If one more person brings her up tonight, I’m throwing her out the window to spare me the goddamn headache.
I drop my pen and recline into my chair. “She came to me for help.”
“You told me to stay the fuck away from her years ago.” He shuts the door and collapses onto the chair Natalia sat in.
“I did, yes.”
“That rule doesn’t apply to you?”
“No rules apply to me.”
He massages his temples and blows out a long breath. “Is it trouble with Vinny?”
I nod.
“What’s he doing to her?”
“The Lombardis want her dead. I didn’t ask for too many details.” I don’t give a shit about them.
“She asked for protection, and you didn’t bother asking her what exactly she needs it for?”
I shrug.
His brow furrows. “I warned her about him. If only you’d let me ask her out—”
“You have a wife locked in. Asking her out would’ve ruined that.”
I contracted Benny to marry Neomi Cavallaro. He is free to fuck anyone he likes but not date them. I’m unsure whether that will change when he ties the knot with Neomi. Nor do I care. All I care about is him fulfilling the contract.
“Fuck those plans,” he hisses. “I’ll marry Natalia instead.”
My nostrils flare, and I raise my voice. “Natalia is not part of our world. She will not be your wife.”
He slumps in his chair, looking like a weak man—something I loathe—and curses under his breath. “Why didn’t she come to me?”
“You know exactly why she came to me and not you.”
“Unless she’s your wife, you can’t protect her either.” He huffs. “The family only protects wives and children.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we reach it.”
Then, I change the subject from marrying and protecting Natalia and tell him all the information I dragged out of her.
“Let’s keep this between us for now,” I tell him when I’m finished.
“Vinny will lose his shit.” Benny shakes his head. “He loves Natalia. He’s obsessed with her.”
“Let him come to me.” A rush of satisfaction hits me at the thought.
CHAPTER 5
NATALIA
The guest room in the Marchetti mansion, like the rest of the home, screams wealth. It’s on par with a suite at the Palms in Vegas. A suite I had the luck of staying in once with Gigi, compliments of Daddy Marchetti.
Benny accompanied us, of course.
So did Bruno, Gigi’s bodyguard.
Gigi’s safety has always been a top priority for Cristian.
And with that being said, when he found out about the Vegas trip, he flipped his shit.
I stretch out on the California king bed in the softest sheets I’ve ever slept on. My splitting headache reminds me of what happened last night.
Dinner, people staring, Cristian’s office, my list of Lombardi secrets.
Too bad that alcohol wasn’t strong enough to make everything a blur. No, I remember every detail. Cristian ruined my ability to get blackout drunk when I needed it the most. Asshole.
Initially, I kept my list short, as any smart girl would when a Mafia family wanted her dead. The odds were already against me, and I didn’t want to add more trouble. I wouldn’t be in this mess had Vinny kept his big mouth shut. He loved bragging about his family’s notoriety, and my dumbass listened. I was his girl—surely, no one would kill the Lombardi prince’s girl.
Well, except for the Lombardis.
But Vinny would want me dead, even if I were blind to his world. He believes no one is allowed to leave him. In his eyes, breaking up with him is just as much of a betrayal as telling secrets.
When I sluggishly returned to the guest room last night, I found another shopping bag from the city’s most upscale lingerie shop. If you want a pair of panties that cost as much as a month’s salary, Amor Lingerie is the place to go. A Post-it with, Your pajamas, was taped on the outside. When I dragged the contents out, there was a variety of lingerie—every piece black.
Why a man would do all this for someone he planned to murder is beyond me.
I changed into the lingerie and locked the door—for obvious reasons.
“Good morning, Miss Natalia!”
My attention shifts to the door at the gentle knocking on the other side.
“Mr. Marchetti is ready for you to join him for breakfast,” Miriam, the Marchetti housekeeper, calls out.
Of course.
Cristian is summoning me via his employees again.
Does that man even wipe his own ass?
I change into a maxi dress I found in the closet with the tags still on. I have no idea whether it’s for me, but I’m assuming Cristian provided it, given it’s black.
After brushing my teeth and hair and checking my reflection in the mirror, I plod down the staircase, barefoot, as if I were on my way to a root canal. Or an execution. Yeah, that’s a better comparison.
Cristian is sitting at the head of the expansive dining table when I walk into the dining room. His posture is perfect, a cup of coffee in one hand and the newspaper in the other. An entire buffet of breakfast options is spread along the table.
“Have a seat, Natalia,” he instructs, jerking his chin toward the empty chair next to him, his eyes not leaving the newspaper.
Unlike me, he doesn’t look like he woke up feeling like he’d spent all night on a nonstop roller coaster. This morning, he’s wearing a black suit, sans tie, and the white shirt underneath his suit jacket is half-unbuttoned, drawing attention to his tatted chest.
Cristian isn’t your typical older man or what you’d expect your best friend’s dad to look like. The man has aged well, especially for one who lives a stressful life. There’s a two-decade difference between him and Vinny, but Cristian could almost pass as Vinny’s age. Vinny’s father, the head of their family—with his protruding belly from too much Italian food and not enough exercise and the wrinkles that form every time he scowls—looks nothing like Cristian.
No, Cristian is a man who consumes everyone’s attention. He’s a gorgeous man—a gorgeous monster.
“Good morning to you too,” I grumble, shuffling into the room and taking a seat two chairs down from him—the more distance between us, the better.
“Next to me,” he demands, his eyes remaining on the paper.
I grab the rolled-up cloth napkin and place it over my lap. “I’m good here.”
“Next to me, Natalia.”
I ignore him.
He drops the newspaper, and it lands on the table with a smack. I refuse to grant him the reaction he thirsts for—the panic he normally receives from others. But you don’t have to look at Cristian to endure the intimidation that burns through him. You can feel it. Smell it. Almost taste it.
His coldness. His scorn. His fury.
I swallow, staring at the burgundy drapes covering half the windows in front of me.
I maintain my refusal to glance at him, but that doesn’t stop me from wincing when his hands grip the back of my chair. I shudder when he drops his head and presses his lips against my ear.
“You can either stand and do as I asked or you’ll regret it,” he snarls, his voice thundering through the room.