I heard the click of what sounded like a door opening, followed by a murmured voice in the background before Renzo frowned.
“I have to go, Emi, but I love you. Do what I told you. Please.”
Tears pricked my eyes. “I love you.” Then the call cut off.
I sat there, staring at the home screen of the phone for a moment, tears tracking down my cheeks. That was how Giovanni found me when he walked in with a bowl in hand—sitting on the bed, staring blankly at his phone. The smell of herbs and cheese wafted over me as he placed the food on the nightstand. I pushed to my feet and handed him the phone.
“Thank you,” I said hoarsely. “For letting me talk to him.”
His fingers brushed mine as he took it, and I suddenly felt so utterly deprived of affection. I wanted to hug Renzo so badly.
“I didn’t lie to you.” It seemed important to him that I knew it. As awful as Giovanni Guerra might be, he wasn’t a liar. He reached out and swiped a tear from my cheek. “You’re so pretty when you cry, piccola.” The words were dark, but they settled in my chest like the sweetest compliment. More tears broke free and he cupped my cheek for a moment as though I were something coveted and precious to him. And for a single moment, I think I wanted to be.
Then he walked out of the room, leaving me cold and alone once more. I frowned at the bowl of food he’d brought me. Why did he constantly feed me? Why let me speak to Renzo? Why act like he cared one moment only to threaten me the next? He made no sense.
9
Emilia
I sat in the middle of my bed, the banging of pots in the kitchen signaling Giovanni’s arrival. Apparently, he liked to cook in the evenings. He also got pissed when I didn’t eat. Last night he literally stood there in the doorway and watched me eat a bowl of pasta. I’d never admit it, but it might have been the best thing I’d ever tasted. At least if I did have to marry him, I wouldn’t have to cook. Silver lining to being forcibly bound to a psychopathic mafia killer. The downside being, oh, everything else.
That wasn’t happening, though, because this was it, the moment I’d been planning since I’d gotten off the phone with Renzo yesterday. Escaping was a specialty of mine, and I’d gotten away from my father and his men more times than I could remember. I’d never hurt anyone before, but as I stared down at the small knife in my hand, I realized there was really no other way. I wasn’t marrying that man, and going back to Chicago just to be handed off to Matteo wasn’t an option. Giovanni wasn’t going to let me leave, and as far as I could tell, the key card for the door was on his person at all times. As for the men guarding the place... I’d take his gun and cross that bridge when I got there.
I pushed to my feet and tucked the blade against my wrist, tugging the cuff of Giovanni’s shirt down to cover it. My pulse raced as I made my way down the hall. I paused at the end, steeling myself for what I needed to do next.
Giovanni moved around the kitchen with ease, and he almost seemed relaxed. Almost. In the same way a resting lion still twitched its tail. I found myself studying him—the broad muscles of his back, tapered waist, and defined ass. No man had a right to look like that, and the image of his shirtless body was still firmly branded in my mind. He was like some poisonous flower, luring me in with his beauty.
He placed tomatoes on a cutting board and sliced them, his movements careful and concise. He probably knows his way around a knife, what with all the murdering. Me, on the other hand...
I pushed the thought away. I had two options—surprise or seduction—because I sure as hell wasn’t tackling him head-on. He was a guy and a mafia one at that. Which meant he was stronger, more violent, and far more accomplished in injuring and killing people. I took two steps into the open space before he glanced at me.
“Emilia.”
Well, there went surprise. Shit. Could I even seduce him? That one time Matt Jones had kissed me in the girls’ locker room did not go any way toward lending me experience here.
“Hey.” I tried to keep my voice steady as I awkwardly hopped up onto the kitchen island.
He scraped the tomatoes into the saucepan and turned to face me, thick arms folding over his chest and straining against the material of his shirt. With the prospect of trying to overpower him playing through my mind, he suddenly seemed even bigger, more intimidating.