“The women who work in your brothels… are they your slaves?” I asked, cautiously.
He burst out laughing. It was the first time I’d seen him actually laugh. “Slaves? They make a ton of money and live in some of the best houses in the city. The Bruni family hasn’t been in the trafficking business for years. That’s Giuliano’s thing. Those assholes work with the Russians. Problem is, they can’t move their shipments through the ports and roads we control, so they’re constantly trying to screw us over. That bastard Giuseppe’s part of it too. A few years back, Don Fernando cut him off and told him if he wanted to keep his dirty little empire, he’d have to run it solo.”
That was a relief. Murder, drugs, and all that other crap were one thing, but trafficking innocent women? That was a line I couldn’t stomach.
***
The next morning, Diablo’s barking jolted me awake. It wasn’t even 7 a.m., and the sky outside was still dim and gray. I splashed water on my face and tied my hair into a messy ponytail. When I opened the door, Giorgio was standing there, holding a cup of coffee.
He looked me up and down. “You’re up early. Need something?”
“I want to talk to Carlo. I know he’s back; I saw his dog.”
“He’s working out. Let me check with Maxim.”
After a quick exchange on the phone, we headed toward the gym in Carlo’s private quarters. The gym wasn’t at all what I’d imagined. A large boxing ring dominated the center, where Lorenzo and Maxim were punching each other without mercy. One hit from either of them could’ve knocked me out cold.
They were dressed in nothing but athletic shorts, their muscular bodies slick with sweat. Their builds weren’t quite as defined as Carlo’s, but it was obvious they were committed to training.
My gaze drifted across the room and landed on him. He was surrounded by a wall of gym equipment, wearing only a pair of black shorts. Seated on a leather bench with metal legs, he was lifting weights with his right arm, legs spread wide, completely in his element.
His left arm was fully bandaged, and a nasty bruise darkened the skin beneath his eye. But even bruised and bandaged, he radiated that same commanding presence, an invisible line around him no one dared to cross without serious guts.
“If you’re done gawking, say what you need to say,” he muttered, with that same arrogant drawl, not even bothering to look up.
I hesitated, then slowly sat beside him on the bench. “You’re hurt. What happened to you?”
“None of your business. Next question.”
I pulled away slightly. He was in a worse mood than usual. Maybe I should’ve picked another time. The loudclangof a 45-pound dumbbell hitting the space between us made me jump.
He raised his voice. “Are you going to tell me why you’re bothering me, or what?”
Even though I’d practically jumped out of my skin, I forced myself to stay calm. If I was going to live with this man for the foreseeable future, I couldn’t let fear run the show.
“I want to talk about the future.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, clearly annoyed, then answered in a bored, almost mocking tone. “How many times are we going to have this stupid conversation? You’re stayingright here,in this mansion.You’re dead in America, and you don’t even exist in Italy. End of story. Accept it and be happy, or don’t, and live in misery. I don’t give a fuck.”
Rude. As if I didn’t already know that.
“I don’t want to go back to America,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “But I also don’t want to live here like a ghost. I need a chance to fix a little bit of the damage this situation has done to my life. The only thing I have left from my parents is a house. And I’m willing to give it to you.”
He scoffed. “First of all, a dead person can’t sell a house.Second, take a look around this place and ask yourself why the fuck I’d need your pocket change.And finally, what do you want in return?”
“A new identity. Something I can use to build a life for myself.”
He stood, strolled over to the punching bagand slipped on his gloves.“What makes you think I’m going to let you leave this place to go build a life for yourself?”
I hesitated, then took a step toward him, heat crawling up my face. “Look... I know there’s something between us, a connection. And what I’ve experienced with you made me feel normal. Like I’m a regular person again, for the first time in forever.”
He started punching the bag, his face unreadable. Each punch drove the heavy bag backward, swinging wildly with every hit. His silence gave me a tiny flicker of hope, so I kept going.
“But this thing will fade eventually and our relationship will be over.”
He paused mid-punch. “Hold it right there, lady. There’s no relationship between us. And there never will be. We’re going to fuck. That’s it. I’m not interested in a relationship, not with you, not with anyone. That’s not who I am.”
Then, without waiting for a reply, he turned back to the bag and resumed his brutal, rhythmic strikes.
