Page 32 of Disarming Caine

At the top, we stepped out of the elevator, facing a towering mirror with a gold leaf frame. I gestured to the right, to my door, bracketed by two six-foot-tall paintings. Fire and ice, reds and oranges to the bottom, blues and silver to the top. Heaven and hell.

Samantha’s gaze drifted to the ceiling and she drew in a deep breath. I let go of her hand and unlocked the door with the last key. The officers moved in ahead of me with hands on their sidearms, while I deactivated the alarm from my phone.

Not that there was any need. I’d called a private security firm while Samantha was packing; they’d already swept the place and would also watch the building overnight.

I returned to the space between the two penthouse doors. Samantha’s eyes, wide and full of awe, scanned the high ceiling. My chest swelled and the last couple of hours faded into the background.

“Did you do that?” Her voice was breathy, and she didn’t look away from the painting that decorated the ceiling.

“Sì, I did.” I stood next to her, taking her hand again, and looked up with her. It was a copy ofThe Creation of Adam, by Michaelangelo, one of the most well-known frescoes of the Cappella Sistina, with Adam reaching his hand out to God’s. I’d painted it the year I moved in, the same year I bought the gilt mirror and the potted plants framing the other penthouse door.

“It’s beautiful.” She squeezed my hand, interlacing her fingers with mine, her agitation diminished.

Oncetheofficershadcleared my condo and left in the elevator, I held the door open for Samantha, and she entered ahead of me. She stopped where the marble floor of the foyer transitioned to the dark oak hardwood, casting her gaze around the expansive common room. It was the first time she’d been here, but the tour would wait.

Before anything else, now that we had privacy, we had to speak of what happened.

I turned to lock the door and dropped my duffel next to me. A man’s job is to protect his family and provide for them. I couldn’t protect her fool self from the shooter. She kicked me away, waved me off, fought me when I tried to hold her in the bathroom. I was as useless as I was in Napoli when some other man saved her.

And she wanted none of my money.

What did I have to offer her?

Samantha would say I was overreacting, roll her eyes, and laugh it off; but she didn’t understand. She'd filled the man’s role in her life for so long, she couldn’t drop her barriers and let me take over something. Anything.

Staring at the ground, leaning against the door, I took a deep breath.

“Antonio? Are you alright?”

The stress of my project being extended, the exhaustion of my trip home, the hole in my heart for the last three months. The horror at her hotel.

And the anger. Seeing Nathan Miller with his arms around her had fueled a fire in my belly, so hot I could barely think straight. When he kissed her during our call Saturday night, I could have launched my fist through the phone. He was always there, waiting for her.

“Do not—” I kept my voice as steady as I could, but it trembled. “—ever do that again.”

“Do what?” Her boots clicked on the marble as she approached me, her hand sliding across my back.

I splayed my fingers on the door and tried to unclench my jaw. “Protect me.”

“What?” Her voice was quiet and her face neared mine, the scent of citrus wafting over me.

My vision blurred as the first tears built against my lids. I turned to her, taking in her beautiful face, her striking pale-green eyes, her brows drawn down in confusion.

Someone tried to take her from me. Not just from me, but from the entire world. My fist landed against the wall by the door, pain screaming up my arm into my shoulder from the impact. My voice rose too many decibels. “Hand on my head to keep it down, like I’m a child!”

Her lip curled, and she stepped back. “It was an instinct.”

“I’m supposed to be your hero!” I vibrated, the fire erupting, consuming all my best intentions. I closed the distance between us. “Not the other way around!”

“Why? Because you’re a big tough guy?” Her face hardened, and she shoved me away from her. “And I’m what? Just a little girl?”

I stared, blinking away the tears. Her chin raised, ready for a fight. This was my Samantha, fierce and defiant. And what was I doing? What kind of man was I being now?

I had to speak honestly, not use words borne out of shame or jealousy. That was all they were.

Let it go.

My breath came in a ragged spurt, the tears falling. “Your hair moved.”