15. Gabriel
15
GAbrIEL
I t feels like I’ve only just fallen asleep when I’m woken by the sound of a high, feminine scream.
This time, I don’t have to wait to know what it is. I know it’s Bella, and I’m out of bed in a moment, hurrying to her room. I knock once this time before I push the door open, not wanting to scare her, and find her curled on her side in the bed, clutching her pillow and trembling.
She sits up like a shot when she sees me, still clutching the pillow, her eyes wide and apologetic.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m sorry. I woke you up again. I—” She trails off, clearly not knowing what to say, because it’s not her fault. She has nightmares because of what those monsters did to her, and I can’t imagine what it must feel like, to have endured something like that.
“Bella. There’s nothing to be sorry about.” I sink down on the edge of the bed, careful not to touch her, even though everything in me wants to.
Everything in me wanted to touch her earlier today, too, under entirely different circumstances. I can’t help but wonder if she realized her own reaction to what I’d mistakenly said— or rather, the way I hadn’t meant to say it. I meant to teasingly reprimand her for not buying something for herself after I’d told her to, but it had come out like a very different kind of order. My repressed desires, I suppose, rearing their heads at the opportunity. But I’d seen the way her pupils widened, the way she breathed in and tensed, not with fear, but with a reaction that had sent a hot pulse straight down to my cock the instant I recognized it.
I don’t think she realized it, because, from all I know about what happened to her, that feeling would have frightened her if she had. I don’t reach for her now, not only because I know that she doesn’t like to be touched, but because I’m too afraid of what else I might do if I touch her. If I pull her into my arms and let her lay against my chest. It would be the height of being an absolute bastard to take advantage of her in this situation, but I can all too easily see how comforting her could turn into kissing her, and if she allowed it, into so much more.
“When will you have your pills again?” I ask her instead, distracting myself, and I see her curl in on herself a little, that apologetic expression intensifying as she chews on her lip.
“I’m sorry, I know this is an inconvenience—I’m waking you up, and you’re busy; you need your sleep?—”
“Bella.” I shake my head, narrowing my eyes at her. “You’re not an inconvenience. None of this is. I’m concerned for you, that’s all. I want you to have a good night’s sleep, free of night terrors, and not just because it wakes me up or because you’re supposed to watch my kids in the morning. I want you to be okay.”
She looks up at me sharply, as if those last few words have startled her. As if my concern startles her. And that only adds to the convoluted tangle of feelings inside of me, only reinforces my resolve to talk to Masseo as soon as possible. Because it’s clear that no one has made this woman feel cared for in her entire life. That no one has ever protected her. That no one has ever cared about her happiness or safety unless it could benefit them. I want to give that to her, in a visceral way that mingles with my desire until I’m not sure where one ends and the other begins, and I know how very, very dangerous that is. How quickly those feelings could morph into something that isn’t good for either of us.
Just like I know how dangerous what I’m about to suggest is.
“When, Bella?” I ask her again. “When will you have the pills?”
“The end of next week,” she manages, wiping at her face. “My appointment is Thursday.”
“Until then, you can come sleep in my bed.” I want her close to me, but I have other reasons for it, too. I think her isolation is a large part of the problem—based off of her description of the situation, her father took very little interest in her recovery, and left her mostly alone while he looked for ways to exploit her again. I think having someone near her will help her sleep.
“What?” She stares at me. “No, you don’t have to do that?—”
“I know I don’t have to. But I think having someone next to you with no ulterior motive, who can keep you safe, right there within reach, will help.” I don’t have an ulterior motive , I tell myself firmly. I want her close because I want to protect her, not because I want her in my bed. Nothing is going to happen between us. “I’ll put up a wall of pillows between the two of us if I have to, in order for you to feel comfortable,” I promise her, lightening my tone in hopes that it convinces her. “But I think you’ll feel safer. And at least then, if you wake up crying, I can comfort you without having to travel so far.”
It’s a little bit of a low blow, playing on her guilt over waking me. I know that, but I want to convince her that this is a good idea. I really do think it will help her. And I can control my own thoughts. I’ve done it every time the urge to touch her or let her see my desire has reared up, and I can do it again, even if she’s right next to me. I feel sure of that.
Bella swallows hard, and I can see the uncertainty on her face. But I don’t back down, and she finally nods—whether because she agrees it’s a good idea or because she’s not capable of arguing, I’m not sure. But as problematic as it might be, I’m glad either way, because it means she’s agreeing, and I at least feel confident of my plan.
