Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
His eyes darken. “You left.”
“I was a kid. I did what I was told. I didn’t know—”
“Enough.” He cuts in, voice sharp now. “This is how things have to be.”
“Why?” I demand. “Because it’s easier for you? Because you don’t know how to let go of a grudge without turning it into a war?”
His hand curls at his side. “Because letting you walk back into your old life as if nothing happened isn’t an option.”
I step into his space, fury buzzing under my skin. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“I already did.”
The slap happens before my brain catches up to what I’m doing. My hand reaches up and connects with his cheek, the sound loud in the quiet room. A sharp crack that echoes all around us.
My breath catches as his head turns slightly with the impact.
For one terrifying second, the room goes utterly still.
Then his hand closes around my wrist. His touch is not crushing, but it’s not gentle either.
He steps in, forcing me back until my spine hits the wall beside the window. One arm cages me in, palm braced against the wall just inches from my head.
His voice drops, low and lethal. “Don’t.”
My pulse screams to run, but I don’t. “Let go of me.”
“Don’t hit me.” His eyes lock on mine. “Ever.”
“You don’t get to do this to me,” I counter, chest heaving. “You don’t get to isolate me.”
His grip tightens. It doesn’t hurt, but I know he’s there.
“I never did anything to you,” I repeat. “I didn’t betray you. I didn’t ruin you. I don’t deserve to be locked away from my family.”
For a moment, something flickers across his face.
I can’t place it, but it doesn’t feel like anger. It looks like pain, but that doesn’t make sense.
Before I can overanalyze it, the look slips from his face.
“This is the way things have to be.” His voice is quieter now. “You’re safer here.”
“From what?”
His gaze searches my face, jaw clenched. “From everything that would lead you to hurt me.”
The words land heavy.
“But the thing is, you don’t get to make that choice for me.”
His gaze doesn’t waver as he stares at me.
The room feels too small.
I can feel his breath on my skin, feel the tension coiling tighter with every second he doesn’t move away. My wrist is still trapped in his hand, my body pressed against his, and of course my heart beats faster. My damn treacherous heart . . .
This is the danger.
Not the guards.
Not the snow.
This.
I swallow, needing to pull myself together. “Let go.”
His jaw flexes, and for a heartbeat, I don’t think he will, but then his hand releases my wrist. He steps back abruptly, making his arm drop from the wall.
I watch him as he drags his hand through his hair. It almost looks like he wants to say something but is refraining.
“You want to go to your parents’ house?” he says, voice rough. “We’ll discuss it when the roads open.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.” He grabs his jacket from the chair and turns to walk away. “I’m done with this conversation.”
“You’re running,” I accuse.
He pauses at the doorway, shoulders tense. “I’m exercising restraint.”
He doesn’t look back.
The door shuts behind him with a solid finality that echoes through the room.
I slide down the wall slowly, legs giving out as adrenaline drains from my system. My hand trembles where he held it. My cheek burns with the ghost of his presence.
I press my forehead to my knees, breathing hard. Shaken. That’s what I am. By him. By myself.
By the way my body reacted when he crowded me.
I hate him, hate this.
And most of all, I hate that I leaned in instead of pulling away.
49
Lorenzo
We all take positions at the warehouse.
Two of my uncle’s men are stationed at the front door. One stands in the back of the building, and another looks bored while his hand rests on his gun.
I sit at a folding table with a scale and a ledger. Rafe hovers two feet to my right, jacket open, also with a hand on a gun.
Matteo, who’s leading the charge, stands front and center in the warehouse. Waiting. Arms crossed. Gaze sharp.
A truck rumbles outside. I can hear the tires crunching over the gravel before it rolls to a stop.
“Positions,” Matteo orders.
Rafe’s hand drifts casually to his gun as he waits.
“Hopefully, this goes smoothly.” Matteo cracks his knuckles.
“Smooth, doubtful. Does anything ever go smoothly?” I answer, watching through the window as the first SUV door opens.
“Have you always been so pessimistic?” Matteo laughs.
“Yep.”
The buyer steps out. He’s got to be in his mid-thirties. Hair gelled; he’s really giving off the stereotypical made man vibe. I swear I’m in an old 1990s mafia movie.
His men spill out behind him. Three men, to be exact.
The guard at the door swings it open, and the buyer and his men walk inside.