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He pants.

I tremble, and so does he.

The tension stretches around us, while I feel strangely threatened and safe at the same time.

How fucked up is it that I crave his wrath the same way I crave his care? I’m definitely calling a therapist in the morning.

He closes his eyes briefly and takes a deep breath. “When did you start gambling, Saar?”

What?

I push at his chest and stumble as he lets me go, glaring at me.

“Gambling? That summer was the last time I played, if you don’t count a few friendly games while waiting around at a modeling gig.”

“Don’t lie to me,” he bellows.

I rip the mask off. “Fuck you, Corm.”

“So you don’t bet on races? No high-roller online poker or blackjack?”

I laugh bitterly. “You’ve lost your mind. I’m. Not. A. Gambler.”

“Why are you broke then? Where is all your money, Saar?”

Heat rises to my cheeks as I fight to get more oxygen into my lungs. Stupid tears threaten to come.

No, no, no. Don’t cry. Not in front of him.

I don’t want him to laugh at my lack of financial acumen, but I definitely don’t want him to see me crying.

“That’s none of your business,” I snap.

“It is my fucking business. You entered into a deal with me to improve my reputation, and conveniently forgot to mention that you owe taxes, are completely bankrupt, and owe money to people who collect without finesse.”

I frown, shaking my head. “What are you talking about? My accountant embezzled from me. I will pay the taxes as soon as I have my trust fund. The authorities in Italy are investigating. Ask Vito.”

He glares at me for what feels like an entire lifetime. In that snapshot of time my mind races, trying to comprehend what he is saying. Why is he saying it?

“There are debts in your name with all the major bookmakers in Europe. Care to explain?”

“That’s impossible. I-I…” As I rack my brain for something to say, an eerie feeling wraps around my shoulders.

Did Maria place bets in my name? This makes no sense. But while I don’t understand what is happening, somehow I know—or rather feel—he’s telling the truth.

My shoulders slump as fatigued resignation washes over me. I wrap my arms around my midriff, but it doesn’t protect me. It only makes me feel more isolated.

He steps closer, the energy shifting between us again, no longer threatening. Like he feels my struggle with the realization.

Like the moment I started believing him, he immediately trusted me.

He wraps his arms around me and pulls me to him. “We’ll find out who is behind it.”

I let myself revel in his support for a beat or two, enough to let the thoughts settle. But even then, they make little sense.

“How do you know?” I murmur into his chest. I want to be mad at him for his accusations, but I’m so tired of fighting this battle alone.

“That doesn’t matter, but the information is reliable.”