Because it was her.
Sarica.
A part of him still had a hard time believing that after sixteen months of thinking they would never cross paths again—-
She was now within reach.
Locked in a room that only he could open.
And his to do however she wished.
In the sixteen months he had been away, his contact at the FBI had regularly sent reports to him about Sarica and hisfamiglia.It was the only thing that kept him sane. To know that they were safe. But while he was able to read the reports on his kin, everything about Sarica went straight to the file cabinet...until now.
Per che, dolcezza?
Why?
How?
The newspaper clippings scattered across his desk taunted him with glimpses of her life in the past months.
I'll make sure to wear red at your funeral so everyone knows I'm on the lookout for another sugar daddy.
Those had been her exact words.
But never had Giancarlo imagined, not even then, that she would actually be able to do it.
Until now.
He took the last unopened envelope. A collection of photos tumbled out, one of them causing Giancarlo to clench his fist until his knuckles started to whiten.
Her cheeks were flushed pink as she left the club.
But because he knew she didn't have it in her to still walk a straight line after drinking—-
Damn her.
Damn her.
Damn her.
Since Sarica had been cursed with two left feet, dancing was immediately out of the question, and so there was only one other way he could think of.
Only one way to make her heart pumping and her cheeks turning that rosy.
Only one way.
And the thought alone made him want to kill...or get himself killed.
Per che, dolcezza?
His phone buzzed, and the sound brought him back to his senses.
Or perhaps it was more accurate to say that it was God's perfect timing at work, God wanting Giancarlo to remember that neither vengeance nor anger could be of any help to him in the long run.
His phone buzzed again, and Giancarlo finally answered the call.
"I heard there was quite a plot twist in tonight's mission," Nassif drawled.