I feel less confident when we’re actually in my room. Bella looks at the large bed, her doe eyes going wide and fearful, and I half think she’s going to bolt out of the room.
“I’m not going to bite you,” I tell her gently. “You can sleep as far away from me as you want. There’s nothing to be afraid of. I just want to help you, Bella.”
She nods, taking a breath, and walks to the bed. Quickly, she tugs the covers back and slips under them, pulling them up to her shoulders, and I go to join her on the other side.
“You can also sleep next to me, if you want,” I offer, before I think better of it. “If having someone hold you would help?—”
That’s the worst idea you’ve ever had, I chastise myself, relieved when she shakes her head, because I was an idiot to offer. The last thing I need is her delicate, lithe body pressed up against mine, warm and soft, tempting me with everything that she has to offer and everything that I haven’t had in so long.
“I don’t like being touched,” she says softly, turning slightly to face me as I slide into the bed. “Not after—I just can’t stand it. Even just a slight touch—it makes my skin crawl, makes me nauseous. I can’t do it.”
“Then you don’t have to,” I reassure her quickly, and I see her relax a tiny bit. “Just try to sleep, Bella. And if you wake up again, I’m right here.”
“I’ll probably wake you up even more, like this,” she whispers guiltily. “It’s not like I wake up screaming every time, even though it probably seems like it. But I toss and turn a lot, especially without the pills, and I don’t sleep well. I’m going to disturb you.”
“I’m a pretty heavy sleeper,” I promise her. “But either way, it’s fine. And I think you might sleep better, like this.” I hesitate. “You’ve never slept next to anyone before, have you?”
“Clara, when she’d sleepover, sometimes. She was always given one of the guest rooms, but it was more fun to stay up late in my room until we both just passed out because we were so tired. But never—” She hesitates, but I know what the rest of that sentence is. Never next to a man.
Bella closes her eyes after that, the worst possible sentence she could have ended on, because it leaves my thoughts lingering on what else she hasn’t done. On the fact that I’m the first man she’s slept next to, and what other things could be firsts.
Or not, because of what happened to her, and what might have been taken from her, I chastise myself, mentally berating myself for even thinking that with her right next to me. I asked her to come sleep here to keep her safe, not to fantasize about her innocence, or think filthy thoughts while she lies trustingly next to me, falling asleep because I’ve promised to comfort and protect her if she needs it.
Not to imagine fucking her. Not to imagine how soft her skin must be under all those clothes, or how good any part of her would feel against my achingly hard cock. A few minutes of her lying there was all it took, the glimmer of inappropriate thoughts about a woman who I’m already crossing so many lines with, and I’m stiff as iron, throbbing and clenching my fists to stop myself from touching it.
I’m tempted to slip out of bed and go in the bathroom, if only so I don’t lie here next to her with a hard-on. It wouldn’t take long to get off. But the idea of jerking off a room away while she sleeps in my bed feels somehow worse. It makes me feel even guiltier, and I close my eyes instead, thinking of anything I can to ease the pressure and make my cock give up on its quest for relief.
I’d told myself I offered for entirely honorable reasons, that I could keep my thoughts on the straight and narrow while I slept next to her.
But it’s proving to be far harder—in every way—than even I imagined.
—
From what I can tell, Bella sleeps through the night. She’s still asleep when I wake up at my usual time, stirring a little at the sound of my alarm, but I quickly turn it off, and she sinks back into sleep. I move around the room as quietly as I can, dressing to go down to the basement gym and work out, and she doesn’t show any signs of waking again as I slip out of the room.
Down in the gym, I throw myself into the workout, verging on punishing myself for my arousal last night—and this morning. I woke up hard as a rock, forcing myself to ignore it. I go through my rounds on the boxing bag and lift weights, do crunches and push-ups until I’m breathless and sore and too tapped out on energy to focus on the ache in my balls. The desire has relented for now, but I know as soon as I see her in my bed, it’s going to come back in full force.
Instead, I slink off to one of the other showers, on the floor with all of the guest rooms. It’s cowardly of me, but I know exactly what’s going to happen if I go back to my room, and see her curled up in my sheets. I’m going to want to slide back into bed, to breathe in the sleepy, warm scent of her hair and body, to press my hard cock against her until she opens her thighs and begs for it. It’s too easy to imagine, and even though I know that’s not how it would go in reality, it doesn’t keep me from imagining it.
I’m not going to give in , I tell myself firmly as I feel myself stiffen, the excruciating workout still not enough to keep all the blood from shooting straight to my cock the minute I start fantasizing about Bella. But I force myself to ignore it, exercising every bit of self-control that I have remaining. She’s going to be sleeping in my bed for the better part of the next week. If I start letting myself jerk off regularly to thoughts of her, it’s going to be far too slippery a slope when she’s right next to me in bed.
