaster of fear and determination. Seeing my uncle and Matteo had just exacerbated it, reminding me that they’d always be there, stalking my every move, even if I did manage to escape. If he can’t have you, no one can. I’d never truly be free. And in my moment of weakness, Gio silently offered me a reprieve, a place to rest, even if it was in the arms of a man who should be my enemy. But somewhere along the line, I’d stopped seeing him as that, and in those arms, I found the closest I’d felt to peace in what seemed like a lifetime of war.
Tomorrow, I told myself. Tomorrow I’d fight.
Gio pressed a kiss to the top of my head. I hadn’t forgotten our morning in the shower, the way he’d made me come for him with nothing more than dirty words and my own fingers. The way he’d stroked himself and groaned my name. Yet, he hadn’t tried anything since then. Nothing more than sweet kisses that were more reassuring than sexual. He’d let me cry on him… Never mind blurred lines, this felt like a ball of yarn, tangled strands knotting together in a way I couldn’t pluck apart. The man could make me hate him, want him, and yearn for the warmth of his embrace all in the same breath. Sex was easy. Sex as a motivation, I understood, but this…whatever was happening right now, it made no sense.
