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The newcomer glances briefly at me before settling his gaze on the lieutenant. “I’m Gervais Laurent, Mr. Russo’s lawyer. I’ll be representing Mrs. Russo. What are the charges?”
Lieutenant Lavigne faces me squarely, his signature smile curving his lips. “No charges.” He adds with emphasis, “This time.”
Mr. Laurent’s manner is business-like. “Unlock her hands and feet. If Mrs. Russo has been maltreated, you’ll hear from me again.”
“Oh, she has,” the lieutenant says. “But not by us.”
Mr. Laurent ignores the comment. He waits for Lieutenant Lavigne to uncuff me and to remove the chains from my ankles. When I’m free, Mr. Laurent takes my arm and helps me to stand. I’m grateful for the support. My body is stiff after sitting for so long, and my legs are uncooperative. I feel cold and brittle from the lack of blood circulation, and by the time the lawyer guides me into the lobby of the station, my teeth are chattering.
The space is crowed with people, but Angelo immediately draws my gaze. He’s a head taller than everyone, his black hair shining under the flickering lights. Even if he didn’t stand out because of his height, the fury rolling off him in waves would’ve caught my attention. Quiet violence glimmers in the depths of his dark eyes.
The people clear a path as he comes toward me with long, powerful strides. He carries my coat in one hand and a travel mug in the other. His gaze drills into mine, a thousand turbulent emotions transmitted as he hands Mr. Laurent the mug and helps me to pull on the coat, but not a word is said. Not here. I understand that.
Angelo holds my gaze as he buttons up the coat. I don’t make sense of all those emotions. I do however register the questions burning in his eyes.
Did I talk?
Did I break?
Did I betray him?
These questions are the only explanation for the cold, silent anger that pulsates around him.
He drapes an arm around my shoulders and pulls me into the warmth and protection of his body. Shielding me against him, he leads me outside as fast as my feet allow.
He stops on the pavement, takes the mug from Mr. Laurent, and puts it in my hand. “Chamomile tea with honey. It’s warm.”
I’m grateful for his foresight as I drink the hot, sweet tea. It warms my stomach, helping to dispel some of the cold. I’m thirsty and my throat is still sore. The relief when I swallow is instantaneous. Even though my pride doesn’t want me to take any comfort from him, I’m too exhausted and frozen to argue with myself or to refuse.
I take small sips, trying to make the treat last as Angelo walks me to a waiting car. He opens the backdoor and helps me inside. The interior is warm. The engine is running, and the heater is on. A driver turns in his seat and greets me in French. I don’t manage more than a nod.
Angelo shuts the door. He exchanges a few words with Mr. Laurent before coming around the car and getting in beside me. Once he’s buckled first my safety belt and then his, the driver takes off.
I lean my head on the backrest and turn my face toward the window, noting the lights that blur into a continuous line as we speed toward the city, but I don’t take in the sight. Not really.
“Sabella.” Angelo grips my face, the fingers of his large hand splayed over my cheeks as he forces me to look at him. “Did you tell them anything?”
“You can relax.” I sag deeper into the seat, exhaustion stealing over me. “You’re safe.”
The muscles in his jaw bunch, creating hollows under his high cheekbones in the shadows that play over his handsome features under the fast-shifting lights. Such a beautiful face. An angel’s face. I can never forget he has the heart of a devil.
“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” he says, brushing a thumb over my jaw. “I had no idea Lavigne was going to play that dirty.”
“It’s over.”
I tremble when I think about the lie. It’ll never be over. Not for me. Lieutenant Lavigne and Angelo have one thing in common. They’re both determined. Neither of them is going to let me go. This is only the beginning. I try to pull free, but Angelo doesn’t let me escape his touch or his piercing gaze.
Holding fast, he stares into my eyes. Too deeply. Seeing too much. “I should kill him.” Then softer, more seriously, “I will.”
Stiffening at the sound of that word on his lips, that single, small word that can decide a man’s fate, I glance in the driver’s direction. Angelo throws that threat around as if he’s a god, as if it’s his right to say who lives and who dies.
“Don’t worry.” Angelo finally sets me free. “He’s on my payroll.”
The driver, he means.
My face burns where his fingers branded me. “Nothing happened.” I finish the last of the tea and stare through the window again. “Just let it go.”
“Nothing?” Anger slips into his voice. “You call what happened to younothing?”
