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I softly took the glass from her hand, then grabbed her chin until she looked at me. “Talk to me. Make me understand.”
I didn’t like the uncertainty and the fear glimmering in her eyes.
“Your uncle has some information. Information that—if it came out—would destroy this family.”
“So, you’d rather sacrifice yourself than have this family go to hell. That’s beyond fucked-up.”
She hit my upper arm. Hard enough to get my attention. “Don’t cuss. Have you forgotten your manners, Gabriel?”
I loved how she pronounced my name. Gabriel—the American version of my name. Nobody else ever called me Gabriel.
When Hawk took me in, he called me Falcon from day one—that’s who I’d been for the past fifteen years.
Falcon or Gabe.
Cristo and Vincenzo had called me Gabriele—the Italian pronunciation—or Gabe.
My mom was the only person who called me Gabriel.
“If I can prevent hurting someone I love more than anything in the world, I will gladly give my life,” she said.
Fuck.
If it was only her life to give. My thoughts immediately turned back to Cristo and my little captive.
Did he accomplish what I’d asked him to do? Or did word already get out?
Did Fausto already know I stole his slave?
And what kind of sadistic punishment would she receive if he ever got her in his hands again—or my mother?
I turned around when I heard footsteps approaching, shifted my mother behind me, and grabbed a knife from the knife block.
But lowered it as soon as I saw my brother step through the doorframe.
“Alessio.”
My brother stared at me as if he’d seen a ghost. Then his face transformed into an ugly sneer.
Not happy, then.
“So, you’re really back.”
I raised a single eyebrow. Didn’t Cristo mention Alessandro was on board with me coming back, even wanted me back?
“I was wondering if you had the guts to do it.” He was speaking English with me—which all three of us—thanks to our mother’s insistence—spoke without an Italian accent.
“Yes, apparently, I’m stupid enough to have come back.”
Alessandro nodded. “So, the old man was right, after all,” he said, before turning around and leaving.
“Give him time,” my mother said and caressed my arm. “He has had the hardest time adjusting to your papa’s death.”
I nodded, opened the fridge, grabbed a platter of cheese and a glass of olives, then went to the wooden box and grabbed a loaf of bread. “I’m beat. I’m going to bed. Let’s talk in the morning.”
My mother smiled at me. “You always needed a nighttime snack.” She sighed. “I prepared the suite myself. I hope you feel as safe and happy there, as I always did with your papa.” Her voice turned hoarse, and her eyes turned watery.
Oh fuck.