Especially not when I saw her reaction yesterday to my teasing command. When I can all too easily remember the look in her eyes when I came a breath away from kissing her that night in the living room. She feels something, too—this spark isn’t entirely one-sided, and it’s up to me to be the responsible one, the honorable one. To be the man who doesn’t take advantage of her, when so many others have.
Even if it feels like it’s going to kill me sometimes. Even though I can’t help wondering why the first woman I’ve truly wanted in so long, the first one I’ve not only desired but also liked , has to be a woman who is so completely off-limits to me in every imaginable way.
I focus all those pent-up emotions on something else instead—demanding that Masseo see me today. I fire off a curt text telling him that we need to meet, and as I sit down for breakfast I see his response, telling me that he has a busy afternoon but can fit me in for a few minutes after one p.m. today.
You’ll see me regardless, I think bitterly, my jaw tightening as I put my phone away. I want answers as to how this awful thing was allowed to happen to Bella, and as her father was a part of it, he’s best positioned to give me those answers. And if he doesn’t?—
I’ll go to the don himself, if I have to.
“You look deep in thought,” Agnes observes, sliding a plate of bacon, toast, and eggs in front of me, along with a protein smoothie. “Mulling over something important this morning?”
“Just business.” I flash her a smile, but she doesn’t walk away, which lets me know she has other things on her mind. Things that probably involve grilling me about Bella.
“Bella is awfully good with Cecelia and Danny.” There it is . “Shame that she can’t stay forever. I’m sure her father, being such an important man, isn’t going to want her working here long-term.”
“She’ll be here for as long as she wants to be.” It comes out more curtly than I intended, as I scoop up a forkful of eggs, but Agnes isn’t dissuaded.
“Is that so? You must be paying her father a pretty penny to mollify him, then. I know enough to know that girls like her don’t work for a living. But she seems happy to be doing it, which makes me wonder?—”
“It’s better not to.” I look up at Agnes, who has that narrow, curious look on her face that tells me she’s calculating something, coming up with plans and ideas that she’ll have every intention of seeing through, no matter how much meddling it takes. “Bella’s life at home is her own business. She’s here for now, and that’s all that matters.” Which is an incredibly hypocritical thing to say, considering the fact that I’m about to go meddle in Bella’s business this afternoon, when I go talk to Masseo. But I know the kind of meddling that Agnes does, and it’s the kind that’s only going to make my complicated feelings for Bella that much more difficult to deal with.
“If you say so.” Agnes sets down my cup of coffee, her mouth in a mulish line that tells me that she’s not going to give up so easily. She obviously thinks that there’s something more between Bella and me, and in that she would be correct. But she also clearly thinks that it has the potential to be more than just that, a spark of desire that needs to be quenched, and she’s wrong about that.
Bella needs more than I can give her. And I need to be a better man than giving in to those feelings would make me.
It’s hard to focus after I leave the house. I work on menial tasks for as long as I can, puttering around with paperwork and spreadsheets and going over plans for later in the year, anything that doesn’t require too much of my mental capacity. At noon, I pack up and leave, driving by one of my preferred sandwich spots to grab something for lunch before heading to the D’Amelio residence.
I haven’t been back here since I picked up Bella for that dinner. I haven’t needed to. Masseo and I settled most of our business for the foreseeable future that day. Since then everything has been handled over email. Walking back into the house brings back sharp, visceral memories of the first day I met Bella, of that sharp collision when she crashed into my chest, how soft she felt in the moment before she wrenched away from me, even under her layers of clothes. The memory of her wide, tearful eyes and her panicked expression and how, from that very first moment, I felt the urgent need to sweep her away and protect her, like a knight rescuing a princess. The kind of man I’ve never been before.
I’ve always preferred independent, even bossy, women. Women with sharp tongues and sharper opinions, who stood up to me and my own strong personality, who weren’t intimidated by what I did for a living or cowed by it. Delilah was that kind of woman, the kind who fought and loved with equal ferocity, who had her own life before she fell in love with me, and kept as much of it as she could. She and Bella are so far apart in the type of woman that they are that they might as well be from two different planets—Bella’s strength is a quieter kind, a sort that comes from within herself, an ember that needs to be nurtured instead of a crackling blaze. It doesn’t make Bella any less strong, but it’s an entirely different thing. And I admire it just as much.
