Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 22626 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 113(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22626 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 113(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
She's right, and I know it. We haven't found the person responsible for killing Enzo yet, and whoever killed him is sending a message that they aren't backing down.
They should have fucking killed me, because now I’ll exhaust every bit of my power to get back at them for this.
"It's not going to happen again," I tell her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. Her hair smells like smoke, and her skin is hot from the blast. "No one will touch you."
Emilia pulls away, her eyes meeting mine. They're wet with tears, but there's no fear there. Only the same stubborn determination I've come to admire. "People are looking at us."
"Let them." All I want is to kiss her, to remind myself she’s okay, that she's unharmed. Instead, I lead her back inside the restaurant, keeping a hand on the small of her back as we navigate our way through the now-panicked crowd.
I spot Marco, white-faced and shocked, and pause long enough to tell him, "Get this shit cleaned up. I'm taking her home."
Something that looks like annoyance flashes over my second's face, but it's gone in an instant. "Yes, boss."
I can already hear sirens, but I ignore them. They're Marco's problem now. I have something more important to tend to.
I take her out the back door while Emmy fishes her keys out of her bag, handing them to me without a word. She doesn't want to drive, which is understandable, and with the truck destroyed, we're stuck with her Honda for the moment. Emilia is silent the whole ride home, staring out the window as we weave through the city streets. She's a quiet person by nature, but something about this is different.
"Talk to me," I tell her. "That's an order."
She looks surprised, but then a bit of amusement filters in. "I'm fine, Sandro. Really. I'm more worried about you. That bomb was obviously meant for you and not me."
I'm not so sure, but I don't tell her that out loud. It would make more sense for Enzo's killer to go after me directly, but it also wouldn't surprise me if Emmy was targeted because I've been keeping her so close. It's a bad fucking idea for a Boss to show affection in public, because it paints target on the back of the person they care for. And I just made the rookie mistake of doing exactly that in the wake of the bombing. Fuck. If Emmy hadn't been targeted before, she definitely could be now.
"Don't worry about me, tesoro.”
"Easier said than done." She sighs, looking out the window. “What does that mean, anyway? Tesoro?”
“It’s Italian for treasure.”
Emmy blinks in surprise, but simply says, “Oh.”
We don't speak anymore, and I resist the urge to look at her, the soot smeared on her face driving me into a blind rage every time I see it. I won't be content until I have her clean and safe.
I throw the valet the keys as soon as we pull up, ignoring the odd look he gives Emmy's car. Without even giving her time to open the door, I help her out, fighting the urge to carry her all the way up to my penthouse.
It's a short ride to the top, and when the doors open, Emilia walks out onto the marble floors, her heels clicking loudly. She stops and stares around, taking in the opulent apartment. "Wow."
"Make yourself at home."
I've only lived here a couple of weeks, but I'm sure it's night and day since the last time she saw the place when it was still Enzo's.
"Let me run you a bath."
She smiles, a small, tired little expression. "I'm a big girl, Sandro. I can handle it. Why don't you call the guys, find out what happened?"
I already forgot about the phone in my pocket. "I'll do both. Sit."
After making sure she's settled at the dining room table with a chilled Perrier, I step into the next room, dialing Marco's number. He picks up on the first ring.
"Boss, we're trying to run the cops off right now."
"Good. Keep me updated. I'll be back tonight."
When I return to the living room, Emilia has moved and is standing at the glass wall of windows, looking out at the city skyline. I approach her from behind, resting a hand on her shoulder. "I called Marco. He's handling things."
"Good. Sandro, you know this was a warning shot, right?"
"I do."
"It could have killed you."
I turn her, gripping her arms. "But it didn't. Now let's get you cleaned up."
Her cheeks flush, and she looks away. "I, um, can handle it—"
"No."
She's looking at me strangely. I've been firm and commanding with her since the first time I met her, but now my tone borders on outright possessive. I can't help it. The sight of her covered in soot and ash and tear tracks makes me feel violent, and the only thing I can think to do is clean her up.