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“No, Sandro. That’s not what—”
“Boss …” a man pleads. “Don’t shoot him.”
My jaw drops. Oh, hell.
“Anyone have anything else to say about my girl?”
The universe falls silent, but my thoughts echo loudly within my mind. Has he lost his mind? His girl? Tommaso insinuated as much.
Sandro’s actions, not so much.
“I trust her. Understand?”
“Yes,” the chorus erupts.
I squeeze my eyes shut, a myriad of emotions washing over me. Surprise. Pleasure. Frustration. Outrage … When we’re together, it certainly doesn’t feel like he trusts me.
Unless he doesn’t trust himself.
“You’re too good for me. Too sweet. Totally corruptible.”
“If Riley knew anything about Emilio Conti’s whereabouts, she’d tell me.”
Wait, who? My eyes snap open.
“My girl might be an eavesdropping snoop, but she’d never betray me.”
I glance around the hallway until my eyes fix on the globelike light above. A camera. Oh, God. Was he aware of my presence this entire time?
Panic rolls over me, and I duck my head and flee.
Because I’m his girl.
Because despite all that’s happened, he trusts me.
Because Emilio Smith—the man Ciro helped hide in an expensive Mexican hotel—must be Emilio Conti, the man responsible for attacking Sandro.
The man Sandro’s hunting.
Sandro returns to Rhode Island for a week. Leaving me with a horrible secret, one that is best not shared over the phone.
On the seventh day, I wake to find Sandro sprawled in a chair beside my bed in a deep sleep. Hair disheveled. Suit wrinkled. A troubled expression on his handsome face.
His body’s healed from the beating, but his dark soul struggles. “He grew up fast,” Tommaso had said. The Beneventi heir. A mafioso prince.
Yet at what cost?
I study him for a long while, my heart in my throat. He doesn’t want to want me. I don’t want to want him. But here we are.
With a quiet sigh, I crawl out of bed, retrieve a fluffy white throw blanket from the chair, and lean over to cover him with it. Despite the exhaustion from traveling, Sandro smells good, and for the briefest second, I embrace his familiar scent. Always, long after he’d leave me, his scent would linger on my sheets, on my body, mixed with the aftermath of our lovemaking.
How I yearned for more than his scent to linger.
I begin to shift away, when he clamps a hand around my arm and tugs me down onto him.
“You’re awake,” I gasp, struggling to remove myself. Except he’s not having it and settles me across his lap.
He grunts.