But it doesn’t change the fact that Bella is also different from anyone I’ve ever wanted before. That my desire to protect her, to keep her safe, this feeling that snags on my physical desire for her until it becomes a kind of possessiveness that could be obsessive if I allowed it, is a feeling I’ve never experienced before.
It’s confusing and difficult to sort out, and so instead, I keep walking, all the way to Masseo’s office. This, I know how to handle. This—a confrontation with another powerful man, is comfortably within my skill set.
Masseo is sitting behind his desk when I walk in, sorting through something in a folder in front of him. He doesn’t look up until I sit down, a subtle power play, but I’m beyond caring about the games of powerful men right now. I have to focus on keeping my anger in check, so that I can have a civilized conversation with this man that I very much want to punch in the face at this moment.
“What do you need, Gabriel? If it’s about the next shipment?—”
“It’s not.” I take a slow breath, tempering both my words and my tone. “I wasn’t aware Bella was at one point engaged to Pyotr Lasilov.”
Masseo pauses for a moment, visibly startled by the statement, but he collects himself quickly. “I see no reason why you needed to know that.”
“You don’t think I needed to know that the woman I hired to care for my children was brutally tortured by the Bratva?”
Masseo snorts, and at that moment, it takes every fraying thread of self-control I have not to come over the desk and grab him by his collar.
“She wasn’t tortured ,” he says dismissively, and another of those threads frays a little more. “She was frightened. Handled roughly. Treated abysmally, for certain. But?—”
“She was raped, from the sound of it,” I say bluntly. Harshly, because Masseo needs to hear it. If no one else will hold him accountable for his actions?—
Why me? Why do I need to? I don’t have a firm answer for that, other than the fact that I’ve given Bella a job and a place to live, that it feels as if she’s under my protection now, and I want to keep her there. I want that protection to extend to making sure that no one can hurt her, ever again.
“The doctors saw no evidence of that,” Masseo said, with the same dismissive tone.
“Assaulted, at the very least.” My jaw tightens. “Which is no better.”
“I’d think it is. At any rate, Gabriel, that past has no bearing on her job with you. I didn’t see that it was necessary to share such an—unfortunate incident with you. For her own sake, if nothing else.”
I feel my teeth grind together, I’m clenching them so hard in an effort to keep control. I don’t believe for one fucking second that Masseo cared about his daughter’s privacy, when he kept these details to himself. He cared about his bottom line. About the possibility of collecting Bella’s paycheck from me, until she could be convinced to go along with another arranged marriage, for which he’ll collect more money.
She’s a tool to him. A means to pad his wealth and increase his power. He’s hardly the first mafia father to see a daughter in such a way, but it makes me angry in a way that it never has before—viscerally, as if it’s personal. I’ve always disapproved of the treatment of daughters in mafia families, always felt it was archaic and unnatural, and promised myself that my own children would never participate in any of it. But now, it feels much more immediate.
And it makes me fucking furious.
“They hurt her,” I say quietly, fighting to keep my voice even. “She was promised marriage and safety, by the don, but first and foremost by you . Her father. And instead, she was—what? Kidnapped, abused, and violated? And you think that’s not a form of torture?”
Masseo snorts again. “You’re familiar with the brutality of the circles we move in, Gabriel. There are things far, far worse than what Pyotr and his men did to her. But I raised Bella gently, kept her sheltered, and I think the shock of it was truly what made her collapse like that for months. It was all a bit dramatic—still is—but I do agree she must have been traumatized. But she has the best psychiatrist, access to medications, anything she could need to move past it. And she will, in time.”
His carelessness about all of it makes me see red. “And the ramifications of this?” I ask tightly. “The fact that the Bratva must be angry that their pakhan’s son was killed, that so many of their men are dead after this debacle? Did you not think it was worth warning me that I was taking a woman into my home, around my children, who was at the center of all of this?”
“Truthfully, it wasn’t her at the center. She was a consolation prize, to make up for the loss of the woman Pyotr Lasilov was promised.” Masseo steeples his fingers. “But no, I don’t believe the Bratva are of any concern to you. If anything, they’ll focus in on the don and his family, if there’s retribution to be had. Bella was incidental to them. They treated her as if she were incidental. I have no worries in that regard.”
He says it so confidently that I want to believe him. But a small part of me clings to the concern that’s sprung up and stayed with me since Bella told me who it was that hurt her.
The Bratva are not to be toyed with. Even I, who have worked with both them and the Italian mafia, as well as having done business with other criminal organizations on the East Coast, know that it’s wise to step carefully with them. More so than anyone else, other than perhaps the yakuza. I can’t be as sure as Masseo seems to be that there’s no danger.
