Page 60 of The True Garza

Wait, what? “How do you know my sister?”

“How about you two chit chat later and stop spitting over my drink?” Stefano interrupts with mild irritation.

Lorenzo leans back in his seat, effectively putting an end to our exchange.

What inthehell? How does he know Brook? And why did he damn near breathe her name like it’s sex?

A lighttap tap tapagainst my knuckles brings my attention back to True. Once our eyes meet again in the mirror, the tapping stops.

I’m here.I’m yours to look at. Use me.

An hour later, the meeting is still going strong. Expectations are laid out, requests are made, gauntlets are thrown down and picked up…. It’s like sitting in at a parliament, and ifI’mrestless at this point, I can’t imagine how True’s feeling.

When the insults start up again, the host calls for adjournment until morning.

Freaking finally.

I’m about to stand, but Trent squeezes his fingers around mine to keep me seated. Here I thought he’d be the first one out the door.

As the others file out of the room one by one, Lorenzo stops at my chair and stares down at me.

“Stop looking at me, creep,” I sneer. “And stay the fuck away from my sister.”

Wholly unfazed, he slips me a slow smile.

A smile is supposed to bring light and youth to someone’s face, but this criminal looks like a demon when he does.

“Get the fuck out, Lo,” True mutters.

Lorenzo’s the last to leave. When the door closes behind him with a beep, I shift in my seat to face True. His expression is hard to read.

“Hey….” I squeeze his hand. “Are you o—”

The remainder of my question suffocates when his mouth crashes to mine. It’s the last thing I expected, so it takes me a hot minute to process thatit’shappening. To reciprocate.

My heart gallops in my chest. His kiss is like fresh air. A burning shot of aged whiskey. It’s the first sip of coffee in the morning. It’s sunlight streaming through a kitchen window.

He extricates his fingers from mine and grips my face to kiss me deeper. Sucking the soul out of me. Demanding more.

I want to live here, in this kiss, with him.

But, alas, he breaks it with a trace of his thumb across my lip, eyes singed with desire.

“Better now?” I ask through a ragged breath.

A single shake of his head. “Not even close.”

He releases me, picks up his case from the table, and stands. “Let’s go.”

We walk back to our villa in silence.

Although my body is screaming and clawing for his touch again, I’m not getting the vibe that he wants to fuck me. It feels, somehow, like his kiss was a punishment. A lashing out of some kind for having to sit through a three-hour meeting. Whether at me or himself, I can’t quite tell.

And as I stand in the villa and watch him head straight to his room without a word to me, indignation floods me. I’m not some desperate woman with low self-esteem. No amount of good looks or sexual attraction is worth this treatment.

The next time he puts his damn hands on me, I’m going to fucking break them.

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