"Thank you," she whispers, and before I can respond, she launches herself at me.
Her arms wrap around my waist, her face presses into my chest, and she holds on tight.
For a heartbeat, I stand frozen. My hands hover in the air, every instinct screaming at me to push her away, to maintain the boundaries I've set. But then she makes this small sound—not quite a sob, more like relief—and my control shatters.
My arms come around her, one hand sliding into her hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands. "I've got you," I murmur against the top of her head. "I've got you, piccola."
The endearment slips out before I can stop it. She burrows deeper into my chest, and I stroke her hair, feeling her breathing slow against me. This is dangerous. More dangerous than facing Francesco, than dealing with the Russians.
She pulls back slightly, just enough to tilt her head up. Her face is so close I can count the gold flecks in her honey-brown eyes. Her lips part slightly, and her gaze drops to my mouth.
My hand is still in her hair, and it would be so easy to angle her head just right, to finally taste what I've been denying myself. One kiss. Just one time to know what those lips feel like against mine. To know if she tastes as sweet as she smells.
I lean down a fraction, and her eyes flutter closed. Her breath catches. My other hand comes up to cup her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone where tears have dried.
No.
The word slams through my mind like a gunshot. She's vulnerable. She just cried in her best friend's arms for two hours. She doesn't know what she wants right now. She's grateful, emotional, seeking comfort.
If I kiss her now, I'm no better than Francesco, taking advantage when she's too hurt to think clearly.
I force myself to step back, my hands dropping to my sides. Her eyes snap open, confusion flickering across her face.
"We need to leave," I say, my voice rougher than intended. "It's getting late, and Pietro will want an update."
She blinks, color rising in her cheeks as she realizes how close we were. "Right. Of course."
I grab my jacket, shrugging it on to give my hands something to do besides reach for her again.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Sophia
Ipress my forehead against the cold window of my room, watching the driveway below. Whatever's happening, Lorenzo hasn't told me. He's been gone since breakfast, avoiding me.
He was about to kiss me last night.
But he didn't. And now all I get is him avoiding me once again.
Movement at the gates catches my attention. Three black SUVs roll through,.
Oh, no.
No, no, no.
Those are Francesco's cars.
The lead vehicle stops directly below my window. The door opens, and my uncle steps out. Six men follow him, their hands hovering near poorly concealed weapons.
My uncle. Here. In Sartori territory.
The door to my room flies open. Lorenzo fills the doorway.
"Whatever happens, whatever I say, play along."
I scramble back from the window. "What are you?—"
"There's no time." He grabs my wrist, his grip firm but not painful. "Just trust me."
