He’s quiet and patient and hasn’t taken his eyes off me for one second. I know instantly not to underestimate him. He’s studying me. I wonder what he’s learning. One thing I know not to do is mistake his silence for weakness. This man is as dangerous as he is devastatingly beautiful.
He stands, and it takes all I have not to visibly shudder.
As he walks toward the island, I turn to find a pot, one with a long handle, fill it with water, put it on the stove, and turn it on.
“You need to salt the water,” he says when I pick up the jar of sauce and struggle to twist the lid off. My hands are sweaty, though, and I have to wipe them on my skirt before trying again. Failing again.
A moment later, he’s beside me, too close, and taking up entirely too much space. Using up too much of the oxygen in the room. One side of his mouth seems to be in a constant smirk, and I notice his gaze slip to my neck momentarily and wonder if he can see my pulse. If he knows how hard my heart is beating.
How scared I am. Because the calm, it’s a facade.
But he just smiles and holds out his hand.
I look at it, confused, but he reaches for the jar of sauce I’m holding. When his fingers touch mine, there’s almost an audible spark of electricity.
It takes me a minute to shift my gaze from his big hands back up to his eyes. He’s still steadily watching me, and it’s unnerving. He takes the jar and an instant later, there’s a pop. He smiles and holds out both the lid and the jar to me.
I take them from him. “Thank you.”
“You should make your own. It’s not hard and much better than that crap.”
“I’m fine.” I turn my back to pour the contents of the jar into a pot and watch as the pasta water begins to boil. Another weapon if I need one. Two. But I’m hoping I won’t need them.
I return my attention to him.
“What information do you want? What is it you think I know?” I finally ask. Because I need to ask them to leave. I hope that they will.
“You’re awfully calm for having a crew of armed men in your apartment,” he comments.
I have no response.
“Curious.”
He’s studying me again, memorizing me. Reading my mind? Whatever he’s doing, it’s unsettling, his gaze unnerving.
“I have business with your brother, Alessandro. I want to know where he is.”
Did my brother really think he could screw with this guy? I’m not even involved in the family business, and I know not to fuck with him.
“I’m sorry, but you came to the wrong place. I don’t know anything about Alessandro’s whereabouts. We don’t keep in touch.”
“Hmm.” He’s scrutinizing me again. “You aren’t close to your twin brother? Isn’t that how twins are? I mean, don’t you have some sort of radar or something?”
I lean against the counter. I’m close to the drawer where my gun is, but I need to be careful. I’ll have only one chance, and I’m still hoping he’ll leave.
“No, there’s no such thing as twin radar. At least not with us. Alessandro and I aren’t close. I know nothing about his business or any cartel business for that matter. I left that world when my father was killed. Even when he was alive, I was never a part of it.”
He sighs. “Well, that’s too bad.”
He turns his back. I hear the water beginning to boil and glance over at the pot. Not yet, though. Not yet. He takes a few steps away, makes a point of turning a circle as if to take in the apartment.
“So you mean to tell me your job as an event coordinator at a tiny little hotel pays for all this? Quite the cushy job you’ve got there.”
He’s done his homework. Naive to think he wouldn’t have.
“I’m a manager, and the tiny little hotel is an exclusive boutique hotel. But my expenses aren’t your concern. I told you, I don’t know anything about Alessandro’s business or whereabouts. There’s nothing I can help you with. I’d like you to leave now. Please,” I say, adding in that please as an afterthought.
He cocks his head to the side. “Touchy about the money, huh?”
“It’s none of your business. Please, get out.”
“Or what?”
The water is boiling harder, and when I look over to the stove, I see the tomato sauce sputtering, leaving red-orange stains on the pristine marble. I hate messes. I hate them.
I walk over to the stove and adjust the heat on the sauce, then open the box of pasta and throw in a handful. I put the lid on the pot then walk back over to the drawer that houses my gun, which is near the sink, and rinse my hands. I pick up the towel to dry them. We’re watching each other. I’m waiting, though. I’m waiting for the water in the pot to boil over, and, right on time, I hear it, the hissing as it falls onto the stove, the gurgling sound of the lid as it vibrates, and I watch Giovanni do exactly what I think he’ll do. He goes over to it to take off the lid and turn down the heat. I think he’s making some comment about my cooking skills, but my ears are ringing, and I don’t quite hear it because I’m opening the drawer and my hand is closing around the handle of the gun. It’s heavy and familiar and still scares the shit out of me. Just as I aim it at him, five soldiers are aiming their weapons at me, the deafening sound of guns being cocked bouncing off the walls.