“Me?”
“Yes, Dad had documents with all the Nostra in Los Angeles. When your father was at my house one day, I noticed the similarities. It was then that I found out he had three sons. You, Gio, and Matteo. I didn’t know your names, but he spoke of you often in that meeting.”
“And you fantasized about me? I mean…”
She nods then. Her teeth pull her plump lower lip between them and she bites down. It must be painful because she winces slightly.
“Tell me,bella,” I lean in and murmur in her ear, “What is it that you thought about?”
Her breathing hitches and her chest rises and falls with each breath. Her nipples harden behind the soft material of her blouse and bra, and I can tell when she rubs her thighs together. When she doesn’t answer, I continue provoking her.
“Did you think about this?” I run my fingers up her thigh. Its featherlight. Tickling, teasing, taunting. Her eyes flutter closed, and her lips part. Soft, heated breaths fall from her and I want to swallow each one. They’re mine. I own her, every part of her. Since she was sixteen, touching her cunt looking at my photo.
“Yes.” The word escapes on a moan.
“And did you think about this?” My hand finds the wet, heated spot between her thighs and her head drops back. “Look at me.” Leisurely, she lifts her head and the hot stare she pins me with is enough for me to lose all my fucking restraint. “Do you want to fuck a man who killed someone in cold blood? Someone you loved.” The question jolts her back to reality. “You don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“Your father, his death…” I can’t continue. She’ll run and I don’t want her to, but before I can say anything more or find the words to explain, her body stills. As if ice has just run through her veins.
“What?”
Sighing, I sit back but keep my hand on her thigh, needing the connection. “There’s a man I’ve been trying to take down for a long time. Cristiano Russo. The same one we met with earlier today. I’ve given him an out, which I didn’t think he’d accept. And I was right. We used to be close, like brothers. But it’s all changed. Things don’t always work out how we think they will.”
I glance at her, hoping she’ll realize what I’m talking about. It’s all gone to shit. At least that’s what it feels like. When I knew I’d have to one day look into the eyes of the Lombardi siblings and tell them the truth about their father.
“He set up a meeting at his warehouse on the outskirts of San Diego. It was a bust. When I walked into the warehouse, there were men inside waiting for me. Between my father and yours, with both my brothers flanking me, we managed to get out. But before we got to the car, we found your father. He was badly injured.”
Shutting my eyes, I recall that night like it was yesterday. Seeing Mr. Lombardi lying on the ground, I knew it was his doing. He called them before we arrived and warned them. Working both sides like he was, it could only be a matter of time before he saw his end.
“He confessed, while he bled out. He was in on the setup to help Russo kill my father. He knew he was done. That’s when he mentioned your name. You and your cousin. That night, I allowed anger to overtake me. In the moment I lifted my gun and pulled the trigger, I didn’t see Cristiano behind me a gun pointed at my father with his finger on the trigger. Two shots were fired and one promise was made that night.”
Silence surrounds us. Her anger, confusion, and rage simmer just below the surface as she regards me. Taking in what I’ve just told her. The memory of that night when I promised a dying man I’d find his daughter and keep her safe plays in my mind every day. That was the night he gurgled the truth about his son. About Andrea.
I don’t move.
I don’t even dare breathe.
“You killed him?” Her voice is that of a little girl. A teenager who lost her father. An innocent daughter who lost her hero. I can’t find words, so I nod. And when her eyes meet mine, I see it. Shimmering in her bright blue eyes is her heart, cracking with each word, every memory, and it’s all my fault.
I warned her. I told her I’d hurt her, break her heart. And I did.
16
Raina
It’s surreal when you’re face to face with a killer. It’s something I could never describe because I couldn’t give it justice with words. Knowing your father was murdered in cold blood is one thing, but when you’re the one in love with his killer. That’s another thing completely.
Glancing at him, I realize one thing. He’s dangerous and deadly, but it makes me want him even more.
He doesn’t move. I know he’s waiting for the tirade. For the anger. For everything I should be giving him. But I can’t. I don’t. I knew what my father had done. So as I look at Franco, I see the guilt in his dark eyes, but it’s not guilt over killing my father.
No.
That would be fruitless.
It’s remorse over hurting me. Shaking my head, I pull my hand from his and he reluctantly lets me go. Turning, I head toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city. “You know, there were times when I wondered how he died. I wondered who the man was behind the gun. It played on my mind day and night. And you know what I did during those moments, hours, minutes?”