“Hey, I was reading,” I chide him, wrapping my arms around his neck. His skin is warm beneath my fingers, and I have to resist the urge to trace the defined muscles of his shoulders.
“You can read later. I need you.” Damiano sits down with me in his lap, settling my thighs across his and wrapping his strong arms around me. He presses a kiss to my temple and takes a deep, relaxing breath, and I feel some of the tension leave his body as mine melts into his.
This is dangerous. Being this close to him. Breathing in his scent. Feeling the steady thump of his heart against my side. This is the highlight of my day.
I nestle into his warmth, trying to enjoy the moment despite the hot lump of worry that’s been sitting in my chest all day. “Where were you last night?”
“Nowhere in particular,” he deflects with a charming smile.
My eyes narrow. Damiano was somewhere else, and so was the gun he keeps in his bedroom drawer. It wasn’t there when I checked his room.
Over the past few years, Damiano has received special treatment from Mom, but especially from Dad. Not only is he praised for his cleverness and good looks, but he’s told things. Secrets. Carefully guarded family knowledge. I’ve lingered outside doors and listened furtively to conversations. I know what kind of family we really are, yet no one’s admitted it out loud to me.
The frightening part is watching Damiano being pulled deeper into Dad’s world while I can only watch from the sidelines.
Damiano idly plays with one of my curls as he gazes around the expansive garden. The flowers are in full bloom. The hedges are manicured into razor-sharp lines. The white gravel paths are raked into pristine uniformity. A fuzzy bee tumbles past on its way to another flower.
He smiles, enjoying the perfect weather. “Do you remember what you told me would make you happy while we were living atMilbray? A garden full of bees and flowers. Sunshine and soda. A sunny and peaceful afternoon.”
He gazes with satisfaction at the fragrant and colorful patio, my sweating glass of cold lemonade, and the paperback book I was reading.
“You remember that?” I ask, warmth spreading through my chest.
He turns to me with a small frown, and our faces are very close together. Close enough that I can see every single one of his velvety lashes. “Of course I do. I remember everything that’s important to you.”
A hot spark races through my body, and I fall deeper into his brown eyes. My lips part involuntarily, and the craving that accompanies Damiano’s touches and loving words becomes an ache.
I’m not allowed to admire my brother’s handsome face. It’s dangerous for me to want him to be my first kiss. My first everything.
If Mom and Dad find out I’m not really Damiano’s sister, they’d throw me out of this house without a second thought. Despite what my brother insists, they don’t love me. They never have. Only Damiano loves me, and if anyone finds out we’re not blood related, I’ll never see him again.
My beautiful, rich, ruthless parents will see to that.
“You’re so good to me,” I whisper, and put my head down on his chest. As I stroke the warm skin there, he makes a contented noise that does things to my insides. I smooth my hand up his chest and squeeze his shoulders, which feel like ropes of steel beneath my fingers.
He’s so tense. More than usual.
“Do you remember the day we arrived in this house?” I ask, trying to ground myself in memory rather than the dangerous present.
He tilts his head so his chest is resting against my brow. “Like it was yesterday. We’d never seen a house as grand as this one. Your hand was trembling in mine as we crossed the threshold.”
I felt as though we were walking into the lion’s den. And maybe we were. “Frank picked us up from the group home, not Mom and Dad.” Frank is Dad’s driver, though we both know he’s so much more than that. “It made me feel like we were parcels to be delivered, not people.”
Damiano’s arms tighten around me slightly. He doesn’t like being reminded of how we were treated that day.
I trace one of the prominent veins on his forearm. “Frank had a gun holstered under his arm. I saw it when he reached for our bags.”
Damiano hesitates. “Did he? I didn’t notice.”
My brother doesn’t lie to me. He just gets evasive. Maybe he didn’t notice the gun that day because he was focused on me, making sure I was okay. But he’s noticed it since. He knows what Frank really is.
Drivers don’t carry weapons.
Bodyguards do.
Enforcers do.
I let my fingers trail down his forearm, feeling the strength there. “You and Dad didn’t come home until after three in the morning last night. What kind of father-son stuff happens at three in the morning?”
