As Rafe drones on about something, engaging everyone at the table, I casually drape my arm over the back of her chair. Her breath falters, and she stares at me, but I don’t acknowledge it.
When it’s time for dessert, I steal her spoon midair, take a bite of her gelato, then hand it back to her.
I wait to see what she’ll do, because I know Gabi doesn’t share utensils with anyone. So when she dips her spoon back in for another scoop and slides it into her mouth, it makes me hard as fuck.
As the conversation around the table continues, I distract her by pulling out a pen and drawing on my napkin.
It’s something I used to do for her when she was feeling overwhelmed.
I studied every subtle change in her, committing them to memory so I’d recognize the moments her mind was screaming, even if no one else could hear it. I couldn’t have known then that she would have to use the same techniques on me.
That day in the ballroom, she reached a part of me the medication could never control. She pulled me out of the fog, prevented an explosion, and gave everyone hope. But I’ve cohabitated with this beast too long to believe in miracles.
Gabi makes me want the impossible, but all it takes is one look at her to wake me the fuck up. She’s so much smaller than me, and I know what I’m capable of. At any moment, I could be too far gone, lost in the vortex of my chaotic mind, and she wouldn’t be able to bring me back.
I would rather die than hurt her.
Maybe that’s what this picture is—another warning that I’m not good for her, even though I refuse to let her go.
When I finish and slide the napkin toward her, she traces over the image: a wolf tracking Little Red Riding Hood through the forest. It doesn’t take her long to find her initials hidden within the lines.
GRB.
Gabriela Rose Bianchi.
She glances up at me, uncertainty flickering through her gaze. She doesn’t understand why I’m doing this, and I don’t have an answer for her.
When the plates are cleared, and drinks are served, I do the most honorable thing I can and leave the table.
Sunday morning rollsaround after I lie awake all night, staring at the ceiling.
Sleep is always hard to come by, but having Gabi under the same roof—and not being able to touch her—is pure torture.
At breakfast, I skip the family meal and work out until I’ve burned off some of my restless energy.
My fuckface cousin shows up by lunch, his face still bruised from the beating I gave him. He wet himself when I jumped out at him in a mask, then went home crying and told everyone he’d been mugged to salvage his pride.
We all gather in the lounge, and it takes less than two minutes of listening to his voice for me to feel murderous.
Angelo shoots me a look, trying to instill patience telepathically. He hasn’t told me, but I’ve been keeping tabs, and I know his deal with Emilio Venturi and the senator is done.So technically, he no longer has a valid reason to stop me from murdering Riccardo.
I promised Gabi I would handle him, and I meant it. Angelo will have to get on board, one way or another.
Half an hour into the conversation, Angelo and Abella take the baby to their suite to feed her. My other brothers make the fatal mistake of ignoring Riccardo, and he gets the bright idea to approach me.
He leans against the same wall, following my line of sight across the room to where the women are holding court. As he watches me watch Gabi, his insecurities bare their teeth.
I slide my gaze to his, pleased to see his pea-sized brain finally catching up. Suspicion clouds his features, and it only deepens when Gabi glances over, her eyes settling on me rather than him.
Riccardo leans in, lowering his voice as he forces a smile. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you look at her, Bolt. I know she’s a hot piece of ass, and you don’t get out much, but you’re making it a little too obvious.”
He’s baiting me for a reaction, and unlike the incident in the ballroom, I don’t give him one. In the span of a few seconds, I replay the top ten ways I’ve fantasized about killing him. Every one of them would be slow, painful, and deeply satisfying to watch. But temptation has my hand drifting toward the Beretta tucked into my waistband.
“I’ll tell you what.” Riccardo jerks his chin at me. “I’ll do you a solid and let you know exactly how good that virgin pussy feels when I take her.”
I toss him a lazy smile, and his expression falters. Apparently, it scares the shit out of him.
I let him sit with that fear for a few heartbeats before I reply.
