Giovanni (Benedetti Brothers 4)

He takes my arms and spreads them wide. Our fingers are intertwined, and he’s fucking me and looking at me and kissing me—and I’m going to come. Just from his eyes alone, the way he looks at me, the way he sees me, I’m going to come, and he knows it. I feel him too; he’s moving faster and deeper, and his breath is ragged, as ragged as mine. When I feel him thicken and I watch him as he dips his head down and bites my lip, I squeeze my eyes shut, and I come. I’m gripping his hands, gripping him because I can’t let go. I won’t know how to be if I let go, not after this. Not anymore after this.

When I open my eyes again, I find him watching me and as the last of my orgasm fades away, all I can think is that he’s wrong.

That there is more of me to break.8GiovanniWe’re sitting at the dining-room table where dinner is laid out. According to the cook, Emilia didn’t eat today. She’s so fucking stubborn. She’s on her second plate of curry now. I’m going to guess all that whiskey on an empty stomach is part of the reason for the fucked-up emotions out there. That, and the panic when I threw her into the pool. I have to admit, seeing her like that, beneath the surface, going down, panic in her eyes but not the fight I’d expect, not that instinctual fight to survive—I don’t like it.

I know why she didn’t put on the dress I sent earlier. She’s only wearing it now because she has no choice, since her dress is soaked. It’s a pretty, frilly yellow summer dress, and it leaves part of her back exposed. The silvery lines begin crisscrossing at the tops of her shoulder blades, and I know they go all the way to her lower back. Twenty-one lines, some thick, badly healed, others flat to the skin.

When she glances sideways at me, I slide a forkful of chicken into my mouth but don’t take my eyes off her.

“Who did it?”

“You know what?” She drops her fork on her plate. “It’s none of your business. They’re old. They’re nothing.”

“Your father?”

“No! God, no, he would never! He never raised a hand to me. Not once.”

“Your brother?”

She shoves her chair back and stands. “I’m done. I want to go home.”

“Sit down.” I eat another bite, feeling pretty calm. I know the answer. She’s just given it to me. But the who isn’t as important as the why.

“Just let me go.”

Same request as when she was in the pool. Let me go. Thing is, I don’t think she wants me to let her go.

And I don’t want to let her.

“Why did he do it?”

“You’re stubborn,” she says, but she sits and picks up her fork to push food around her plate.

“Only as stubborn as you. You don’t want to tell me?”

“No.”

“You will. In time.” I take a sip of my beer. “Had an interesting day today.”

“Why would I care?”

“I think you will. Met a man who used to work for your brother.”

She glances at me but is quick to look away.

“Well, he worked for your dad first. Liked him better, he said. That was before he was killed, obviously.”

“Who?”

“John Diaz.”

Her back goes rigid.

“Did you know he’s married now? Has a kid.” I take the last bite of my chicken, wipe my mouth, and sit back to enjoy the rest of my beer.

“I don’t know him,” she says finally.

“No? He knows you. Got a strange look on his face when I mentioned you.”

“Why would you mention me?”

“Just making conversation.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a mystery to me.”

She finishes eating and drinks the rest of her beer. We sit quietly for a few minutes before she finally asks: “Did he tell you where Alessandro is?”’

“No. He didn’t know.”

I can see the relief on her face.

“Would you like dessert?” I ask.

“No, thanks.”

“Want to talk about your freak-out at the pool?”

“Not really. It’s not a big deal.” She shrugs. “I just never learned how to swim. I know it sounds stupid, but I’m afraid of deep water if I’m being honest. Always have been.”

“Not stupid. What else are you afraid of?”

She watches me calmly. She’s so good at this, at hiding any emotion. “That’s a strange question.”

“Your brother?”

She just holds that smile, and I can’t figure her out.

“What about you? What are you afraid of? There has to be something even for someone like you,” she asks.

I think about this. I don’t think I ever actually have. I shrug a shoulder. “Can’t think of anything, honestly. When I was little, I was afraid of my father. He wasn’t as gentle as yours seems to have been.”

“What did he do?”

“He wanted to be sure my brother and I were tough. Wanted to be sure we were prepared for this life.”