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A tremor wracks through my body from feeling his powerful body against mine.
Maybe he does care? Why else would he try to comfort me?
“He deserved to die,” Renzo whispers, his voice still laced with darkness but also carrying an undertone of sorrow. “He’s the one who killed Giulio.”
I nod quickly to show I’m listening.
“My little brother was my heir. There was no one I loved more than him,” he admits.
Realizing Renzo is actually opening up to me has my lips parting with shock. This is a side of him I haven’t seen before.
Silence falls around us, and I become overly aware of how it feels to be held by this man. Whether he’s holding me to offer some comfort or because he’s playing with my emotions is unclear, though.
Turning my head, I rest my ear against his chest, and my face goes slack when I hear how fast his heart is beating.
Is it racing because of me?
Do I dare get my hopes up?
Not wanting to miss my chance, I pull my arms free from between us and wrap them around his waist.
My heartbeat speeds up dangerously fast when his body curves around mine, and he presses his mouth to my hair.
Holy. Freaking. Shit.
Suddenly, he lets go of me, and walking past me, he mutters, “Let’s go home.”
I quickly follow him out of the restroom while my mind races a mile a minute to process what I just learned.
Renzo has to care about me to react like that. Right?
Chapter 26
Renzo
Feeling a hell of a lot better since I killed Constellanos, I’m calmer when it comes to Skylar.
With Dario and my men searching the globe for Servando Montes, I took some time to check on my mother before she left to visit her cousins in Sicily.
Standing in the living room with a tumbler of whiskey in my hand, I stare out the floor-to-ceiling window, not actually taking in the scenery of the city skyline.
I hear Skylar’s soft footsteps as she comes down the stairs, and turning around, my eyes follow her to the kitchen.
I finish the last of the whiskey and set the glass down before I head to the kitchen. She’s busy taking ingredients from the fridge.
I sit down on one of the chairs by the island so I can watch her cook. No amount of torture will have me admitting out loud that I like watching her prepare food for us.
“What are you making for lunch?” I ask as I rest my forearms on the granite top.
“Lamb rib eye with garlic and sage roasted potatoes,” she replies. She sets the meat down on the counter then looks at me. “It was my mom’s favorite.”
A smile tugs at her mouth, and as I stare at her like a dumbstruck idiot, it widens.
Her tone sounds friendly when she adds, “I hope you’ll like it.”
Seeing her smile does weird things to my insides. Especially my heart.
‘You could always marry her, and she could give you the heir you lost.’
