Page 6 of His Rebel

“I’ll take care of it. Stay here.” I stop her before she steps outside.

I move to the counter and reach across, grabbing the imbecile by the collar of his shirt. “Do you know who I am?” I ask, and he nods. “Stay out of her room. She is under my protection. Do you understand?” I growl.

“But,Consigliere,no one was in her room. She’s wrong,” he says, and I’ve had enough.

I drag him across the counter. People gasp around us. The bell and pamphlets on the counter fall around him as I stand him in front of me.

“I am not yourConsigliere, but I will extinguish you if you lie to me again. She is under my protection,” I yell in his face, and he cringes back. I drop him to the floor and turn back to my doll. She is standing there staring at him and then looks at me. I expect to see fear, and I hate that I had to do that in front of her. But instead of fear, her cheeks are flushed, and I watch as she pants. I move toward her and push her out the doorway and head to the restaurant before I take her back to my place and fuck her brains out, just like she needs.

“What is aconsigliere?” she asks softly after a moment. She enunciated it perfectly. “Is that why no one has questioned you at all today? Or why you have him?” She waves back to Vincenzo.

“He works for my father and is here for both our protection. I’ll explain when we get to the restaurant.” I don’t want to have this conversation out here in public.

I stop at my favorite place and step inside. We are led to a private room I reserved earlier. When I pull out her chair, she slides down into her seat and I notice a mark on her neck. I’m about to apologize for hurting her earlier and marking her, but the waiter comes to the table and distracts me.

I ask her about her life, and she tells me how she was the maid and companion for an American girl outside of London for years. She is barely eighteen. I don’t know how that is possible, but I don’t question her further because she avoids answering my questions about her past. I do find out she is going to be working as a stewardess on another yacht in the Caribbean in a couple of weeks. She said she was saving money to go to university.

“What about your parents? Don’t they hate you traveling?”

She lowers her head, and I watch her start to fidget. “My parents are dead.” She doesn’t say anything else.

“What about your other family?” She reaches out for her glass of water and her hand trembles. I reach out and take it. “Tell me,piccolo bambola.”

“I don’t know. I’ve only ever known the Johansen family. They adopted me when I was young.” She raises her eyes to mine, and something clicks inside me.

She needs me.

She has no one.

“They adopted you and yet you worked for them?” I hear the gruffness in my voice.

She nods. “I was—” She stops and looks around before she leans forward. “They bought me to take care of their daughter. I was raised to be her constant companion. I’ve only ever known them. When I became an adult and asked to leave, that’s when they told me they got me from a church somewhere in Italy.”

Everything in my body locks up. A church adopted her off to the Johansens, a well-off family. The glass snaps in my hand, and I look down as the dark wine runs down and stains the tablecloth. It’s like the blood slowly pumping through my body.

“Where was this church, McKenna?” The growl in my voice is there as a premonition runs across my skin.

“Will you tell me what he meant byconsigliere?” she asks, changing the subject.

“It’s an advisor. Now tell me which church,” I bark, and for the first time today, she cringes back from me.

“I know that aconsigliereis an advisor. Why did he call you that?” She raises her voice at me. “And I don’t know which church, only that it was in Italy. I swear.”

She’s telling the truth, and I hate that I put the fear in her for a moment.

“I was supposed to be my father’s advisor.” I shake my head and take a deep breath. “He still wants me to be. So everyone”—I wave my hand—“around here thinks I will be one day.”

“You don’t want to help your father?”

“No.” The word comes out with a sigh.

“You don’t get along?” She pushes me. I asked her personal questions, so, of course, she’d want me to return the favor. I know she’s only had one other partner, and I suspect he wasn’t a boyfriend. I know she lives alone and has no one. I learned that she loves to draw and loves flowers. Yet, I haven’t shared the most important part of me.

“I love my father. He stepped up to do what others wouldn’t want to do. But after my sister… Well, we both changed. He became what he is, and I became what I am.” I leave it vague.

“What are you?” She looks at me through her lashes. Her topaz eyes sparkle in the candlelight.

“I’m a vineyard owner and I own an import-export business.” I don’t tell her more because I don’t want to scare her off.

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