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“Did you have a good trip home?” I murmur awkwardly, then curse myself. It’s something a girlfriend or wife might say.
“Negative.”
The bitterness within his tone has me searching his hard expression. His head rests against the chairback, and his eyes are closed, so I don’t expect him to elaborate. But then, he does. “Turns out I miss … here.”
My heart thunders in my chest, but I ignore it. “Surely your father was pleased to see you.”
“Pleased isn’t the right word. Angered. Disappointed.”
I study him, incredulous he’s sharing his frustrations with me. “You work like a fiend, Sandro. His disappointment’s misplaced.”
“I was ambushed and made my family vulnerable.”
“You escaped four men who meant to kill you.” Will he trust me if I share what I know about Emilio Conti? Or will he once more believe I was in on the attack? I’ve battled this dilemma all week. But now that Sandro’s returned …
He shifts me so my back rests against his chest and then begins to stroke my hair. I relax into him, remembering a morning like this, when I shared my darkest secret and then all hell broke loose.
Still … “Who is Renzo?”
His body stiffens. “Eavesdrop much?”
“A little. Your yelling is impossible to ignore.”
“Renzo’s my brother. He’s fucked up and out of control yet somehow manages to elude my men.” His words slur, exhaustion setting in. But he presses on. “I pray he’ll manage the same with our enemies until I catch the dodgy asshole.”
God. This monster, my kidnapper and troubled lover, loves his brother. “Have you always taken care of him?” I murmur, remembering what Tommaso said about Sandro stepping up when Renzo faltered.
For a long while he doesn’t respond, lost in thought and half-asleep. But when he does, his words shatter me.
“I love little in this world. But what I do love, I trap to keep safe.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The next day, Sandro’s downright merciless. The vulnerable man who shared his soul is no more, replaced by a horrible, bossy beast.
I’ve been ordered into his office for the day and given two directions. One—don’t speak unless spoken to. And two—never touch the zipper on my uniform, which continues to be lowered at an indecent length no matter how I try to adjust it.
He shoved a tablet and earbuds at me, then barked an order. “Sit.”
After that, he ignored me.
I recline on the spanking chair and search Italian phrases on an app, desperately distracting myself from dwelling on questions like: “How many brunettes has the monster bent over the hump?” Or “How many women have sat in this exact spot, wearing a pristine white uniform with their breasts hanging out?”
“Dongiovanni.” I repeat the Italian word for “lover boy” as I glare at him.
His eyes narrow. I’ve distracted him during a business call.
In a few short hours, I’ve learned a lot about him. Sandro’s intelligent, with Ivy League book smarts and Michael Corleone street smarts. Curious, I eavesdropped on a few conversations while pretending to occupy myself. He’s making a killing on stocks. Conducts his casino business like a corporate CEO. Problem-solves with ease—except for the matter of Renzo.
And … Emilio Conti.
I can’t keep avoiding the discussion. Swallowing hard, I decide to speak up once his phone call ends. In the meantime, I distract myself with the app, hoping to impress Mama Biello with my limited Italian.
But then, I remember the phrase those horrible women kept saying and decide to run a search. I whisper the words into the app, hoping the phonics are correct:
Sandro odia la sua fidanzata
I blink hard at the translation:
