The Woman in the Trunk

"Right," I said, laughing. "Because some scribbled note from a mafia prince to some nobody baker will stand up in court."

"I don't like that."

"Being called a mafia prince?" I asked. "Well, too damn bad. I hate to break it to you, but that is exactly what you are."

"I don't give a shit what you call me," he said, shaking his head. "But don't call yourself nobody. You're a somebody."

"Really, in the grand scheme of things, I'm kind of not. I'm not bitter about it. But it is what it is."

"It is what it is," he repeated, gaze intense.

"Yeah. Why are you looking at me like that?" I asked, brows pinching together, unable to read the look on his face.

"I didn't have you pegged as stupid," he said, his words making me jolt back.

"Stupid?" I repeated, letting out a humorless laugh. Stupid? Who the hell called anyone stupid outside of a schoolyard?

"Yeah, stupid. I didn't see that coming. A hard worker? Sure. A smartass? Yep. A royal fucking pain in the ass? Absolutely. Someone who would go down swinging before she'd ever beg for mercy? Damn fucking straight. But stupid? Yeah, never knew that was part of the whole picture."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Well, if you think you're a nobody, that people don't see you or don't appreciate you, you're a fucking idiot, kid. Truth hurts. Deal with it," he said, moving away to close and lock the window again.

"Um, excuse you, but who the hell do you think you are to call me stupid? I'm not stupid. I'm a realist. And the reality is, that if I was shot by some mafia boss and thrown into the ocean, hardly anyone would notice. Like it or not, that is how it is. You don't know me. So you can't pretend to know more about my importance than I do."

"Gigi, for fuck's sake. You've been in my house a week. And I can't get you out of my fucking mind. So all these other people, these ones whose lives you've touched on a daily basis, they give a shit. You're important to them. Saying otherwise just makes you insecure, not a realist."

"What did you just say?" I asked, hearing a strange airlessness in my voice.

"That you're insecure. I know. That one stings. No woman likes having that thrown in their face. Even if it's the truth."

"No," I said, shaking my head. "Before that," I clarified, gaze holding his.

His chin tucked a little as he ran a hand across the back of his neck. "That I can't get you out of my head," he said. And if I wasn't completely mistaken, I would swear there was almost a hint of, I don't know, vulnerability in his voice. That seemed so wholly out of place with the overall picture I had of this man, but there was no denying it was there.

"Yeah," I said, voice still breathy. "That."

"I think I've already explained my reasons for that. Hard-working. I like that. I work hard too. The sass? It keeps me on my toes. The fighting spirit, I respect that. Then there's that face. That ass. Those thighs. Those tits. Giana, if you think you're nothing, you don't have a mirror. Or anyone in your life who can see what you have to offer. Remember that."

I was supposed to hate him.

The man had kidnapped me.

He was holding me hostage.

He'd spent the last twenty-four hours giving me an attitude.

He literally held my life in his hands.

Everything pointed to hate.

Except the pressure in my lower stomach.

Except the lightness in my chest at his words, at truly being seen for maybe the first time since my mother's death.

I shouldn't have needed external validation, but Lorenzo's meant more to me than I cared to admit.

Any thoughts of hatred evaporated.

And anything akin to resistance dissolved as well.

My hands were the ones that rose first, one pressing to his chest, the other going around the back of his neck, pulling, urging.

My lips were the ones to claim his.

There was hesitance at first, just a gentle pressure, waiting for rejection, some unsure part of me still not entirely convinced he hadn't been blowing smoke, or simply trying to cheer me up.

Lorenzo's body stiffened at the contact, his lips still under mine.

But just for a moment.

And then, as you might expect of a man as dominant as him, he took over, his hands grabbing the sides of my face, not exactly gentle in their pressure as his lips claimed mine. Hard. Hungry. Demanding. Refusing to accept anything less than full surrender.

This was not a man who did soft, who did gentle.

I wasn't sure I was a woman who wanted that, either.

My nails dug into the skin at the back of his neck as my other hand got greedy, tracing up the corded muscle of his arm, across his strong chest, fingers grazing the crucifix hanging from his neck before moving downward, slipping between the ridges of his abdominal muscles, feeling them tense under my curious exploration.