Her Mafia Bodyguard

“I had to go through three years of foster care before my mother found me. She was in Europe with her new husband when your boyfriend blew my dad’s brains out. She didn’t even want to take me with her when they moved there. Nobody bothered telling her he was dead—can you believe that? And she obviously never tried to reach out and find out how her little boy was doing, or else she would have known sooner that I ended up falling through the cracks. Nobody gave a shit.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t care about your pity,” he spits. “I only want you to understand. You have no idea what happened to me. How I was used. Humiliated. Beaten and tortured. Nobody cared. Nobody spoke up for me. Nobody paid attention. And even when my so-called mother looked for me, I was so lost it took them another year to locate me. That’s how fucked the whole system is.”

That’s not Zeke’s fault. “You’re right. It is fucked.”

“And then she wanted me to call this stranger Daddy. Can you imagine that? I already have a father. I don’t need another one.” No, but you’ll take his money, right? I’m not suicidal—I wouldn’t dream of saying that out loud. But it’s the truth.

“Zeke robbed me of years of my life that I will never get back. I had to spend years in therapy after what I went through. And what happened to him? Did he pay for it at all?”

“I don’t know.”

“You know damn well he didn’t,” he growls. “He’s still living his life. In this palace—and when he wasn’t here, he was at your compound.” The way he makes it sound, he might as well be talking about someplace awful. Evil. For all I know, maybe it is. Someday, I’m going to have to make sense of all this in my head.

He pushes away from the couch, and I can breathe without having to smell him or look into his eyes. “You have no idea. What it felt like when I first saw him. Like a ghost from my past walking into my life.”

“I’m sure it was awful.”

“Don’t patronize me,” he warns, shaking his head. “You don’t want to do that.”

“I’m sorry.” I glance at the clock on the cable box. We’ve been here for a little more than half an hour. Please, be on your way. Get me. What if he never saw the alert on his phone when I opened the door? How much longer am I going to have to sit and listen to this? It was hard enough convincing him to bring me here, where we could at least be comfortable while we waited for Zeke to come for me. I didn’t think he would go for it, but then I don’t think he’s given this a lot of thought. He’s going purely on impulse now.

All he’s ever wanted is revenge. He didn’t exactly sit around and plan what that revenge would look like.

“It was worse than awful,” he informs me. “I thought I would die right there. Outside the party, that first party at the frat.”

“You were there?”

“Outside, yeah. On the front lawn. I watched the whole thing. And I thought that can’t be him. It’s not possible. But he hasn’t changed all that much in eight years. I thought for sure somebody would have killed him by now, or that at least he would be in prison.”

He turns my way from where he’s standing in front of the glass door. “He didn’t even get arrested for it. Nothing happened to him. Right? He’s been free and clear all this time.”

What’s most obvious is the almost whiny need in everything he says. He wants so much for me to tell him somebody, anybody cared enough about his dad that Zeke was punished for his murder. “I know you wish I would say that, but I don’t know. I wasn’t around then, remember? I had no idea he existed.”

His brows draw together like he’s thinking about it, and he must see I’m telling the truth. “Sure. You were just a kid, too. They hadn’t used you yet.”

“That’s true.”

“But they’ve been using you ever since they found you. You know that, right?”

“Yeah. I do know that.” And it hurts like hell.

“Bruno Morelli isn’t capable of love.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” The worst part is, I’m not lying. How could a man capable of what he’s done actually love anybody? “But I knew that. I really did. We don’t have any kind of a warm relationship. He’s always wanted me as, like, an accessory. I make him look better. I understand that.”

“And you let him use you?”

How can I make him understand? I don’t even understand myself. “I didn’t see any way out of it. I felt trapped. In some ways, you freed me. You showed me the truth. I’m grateful to you for that.”

He arches an eyebrow, looking me up and down. “You’re just saying that.”

“I’m not. I mean it. I was too afraid to know. I needed it thrown in my face, where I couldn’t look away. You did that for me, and I’m grateful.” Zeke, please, hurry. He’s too jittery, and now his face is getting twitchy. His eye, the corner of his mouth. Is this what happens to a person when they’re within arm’s length of getting what they’ve fantasized about for half their life?

“You’re welcome. Now I wish I had told you from the beginning. Maybe you wouldn’t have let him touch you.”

I have to bite my tongue before I warn him not to talk about that. It will only make him crazier.