When he finally draws his lips away from mine, a hollow ache radiates in my chest.
“The lies have to end, Danika,” he breathes, his lips only a breath away from mine.
“I’m not lying,” I plead weakly because it’s the truth. I did steal something Biba couldn’t care less about—I stole myself. And I had every right to do that. He doesn’t own me. No one does.
Tommy releases me, his eyes suddenly void of emotion. “Biba doesn’t have a million-dollar price on your head becauseyou stole some silly trinket. Sante and I stole a goddamn Lamborghini from the guy when we were younger, and he didn’t put a reward out for us. Cut the bullshit and tell me what thefuckis going on.”
Words escape me.
My jaw hangs open without a sound for endless seconds. “A million dollars? Forme? I … I don’t know what to tell you.”
“How about you start by telling me exactly why Biba would be so consumed with getting his hands on a little artist who stole something meaningless to him? A million dollars is a lot of money over nothing. What did you take—or is there more to it?” His voice is stilted with distrust and frustration.
I understand because I feel the same. How can I possibly give any more information without endangering myself? If he knows I’m Biba’s daughter, there’s too great a risk he’ll turn me over. I have to find a way to keep my identity a secret.
“I’m telling you, it doesn’t matter. A priceless necklace. The identity of an informant. Or maybe just a banana from a fruit bowl—something ordinary and seemingly disposable that he’s decided he wants back. All he’s worried about is his ego, and that won’t be mended by simply handing over an object. He wants me to pay, regardless, and that’s the bottom line.” My rant escalates in intensity with each word as days of bottled emotions swell in a frothy mess to the surface and spill over.
Tommy turns his back to me and roars while he fists a hand in his hair. After several heaving breaths, he spins back around. “You’re going to drive me absolutely fucking crazy, you know that?” For someone so seemingly structured and methodical, he’s a raging storm of emotions. Like a majestic wild stallion rearing back onto its hindquarters—savage yet regal in its beauty.
He takes my breath away.
And worst of all, the allure of telling him everything is almost overwhelming. How easy it would be to hand over my troubles to someone else—to a warrior like this man—and absolve myself of responsibility. But that’s not an option. I am the one and only person who can see this through to the end, whatever that end may be.
“I’m so sorry, Tommy. Truly, I am,” I whisper.
A shutter comes slamming down behind his eyes, closing him off from me. I feel it like a slap to the face, the sting intensifying as he turns and walks away. When I hear the echo of a slamming door, I grab my computer and walk quietly down the hall. I’m fairly certain he’s shut himself in his bedroom, a suspicion I confirm as I stand alone in the vacant living room.
I look down at my computer, then up at the door. If I want to run, this would be a perfect opportunity. If I disappear from the city, I can’t hurt anyone else, and that’s all I’m capable of doing lately. I’m not even sure how or why. Tommaso hardly knows me, but I can sense I’ve wounded him, and that guts me.
Where would I go if I left? This apartment was my only plan. I have nowhere else.
Defeated and overwhelmed, I do what I always do when life is too much. I draw. Curled in a large armchair, I sketch the image I can’t scrape from my brain. The harsh angles of betrayal and desire war on Tommy’s face. So much passion. So much discipline. A fierce and deadly battle, all because of me.
I wish I understood why, but even more, I wish I could take it all away. The best I can do, however, is own what I’ve done, so I immerse myself into my drawing to memorialize the pain I’ve caused.
I’m so engrossed in my work that I don’t notice his return until the click of clamps releasing ricochets through the room. Tommy’s sitting on the sofa opening a long, hard case he’s placed on the coffee table. When the lid lies flat to expose what’sinside, I can see it’s a gun case. A rifle? I have no clue except that it’s long and very sophisticated. This type of gun looks like something from the military rather than a simple hunting rifle.
I watch raptly as he begins to dismantle the weapon and clean it without any regard for me. Each movement is performed with such ease that I suspect this is something he does often. Like the gun is an extension of his person.
“Are you doing that to scare me?” I ask quietly.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he murmurs dryly. “This is what I do every afternoon when I’m not dealing with a home invasion.”
Every day? That seems excessive. Guns don’t need to be cleaned that often, do they? I can’t imagine so, but I also know next to nothing about them. I’ve gathered that Tommy likes routines and order. He’s Mafia. And apparently, he prizes this very expensive-looking gun. I wonder if his interest is personal or business.
“Tommy?”
He gives me the tiniest flit of his gaze before returning to his work.
“Are you a hitman? Is that what you do?” Mafia is a broad term. A man who sits at a computer and facilitates online gambling is very different from the man who goes out and collects the debts. Tommy’s made it clear he’s dangerous, and I suddenly need to know exactly what that means.
He doesn’t keep me guessing.
“It’s not just what I do, little thief. It’s who I am. Back in Sicily, they called me Death.” The words are spoken with such frigid indifference that my entire body would have chilled had I not seen the same man rocked with passionate emotion an hour earlier. He’d like me to think he’s a stone-cold killer. And to some extent, he is, but not all of him. Contrary to what he claims, that isn’twhohe is. I feel it down to my bones.
He’s trying to push me away, the same as I did to him. And because that’s probably best, I let him have his wish. I go back to my sketch of a man at war with himself and hope for my sake that the better man wins.
CHAPTER 11