But I also don’t think it’s so immediate, or so likely to be a problem, that I feel that it’s necessary to remove Bella from my household. A small part of me does wonder how much of that is because of how I feel about her, because of this odd, possessive protectiveness that’s all wrapped up in a complicated tangle of feelings that I can’t begin to know how to sort through.
I would do what was necessary, though, if I really thought that there was danger. If I thought my family was in danger. I would send Bella home, and it would hurt to do it, but my family would always come first.
I believe that.
“Is this the only reason you asked for this meeting?” Masseo taps his fingers irritably against his desk. “This—interrogation about my daughter’s past?” His mouth forms a thin line. “If so, I’ll have to ask you to please excuse me, Gabriel. I have a lot of work on my desk today.”
I very much doubt that. But it’s a curt way of telling me that he feels I’ve wasted his time, and I force myself to stay polite, to nod and push my chair back, all the while I’m seething inside with rage.
The last time I felt this angry?—
The last time was when Delilah died. When I raged at the hospital, the doctors, the ephemeral nature of the illness, God, whoever and whatever I could find to be angry at for taking her, for leaving me a widower without my wife and my children without a mother. I couldn’t find a singular target to be angry at, who deserved my fury, so I found anything and anyone I could pin the blame on. This feels like that, except this time, I have something more concrete. Someone .
Masseo D’Amelio. The Bratva. Targets for my rage—except exactly like last time, there’s nothing I can do about it.
There was no one I could take my rage out on when Delilah died. For over a year, I punished myself instead, living like a fucking monk, punishing myself like one, too. I worked out obsessively, ate as healthily as I could, barely drank, and didn’t so much as touch myself when I needed a release. I funneled all that rage into myself, and hid it from everyone around me. I did a good job of it, too, for the most part. Agnes, I think, could see how much pain I was in, could see that I was punishing myself with it. But she focused on my children, on keeping them from seeing it, and I’ve always been incredibly thankful for that.
Once again, there’s no way for me to express the rage I feel. I take the back roads home, driving well over the speed limit, but even then, I can’t take the risks I would have as a younger man. I have a family to take care of, to go home to. I can’t drive like a wild man, go on a bender, or pick up a gun and carve a bloody trail through everyone who dared look the other way while Bella was abused and assaulted. Even in this world, there are consequences for that. Maybe not legal ones, but worse. I won’t go to jail, if I get caught, or if the wrong people decide I’m a liability. I’ll end up sitting on a tarp while pieces of me are plucked off for hours, and then I’ll end up dead. And my family will be a casualty, too.
I’ve stayed safe in a brutal world because I don’t take sides in these kinds of conflicts. I stick to business, and keep my hands as clean as I can. I don’t get involved in the politics of the criminal underworld that my family has made their money in. I don’t care about their feuds and their wars and their marriages. And in return, I’ve never worried about coming home to find my family in danger because of the business I do.
The only absolute way to know that I’m not putting them in danger now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, is to send Bella home. But I think of her this morning, curled on her side in my vast bed, her face so peaceful once she finally managed to sleep. I think of her face nearly a month ago, tear-stained and panicked, as she ran from her father’s office. And I know that as surely as I need to protect my own family, I need to protect her, too.
Her father won’t do it. No one else will. It needs to be me.
The threat is minimal, I promise myself. Hardly even worth considering. Bella was a consolation prize, Masseo had said. The event was monumental to her, traumatic, but to the Bratva, she was just a substitute. Something easily forgotten. And the only man who had a personal reason to want something from her is dead.
I still feel unsettled, though, as I park my car and hand the keys to Aldo, walking inside. I feel restless, and I consider going down to the gym for a second workout, just to ease the tension. There’s only one other way I can think of that I’d prefer to ease it, and that’s not an option for me.
It’s not even something I should be thinking of.
I hear voices from the kitchen, and set down my bag, striding quickly in that direction. Seeing Cecelia and Danny always lifts my spirits, and just the sound of their voices usually makes me feel lighter, but today, it just reminds me of how much I’m responsible for. Of what I need to protect.
Danny is reading at one end of the table. Cecelia is on a stepstool, helping Agnes make latticework for a pie crust. And I see Bella sitting across from Danny, a laptop open in front of her, as she looks at something intently on the screen.
The moment she hears my footsteps, her head snaps up, and she closes the laptop immediately. There’s a guilty expression on her face, and I frown, looking at her from the doorway.
“What were you looking at?” I ask, and she bites her lip.
Now I really want to know.