15. Trilby

T rilby

It isn't fear that makes me look away as I hold out my hand. It isn't trust either. It's pure, unadulterated confusion.

I'm pulsing beneath the black silk that covers my body.

I just witnessed a man being murdered, shot at point-blank range and dropped to the ground three feet from where I sat. I watched, frozen and unfeeling, as my fiancé flew out of the car in pursuit of the attacker, without so much as a backward glance. Then I allowed the shock and disorientation to drag me under even as Cristiano yanked me out of the car by my ankles and clutched me to his beating heart.

This whole day has brought back memories I've tried so hard to bury. First, the church where I said goodbye to Mama when I was just fifteen. Second, the shooting that took me right back to the day I sat in the back seat of my mother's car with her blood raining over me.

But now, in the quiet of the underground parking lot, under the dark shadow of the man who's driven me to safety—the man whose eyes I can't get out of my head—I'm a weak, boneless mess. I'm itching and aching, in need of something . And a terrifying voice in the back of my head is convinced Cristiano is the only person who can give it to me.

Thick black elevator doors slide apart. Cristiano pulls me inside and presses a series of buttons. I watch the doors close with a sense of detachment. In seconds they're opening again with a silence that reeks of money.

His hand warms my back, coaxing me into a bright, airy space. My ability to describe my new surroundings is impeded by the fact I've never seen anything like it. This place has no windows, just clear glass walls that seem to stretch around the entire outer edge. The view—not just of lower Manhattan but beyond it, to Staten Island and even as far as the Atlantic—tells me we're almost as high as the clouds. And the furnishings, which initially appear to be minimally chic, are anything but.

Cristiano walks across the floor delivering voice commands to an unknown entity, creating mood lighting, darkened glass, and soft music. When he circles back and comes to a sudden standstill, his brows draw together as if he's only just realized I'm standing in his apartment.

"Why the mood lighting?" I ask. "It's mid-afternoon."

He slowly pushes his hands into his pockets and watches me carefully. "You should try to relax."

I look around some more. There may as well be bars on the windows for all the freedom I now have. It's for this reason I can't keep the irritation out of my voice. "For whose benefit?"

He doesn't skip a beat. "Yours, of course." He nods toward a seating area. It's probably a living room, but it looks too slick and unlived-in for me to comfortably call it that. "Go sit down."

When I don't budge, his jaw tics, and he turns to walk into a sleek, modern open-plan kitchen.

I walk up behind him, quietly seething. After witnessing a man being murdered just inches away from me, less than an hour after I sat outside the church of memories I don't wish to revisit, I feel vengeful. And I'm not about to let anyone tell me what to do.

Fury is suddenly so near to my pores it burns.

I stand close enough to him that I can smell the sweat rising from his back. I fight the urge to place my palms over his thick muscles and feel the damp exertion beneath his shirt. Lust collides with hatred, and for some inexplicable reason, I want to hurt him.

His voice is soft as he turns his head a fraction. "Do as you're told, Castellano. Go sit down."

Mine is silky and spiteful as I reply. "Or else?"

His pause drags, and his breaths become heavy. "Don't test me."

His tone is thick with warning, but I can't stop myself. I want to push him. I want to see how hard I can press his buttons before he lashes out at me.

And God, I need him to.

I need a reason to hate him.

It's suddenly crystal clear. The only way I can get through this marriage to Savero and have Cristiano in my life is if he gives me a reason to despise him with all my heart—every inch of it.

I speak slowly and with as much venom as I can muster. "Don't tell me what to do. I am not yours to order around."

My heartbeat thumps in my ears as I feel his temperature rise. The heat between his spine and my chest feels oppressive.

I don't even get a chance to take a breath. In the blink of an eye, I'm spun around and pressed up against a counter, my spine bent backward, with an enormous hand around my throat.

My windpipe is unrestricted, but the threat of its closure is darkly present. My eyes stretch wide, absorbing the stark white ceiling, until his face moves into my view.

He growls through clenched teeth. "What part of ‘don't test me' do you not understand?"

The whites of his eyes gleam at me, and a knot twists deep in my gut. It feels like satisfaction.

"And what part of ‘don't tell me what to do' do you not understand?" I can only squeeze out a whisper.

A whisper and a smile.

Confusion clouds his face, along with something else. Something darker than he's let me see before.

Then I'm disoriented beyond measure.

