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“See, they don’t operate that way, and you want out, you get it. As long as you don’t betray them. They run a good ship. And it’s fucking tight, and people are loyal. I chose to stay. I worked hard to be where I am.”
He’s never walking from it. That’s in his voice.
“What happened to your parents?”
“My fucking father did small shit for a nasty, evil family, the Gheatas. And there was an altercation that had nothing to do with him or my mom. Or me. I was nine. De Lucas don’t harm kids or innocent women. My mom was innocent.”
My heart starts to hammer, and he locks eyes with me. I don’t want to hear this.
I have to.
“The Gheatas killed a lot of people. I probably would have died if my mother didn’t sacrifice herself. To some, I’d have been deemed Gheata property, marked by sins that weren’t mine. Not to De Luca.”
“They saved you, and that,” I say softly, “is why you’ll never leave them.”
Nicolo doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to, I can see the truth. Even if there was a chance, that’s a death knell if ever I knew one.
I’d need to embrace his life, and willingly go back to what I ran from.
If he wanted me.
If.
* * *
The next day I’m finishing up on the small wedding photoshoot Rhett sent me on. I’m done with all the official photos and finishing with the candid shots people seem to like.
In the bathroom, I smooth my fingers down over my hair, trying to arrange it to hide the bruises and marks from Nicolo that adorn my throat.
I don’t want to. Like some overgrown teen, I get a thrill from them, like he marked me as his.
He let me come on this today, and that battle seemed a little easy. But I’m pretty damn sure he’s there, nearby, watching me.
How a man his size can blend in when he wants to is beyond me, but occasionally, I shiver with a bite of delight, and I know he’s watching me.
Okay, I’m ready to head out, take a few more photos and then call Nicolo to get me.
Will he appear seconds later or pretend he’s not here?
I sling my camera bag over my shoulder, and then I push open the bathroom door.
If was a betting girl, I’d—
“Ow.” I run smack bang into a solid someone. He smells of sweat and rye whiskey, a scent I’ll never forget from the time on my first day when I spilled a glass all over myself. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t looking.”
Glancing up, my words falter.
The man is older, dark-haired, ugly, with a scar along the lower side of his face. He doesn’t move.
Like he’s been waiting for me.
The lightness inside shatters, and cold invades.
“Excuse me, please, I—”
“Little puta,” he says, voice accented, and he grabs my wrist in a bruising grip. “Hand it over, bitch, or we’ll add you to our list of girls. You’ll fetch a pretty peso, and your boyfriend won’t be able to stop us.”
ChapterNineteen
