Then came the wedding. The garden. The hedge maze. The taste of her lips and the sounds she made when she came apart in my arms.
And then she ran.
Whatever the case, I haven't been able to break that spell.
For six months, I've pinned after a girl who has done her best to avoid me. Perhaps I would stay the fuck away if her lips and body didn't speak different languages. From the way she anticipates my touch when I close the distance between us to the way her eyes run over my form when she thinks I’m distracted…I can’t fucking ignore that.
Still, something has been holding her back. For six months, I've stayed by her side, waiting for her to open up as she did that night in the garden. But…
Goddamnit. No matter how many times she checks me out or how intense the chemistry is between us, she's never allowed herself to cross that line again. But I'm nothing if not patient.
Just like those sugar cookies that are most definitely not good for my health, I can't quit her.
When Matteo told me that he was hiring private security for the Marino women, I thought he was going a bit overboard. Surely, not all of them were under threat. But despite my reservations, I had every intention of using it as an excuse to get close to Matilde, so I volunteered to be her personal bodyguard. Hell, I had to promise Matteo that it wouldn’t interfere with my other duties.
And so far, it hasn't. Besides, in the age of modern technology, my job as acapois not nearly as exciting as the old films make it appear. I don't have to follow our rivals around when I can easily bug their cars and track their movements from the comfort of my own office. In the last few months, I’ve made a corner of Matilde's bakery my personal office. Much to her obvious annoyance.
Still, I couldn't stand the thought of someone else guarding her. Couldn't trust anyone to.
She's mine to protect.
Mine.
And now, it looks like someone with a death wish is threatening the peace of the woman I have decided belongs to me.
“Show me the damage,” I tell the contractor.
He nods and steps out the door. I wait for Matilde to lock up the front of the bakery, and together, we follow the man up to the third floor. His crew is already there, milling around the hallway with coffee cups and concerned expressions. I make a mental note to run a background check on every single one of them.
“This way,” Mr. Davis says as he leads us down the hall and to an open door. The second I see it, I understand his rage. I don't have to like that it was directed at Matilde, but the mess in the apartment explains his rage.
“Oh my God,” Matilde gasps, her hand grabbing my arm as we step into the room.
It's a mess, alright.
The floorboards have been pulled up haphazardly as if someone was looking for something underneath, and there are new holes in the old drywall throughout the apartment.
This wasn't simple vandalism.
"Matilde," I say, turning to see the fear written all over her face. “I need you to think really hard for me. Did you hear anyone on the stairs last night? Any sound at all?”
She shakes her head, her face pale. "Without Ari here, I couldn’t fall asleep, so I took something to help. I was out cold. I didn’t hear anything.”
My stomach twists at her words. She was sleeping while some bastard tore apart the floor above her head. Alone. Vulnerable. All night.
“Wait here,” I tell her, grabbing my phone and stepping outside. I walk down the hall and away from the door before dialing Lorenzo Rossi, the tech genius in the Rossi family.
“What's up?” Lorenzo's voice breaks through the second the call connects.
“I need a favor,” I say, getting down to business. “Can you come down to Matilde Marino's bakery and install a security system? Someone broke into her place last night and caused a mess.”
“Is she alright?” he asks, instantly alert.
“She didn’t even know it happened—took a sleeping pill and was out cold. But it looks like whoever came in was looking for something. They ripped out the flooring, and I'm pretty sure they didn't find what they were looking for?”
“How do you know that?”
“There are holes in the drywall, foot prints that suggest someone kicked the walls in frustration,” I point out. “Whoever it was, they might come back. I need to know who the fuck they are so I can deal with them.”