A giant fist slams down on the kitchen surface, and my jaw is freed. I stagger backward and spin around to see Cristiano facing the counter.

His arms are braced, his knuckles white from where he's gripping the edges. I only notice the way his back rises and falls as he gasps for air because the movement mirrors my own. I can't seem to catch my breath.

"What just happened?" I whisper.

He squeezes his eyes closed and then curls both his hands into fists on the countertop. "I nearly kissed you," he says slowly. "That's what just happened."

My gut implodes.

The few kisses I experienced as a young adult left me wondering what the fuss was all about, but right now, my lips are tingling with the need to press against his. It's an urge so raw, so brazen, and so foreign to me, but I need it like oxygen.

My entire pelvic area has turned to jelly, while he seems more solid and defiant than ever. Myriad responses flash through my mind, but none of them feel appropriate. There really is no appropriate way to say "I wish you had." At least not when it's being said to the brother of one's fiancé.

So instead I do whatever any self-disrespecting Cosa Nostra fiancée would do: I take full responsibility and apologize.

"I-I'm sorry."

He turns his head a fraction but keeps his eyes closed. "Don't you dare apologize for a man's behavior."

I go to open my mouth, but his lids ping open, spearing me to the spot.

"I nearly kissed you ," he repeats. "You did nothing wrong."

Despite his assertion, I can hear Papa and Allegra's words ringing in my ears, chastising me for drawing his eyes, riling his temper, and using my feminine wiles to lead him astray.

Everything stills—even my beating heart.

"What if I wanted you to?"

I lower my gaze to the floor, afraid to look at him. The burn of his stare mellows into a warm caress on the side of my face.

"You can't say things like that to me, Castellano." His voice is soft, but it carries a dark warning.

I inhale a shallow breath. "But it's true. I wanted you to kiss me."

A glance through the corner of my lowered lids makes my breath hitch. He's released his fists from the counter and is now stretching and flexing his fingers while his eyes scan me intensely.

He takes a slow step toward me, then another one, until his chest is almost brushing my nipples. My spine cries out to arch a little so I can press my breasts into him, but the look on his face is agonized, as though he's debating the merits of ending me and putting himself out of his misery.

He brings a rough palm up to my face and lets it rest there gently. "Listen to me," he says, his voice lucid and low. "There's no room in this life for wanting something you can't have."

My breath stutters inside my chest as his deep burgundy eyes make my skin burn.

I part my lips to speak, but his forefinger moves across them and presses down gently.

His voice dips with the stroke of defeat. "Sometimes the best memories are the ones we can't make."

He drops his hand from my face and walks out of the kitchen toward the expansive windows. The sky outside is darkening with thunderclouds. With the oppressive humidity we've been having, we're due a storm.

I follow at what I think is a safe distance, my head spinning with thinly veiled warnings and the burn that comes from realizing the chemistry I thought was all in my head is actually real, and he feels it too.

In the heat of this moment I don't know what's worse: wanting this man in some raw, carnal way, believing he's blissfully ignorant of it; or knowing the feeling is mutual but that an entire underworld stands in the way of it ever being more than an inconsequential feeling.

"You will stay here tonight," he says without looking around. "I don't know when Savero will be finished."

I know what that means. Savero will be pursuing every single person who might be somehow connected to the man who shot his driver at point-blank range, and that's a task impossible to put a timeframe on. But Cristiano's warning still echoes in my ears.

"Maybe it would be better if I went home."

He turns and looks at me, almost weary. "Even your father, someone who's lived a life on the edges of this world, hasn't seen the kind of threat we Di Santos have been under for as long as we've been alive. A lot of people want us dead and will keep trying to kill us—and those closest to us—until they get what they want. You're at risk now, Castellano, and your father can't protect you anymore."

He lets the weight of his words settle on my shoulders, then he jerks his head toward the back of the room. "You are exhausted, and I have a spare room you can sleep in."

I am exhausted. I've seen enough in one day to last me a lifetime.

"Is it okay if I use the bathroom?"

His jaw tics from side to side. "There's one in the spare bedroom, but if you want to take a shower, the best one is in the master. I'll show you."

He strokes his gaze down my neck and lingers on my collarbone one last time, then he walks past me.

I take in his gait as I follow. It's smooth, assured, and purposeful—everything I wish I were. He opens a set of doors and takes out two unfathomably fluffy towels. When he catches my widened eyes, he shrugs.

