5
Damian
I watch her as I unwrap my second chocolate. The foil is the only sound in the room. That and the sniffles of the little girl.
Popping the chocolate into my mouth, I press the foil into a tight ball and flick it onto the coffee table. It lands beside the other one near the tower of chocolates wrapped in pretty blue.
The boy, I guess him to be about sixteen, fists his hands at this act of blatant rudeness. He’s young, but he’s strong. I can tell. Stronger than his father, at least.
I savor the taste and texture of the rich chocolate as I take in Cristina Valentina.
Last time I saw her, she was ten years old. She’s a woman now, and she’s as stunning as I knew she would be. Even drenched as she is, even with the scar that lines her cheek and cuts her lip, she’s beautiful.
That’s a good thing. I like beautiful things.
Swallowing the last of the chocolate, I turn to the boy. “Now you may take your sister to her room.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Liam Valentina says.
Looking at him, I see how he doesn’t actually resemble his father much. He takes after his mother, who left years ago. She wanted to take the kids with her, but that was one of my gifts to Adam. He got to keep his son and daughter.
I watch Adam’s response.
Adam Valentina. Younger brother to Joseph Valentina, Cristina’s father. He’s been Cristina’s guardian since the unfortunate night of Joseph’s suicide eight years ago.
His hands are fisted at his sides. I know he’d love nothing more than to pummel me. But that’s not happening. Even if my men weren’t here, I know too much about him for him to dare. He’s putting on a show for his son’s sake or for Cristina’s sake. I don’t know which. Don’t really care.
He shifts narrowed eyes from me to his son and back. “Take your sister and go, Liam.”
“Dad—”
“Go!”
Reluctantly, Liam rises.
I smile at the boy. “Good night, kids.”
Liam looks like he’s about to explode when Adam barks once more for him to go.
“Liam, I’m scared.” It’s the little girl. Simona. She wants out of here.
Liam looks down at his little sister and nods, and they both disappear down the hallway.
I shift my gaze back to Cristina. She’s watching them go, her forehead creased with anxiety. Her hair, clothes, shoes are all soaked.
“Did you walk from school?” I ask her, unfolding my legs.
She turns to me, opens her mouth, those violet eyes fearful yet curious. I wonder if she remembers me. If she remembers that night.
Her little pink tongue darts out to lick her lips, and for a moment, I’m captivated.
“You don’t have to answer him, Cristina,” her uncle says, stealing that pretty purple gaze from me, and for a brief moment, a murderous rage burns through me.
I lock eyes with Adam Valentina.
“Take a seat, Adam.”
His lips tighten into a thin line, and I can see he wants to lunge at me. He won’t, though.
Because he, like most men, is weak.
Because he, like most men, can be bought.
“I hate having to repeat myself.” When he still doesn’t sit, I give a nod and Tobias, my most trusted man, encourages him into a chair.
“Uncle Adam?” Cristina asks.
He turns toward her, and the change in his expression is instantaneous. Tenderness. Affection. Hmm. Not sure about those. Regret? Maybe.
Does he love her? Not enough.
Shifting my gaze back to Cristina, I take her in. She’s tall for a woman. Maybe five-feet-seven inches. She’s not wearing heels. In fact, she’s wearing the ugliest pair of sneakers I’ve ever seen. And still, there’s an elegance to her. Something delicate and decidedly feminine about her.
She takes a step toward her uncle, the wet shoes squeaking, but she stops the instant she sees the box on the table. She almost winces as though she’s been hit.
Her mouth falls open, and her now panicked gaze shifts from the box, to her uncle, to me.
“It’s you?” She pauses, pointing at the box that should be very familiar to her by now. “You’ve been sending them all these years?”
“You’re welcome,” I say.
“I wasn’t thanking you.”
I smile. I like her spirit.
“I remember you from before. From that night,” she says to me like it’s some sort of accusation.
“I made an impression, then.”
She wasn’t supposed to come out of her room that night. When I’d heard the sound and stepped out of Joseph Valentina’s study, a child wasn’t what I’d expected to find. I had my gun cocked in my hand ready to meet a man still loyal to Valentina, but I’d found her instead. A barefoot little girl in her nightie holding her stuffed rabbit.
I still wonder how much she’d overheard. Wonder what she’d thought. She’d looked terrified but had acted so brave.
Her gaze drops to my right hand. She remembers that too. Does she think it might have healed in these years? Melted skin doesn’t grow back.
When she looks back up at me, her expression is confused, then angry. “You were there the night my father died.”
“The night he hanged himself,” I clarify.
“No.” She shakes her head. “Never. He’d never have done that.”
“Cristina.” It’s her uncle.
“I’m sure it’s hard for you to accept, but the autopsy proved it,” I add.
Her hands fist and her eyes narrow. “Who else was in that room?” she demands.
“Cristina,” her uncle’s reproach is sharper, and she turns to him.
“What’s going on?” Cristina asks her uncle. “Why was Simona crying?”
He doesn’t answer her.
“Adam?” I say.
He looks at me.
“Would you like to explain? I am getting the impression you’ve kept her in the dark. It’s not what we agreed, is it? Tomorrow is her eighteenth birthday. I thought she’d be expecting me.”
“You fucking bastard.” He makes a move to stand but Tobias doesn’t let him.
I stand, turning to Cristina because she’s the only one who matters. When I approach her, she takes a single step backward but stops. I wonder what it takes for her to do that. To stop.
Anxiety creeps into her pretty violet eyes, and her forehead wrinkles. She’s afraid of me.
Tall as she is, the top of her head doesn’t quite clear my chin, and when I step even closer, she has to tilt her head backward to look up at me.
I reach out to touch her, to feel that scar, and I see in her eyes what it takes for her to not pull away. To not show fear. When I touch my knuckles to her chin, there’s a momentary jolt. Like a spark of electricity that doesn’t quite hurt but shocks. I know she feels it too. I see it when she winces.
Ignoring the strange phenomenon, I tilt her face up toward mine. There are multiple shades of violet and blue in her eyes, I realize, and her thick, dark lashes create a dramatic effect even with the minimal makeup she’s wearing.
I lower my gaze to her mouth. Through the slight parting of her lips, I see white teeth in a perfect row. She’s been well cared for. I’m glad to see my money wasn’t squandered.