I spot the dinner tray still sitting on the table. I can’t use the tray itself; it’ll clang like a gong and wake up the house. Not that anyone’s sleeping. No, they’re waiting for the man I love to come rescue me so they can kill him.
Panic threatens me, but I push it down.
The carafe sits squat and heavy beside the glass. I curl my fingers around the neck and lift. Solid. If I don’t fumble. I can make this work.
But only if someone comes.
Maybe the woman with the neat bun who’s been bringing food. I could ask for tea.
Guilt pricks at the thought of smashing her over the head with the carafe. But it’s brief. She works for a monster, so I can’t feel too bad.
How do I call her, though? There’s no bell, no phone. I could knock and ask, but I might be ignored. I can’t tell them I’m sick. They might figure out I’m pregnant.
Will I have to wait until morning? I tighten my hold on the carafe as tightly as I do the reins on my fresh panic. I could be stuck in here all night while Gio dies on the front lawn.
As those thoughts occur to me, I hear the slide of the mechanism on the other side of the door. Someone’s coming in.
I press myself against the wall and lift the carafe over my head, breath caged high in my chest.
What if it’s not her? What if it’s more than one person?
What if it’s that man?
Good. I hope it’s that man. Though his men will probably kill me right after.
The door opens on a hush of air, and a shadow spills into the room.
I narrow my eyes in the dark. I tense my muscles to bring the carafe down.
I swing.
A hand closes around my wrist mid-arc; another catches the carafe before it can crack bone or floor. My breath punches out as my body hits the wall of his chest.
“My little hellcat,” he murmurs, amused.
The voice makes all my defenses drop. My arm goes slack. The carafe thumps into his palm. I fold into him without meaningto, fingers in his jacket, face in the warm place where his throat meets his shoulder.
I tip up and find his mouth. The kiss is clumsy, hard, desperate. “You’re here,” I gasp against him. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“You doubted me, mia?” he says against my frantic lips, smile brushing mine. His arm goes around me, keeping me glued to him; the other eases the carafe out of my hand.
“Never,” I say, which is the truth. “But I thought that he…”
My breath sighs out on the words.
“You thought he would get the best of me?” Gio says. “So little faith, mia.”
Mia.The word still sends a jolt through me as hard as it did the first time.
But now’s not the time for that. Then a panicked thought rushes through me.
“My mother!” I say. “They said they would—"
“Shh, shh,” he says, pressing his palm to my lips.
“Is she all right?” I mumble, muffled against his palm.
“Your mother is all right,” he whispers, moving his hand away from my mouth. “I have protection on her.”
