My stomach clenches. I step back—and miscalculate.
Shit.
The papasan chair caves beneath me, swallowing me whole. I don’t have my taser. Or my phone. I’ve gotten too comfortable. Too used to him leaving me alone.
Angelo leans in, bracing his hand on the wicker frame above me. His fiery gaze locks onto mine, trapping me there.
“Would you like to see my murder room?” His voice low, teasing. “You turned down the tour the first time I offered.”
I press my palms against the chair’s cushion, trying to ground myself. “Step back, Rossi,” I order.
But he doesn’t.
“Why do you hate me so much, hmm?” His voice dips into something almost amused, but there’s a sharp edge beneath it. “Rumors about what I’ve done? Emilia whispering in your ear? Convenient little excuses?”
His words coil around me, forcing me to hold his stare.
“Because six years ago, you didn’t hate me.”
My breath catches. The past drags itself to the surface, unwanted.
I swallow. “I didn’t know you then.” Thewords feel heavier than I want them to. “You were just a hot guy at a bar, and I was drunk. You did the job, and I walked away.”
He keeps watching me. Just watching. I hate how he does that. He shouldn’t be able to wield silence like a weapon. I want to fill the space between us with arguing. I want him to know how much he’s pissed me off.
“Answer the question I asked you. The first one,” he orders.
I exhale sharply. “You flaunt how above the law you are and you don’t care who you hurt.” My voice is steady, but my pulse is hammering. “Your sister was willing to forgive and help her other two brothers, but not you. Not your father.”
His expression doesn’t change, but I don’t stop.
“If a woman who admitted to setting a desk on fire, armed assault, and collecting dues from businesses hates someone, there’s a reason.” I meet his gaze, unflinching. “She said you’re the worst.”
His brows lift. “Did she?”
I lean forward. “Considering you almost killed a man in lock up despite being jumped by six, it doesn’t take an expert to know you’re lethal.”
A slow incline of his head. A silent acknowledgment.
“And your family does nothing clean. You threatened my partner’s life. You threatened hischild, Angelo.” My voice is razor sharp, my breath ragged. “Your moral high ground is gone. If you ever had it, you lost it in an avalanche of violence that makes you impossible to trust, to like, let alonewant.”
The words taste like venom. He blinks. Once. Twice.
For a second—just a flicker—I think I see hurt cross his face. Then it’s gone, wiped clean like it was never there.
“You hate me, Luisa?”
My throat tightens. I swallow barely. “I wish I’d never slept with you,” I whisper. The confession burns like acid, but I force it out, anyway.
“I wish anyone else was here babysitting you so I could be out stopping the criminals fighting to take your place.” My breath shudders. “Yes. I hate you.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. He leans in.
I should move. I don’t.
His muscles flex, shifting as he lowers himself closer, his body crowding mine. Why doesn’t this man ever wear a damn shirt?
I brace myself, but he keeps going, lowering until one of his legs slides between mine, his face inches from mine.