"I have a housekeeper when I'm in town."

Two seconds later, we're standing in a tastefully decorated bathroom. There's an enormous waterfall shower enclosed in polished glass panels, and enough shampoos and lotions to last a year. I can't stop my jealous thoughts from veering to the question of whether other women have been here.

"Have you had company?" I ask before I can stop myself.

I feel him smile beside me.

"No." He turns to leave but stops in the doorway. "My housekeeper is a wishful thinker." His gaze caresses my face, sending me into a hazy spin.

I want to know what he's thinking. We came close to kissing back there, and now I'm staying in his apartment. And it's not weird. I feel like I'm meant to be here.

His voice softens like a damn pillow. "Just come back out when you're done. Take your time."

I stare at the door he just left wide-open and wonder how he can be so mindful of my honor yet so selective about it.

My stomach is roiling after the past few hours. Being in the church brought back memories I never want to relive again in any lifetime. Witnessing cold-blooded murder just inches from my person made me yearn for my family, when in reality, they're slipping from my fingers. And having Cristiano's lips so close to my own has made me feel, for the first time since my mother died, like a living, breathing, aching human being. Someone who wants to feel everything again, without the protective layers of grief and loss.

I leave the door exactly where it is and slowly peel off my clothes. I let them scatter like breadcrumbs along the floor until I reach the shower, then I step inside and let the water pummel me.

Steam floods the room, and I drench myself in it. I need to cleanse myself of all the dirt and grime tunnelling under my nails and into my dreams.

I stand there for about ten minutes relishing the sizzle of hot water on cool skin, until I can barely see further than my nose. I wipe a hand across the glass separating me from the rest of the bathroom. As my eyes readjust to the light, I see movement beyond the door.

My breath stutters. Standing in the center of the living room, feet braced on the wooden floor, and staring at me like he wants to devour me limb from limb, is Cristiano.

My pulse thuds through my temple like my own personal bass drum. Every throb punctuates another second in which neither of us move.

He's looking at me.

Really looking at me, and it makes me feel even more naked than I am.

My legs tremble as I force myself to hold his gaze.

Cristiano slowly rolls his head, loosening the tension in his neck. He doesn't break eye contact. As more seconds pass, the shock and embarrassment I feel give way to defiance; to challenge. He wanted this to happen. This is why he left the door open. He wanted to see me. He wanted to see more of what he can't have.

This man is a masochist.

As my fingertips rest on the glass, I realize that although I've been standing under the shower for the past ten minutes, I haven't actually washed myself. And since Cristiano's obviously now seen all of me stripped bare, I have nothing to lose.

I break eye contact to locate a bottle of very expensive soap. I squeeze some onto my palm and rub it slowly to a lather. When I lift my gaze, I feel the hot spear of his focus instantly. His hands are in his pockets, but his shoulders are rigid. Something pulses between my legs, threatening to distract me, but I don't stop.

I rub the soap onto my arms, working it up to my shoulders, across my chest, and down to my breasts. My palms catch the sharp peaks of my nipples, and a soft gasp darts out of my throat, taking me by surprise.

Cristiano tears a hand from his pocket and pushes it roughly through his hair. He's standing too far away for me to read his expression through the steam, but his stance hasn't changed. He's still looking .

I rub the soap across my rib cage and slowly down over my stomach. My cheeks tighten with warm shame as my hands reach a part of me no man has ever seen. I tremble at the contact and allow the soap to glide my hand between my legs, back and forth. I only intended to clean myself, but holy crap, it feels good. I've been down there before—not always with much success—but right now I could collapse with the need for release.

Even at this blurred distance I don't miss Cristiano tugging his bottom lip between his teeth. I want nothing more than to tip my head back and rub myself until this torturous urge implodes, but I force my hands down my thighs.

The same hand that Cristiano pushed through his hair now wraps itself around the back of his neck, squeezing at the taut muscles lining the tops of his shoulders.

My mouth has achieved the impossible—in a steam-filled room, it's as dry as a desert. I don't want to stop this exhibitionist display, but I have to. Because if I don't, and nothing comes of it, I might die.

And if I don't, and something does come of it, I might be killed.

I step back beneath the powerful spray of the shower and close my eyes as the suds run off my skin.

When I eventually turn off the water and open my eyes, Cristiano has gone.