It’s well past midnight, and no one has heard from him since the call Emilio made before we flew here.
I pick up the water bottle and open it.
I take a few hard gulps before placing the bottle down on the table, but as I lean over, I hear footsteps behind me.
I pause, spotting the familiar silhouette. Broad shoulders. Large chest. Thick legs, clad in black dress pants. Through the corner of my eye, I see him stop several steps away, his fingers sliding into his front pockets.
“You still haven’t learned, have you?” His deep, husky voice does something to me.
For a split moment, I can’t tell if the rush coursing through my body is due to my masked excitement, or because he just does this to me—swirls everything up inside me and twists it, making me loathe and adore his voice all at the same time.
It’s been days since I’ve heard it. Listening to those voice messages over and over again wasn’t the same. I couldn’t feel the warmth of his breath on my skin. Couldn’t see his eyes dilate as he spoke. Couldn’t smell his breath, which always seems to smell like a hint of mint and traces of weed.
He takes a step forward, and out of instinct, my hand touches the gun tucked in the lace holster strapped around my thigh.
“Don’t be dumb, Gianna. Why else would my hands be in my pockets?”
“How should I know?”
“You should know I’m not walking with my hands tucked away to make you feel safe.”
I turn slowly to face him, my fingers still touching my thigh. I feel the hard edge of my gun, finally meeting his hard brown eyes.
He draws a pocket-sized pistol from his pocket as soon as our eyes bolt, taking several steps closer.
When he lifts and aims it, my breath falters, but I don’t let him see my worry. I conceal it, holding his gaze as he takes the final step toward me, pressing the gun under my chin. The coolness makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
“The one thing you should have learned while in this country is to never let your guard down. Whether you knew I was coming or not, you should have been prepared.” His voice is gravelly, heavy. Almost foreign. He watches my face, looking for any sign of weakness. His face hardens, the skin tightening around his eyes when I don’t budge or flinch. “Why are you here?” he asks, voice low, keeping the gun steady.
“To help you,” I answer, voice soft.
“Does it look like I need your help?”
I look him over, mainly his face. His eyes are tired and red-rimmed. They’ve always been cold, dark, and empty, but not this cold. Not this vacant. There is no thrill, drive, or fire in them. There is only…darkness.
“I don’t care if you need it or not. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”
“You brought a family member into this. One I already don’t trust.” He presses his body to mine, lips on the shell of my ear. I can smell the liquor on his breath, strong and pungent. “Should I go kill him? You know, primo por primo.” Cousin for cousin.
My eyebrows draw together in an instant.
I shove him hard enough to make him stumble, snatching my gun out of the holster as soon as his hand shifts. He already has his pointed at me by the time mine is in the air, but I don’t let up. I aim mine right back at him.
“Go ahead and do what you want to me,” I say through clenched teeth. “Get it out. Punish. Slap. Punch—do whatever you need to do. It wouldn’t be the first time. I don’t care what you do to me, but you aren’t touching a hair on my cousin’s head.”
A very faint smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, but his eyes remain the same. Black. Icy. “You think I don’t want to kill you? That I won’t?”
My finger remains steady around the trigger. “You can’t fool me, Draco. I heard the voice recordings. You’re trying to prove something to me—that you aren’t vulnerable to me—when I know the truth. You thought I wouldn’t show after hearing that, but here I am.” His smile fades, grip tightening around the handle of the pistol again. “How could I not?” My voice cracks on me, making me sound so damn weak. “Why couldn’t you just tell me how you felt in person? We could have worked something out.”
I take a small step forward, but he tenses up, keeping his gun pointed directly at my head.
I don’t care.
I lower my gun, tucking it back into the holster.
His breathing picks up. He pants through flared nostrils, the rims of his eyes glistening as they hold mine. With his lips pinched tight, he steps toward me, pressing the gun into the center of my forehead.