Page 37 of Tortured Hearts (Marchesi Empire #2)

GIANNI

I kick the door to my house open, my pulse spiking the moment my eyes land on her. I’ve never seen a more beautiful sight or one that twists so many conflicting emotions at once.

Need. Lust. Exhilaration. Regret.

She’s freshly showered and curled up on my couch, her damp blonde hair fanned out behind her. All traces of soot are gone from her face, replaced by the muddled bruises left by Henry’s fist. Seeing them sends a fresh wave of rage through me.

But the more I stare, the more I frown. Something’s missing.

Then it hits me—her glasses.

I haven’t seen them on her since her arrival in New Jersey.

I assume they got lost in the struggle with Henry—another visual that makes me wish I could raise him from the dead just so I could kill him all over again.

With everything this whole ordeal has stolen from her, it’s ridiculous to let something as insignificant as a pair of glasses incite so much anger, but I can’t help it.

It’s the one thing that made Becca, Becca , and they took it from her.

From me.

But that fixation quickly evaporates when my gaze travels down her body. The white dress is gone. In its place is nothing more than a men’s black button-up shirt … from my closet.

There are no words to describe what seeing Becca in my clothes does to me. It’s the next best thing to branding my name onto her. The thought of having my scent smeared all over her turns my cock to stone.

Until Anton opens his mouth and drags me back into reality.

“You’re alive, so I’m assuming everything went as planned.”

I slide a side-eyed glare to where he’s leaned against the archway between the kitchen and living area. “It’s Toscano. Does anything ever ‘go as planned?’” A vague, shit answer, but it’s the best he’s going to get right now. I nod toward the couch. “How was she when you brought her here?”

There’s not even a flicker in that flat expression. “Feral.”

“Fuck.”

“The poor girl has been like a poker chip tossed between manipulative bastards,” he counters, his gaze drifting over my shoulder. “Can you blame her?”

Not at all. But I’m fighting an internal tsunami, and sense and rationality aren’t at the frontline. “But I’m the man who fucking saved her.”

“Yes, the one who she watched murder his father and seize control of his empire. Give her a little space to accept this version of him.”

I look away, the righteous indignation in his words pissing me off. I don’t want to give her space. I want everything like it was. I want Torch’s anonymity, and Becca’s submission, and fucking Toscano off my ass, and…

Well, Marcello and Henry can stay dead. That’s just a gift to society.

“We don’t have time for space,” I grumble.

“Speaking of which,” he says, swerving back on topic, “what, now?”

Good question. Toscano’s ultimatums have turned a gauntlet into a minefield.

“Call your contact and offer him whatever he wants. I need those accounts decrypted.”

“The man can’t be bought, Gianni.”

“Everyone can be bought,” I counter, flashing a cold smile. “You just have to find the right price.”

He blows out a resigned breath. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good. By the way, what do you know about women’s fashion?” I ask, exhaustion making the jump from bribe to bride. “I’m going to need you to?—”

“Gianni…”

“Don’t test me, Anton. Especially after you went behind my back and gave Tos?—”

“ Gianni ,” he stresses, tipping his chin across the room.

I turn my head just as Becca’s eyes flutter open.

We lock eyes, then she drags her heavy-lidded gaze down my body. “Well, if it isn’t the don of New Jersey.”

While her jab makes me wince, my need for her overrides it.

“Doc,” I breathe, clearing the distance. “Thank God…”

She shoots up like a lightning strike and shoves her palm forward, stopping me in my tracks. “God had nothing to do with it, Gianni. I’m here because of the Devil, remember?”

Anton clears his throat. “I, uh, I’m just going to go check on that thing in the car.”

I don’t answer or even look his way. My eyes stay on Becca until the soft click of the door closing shifts my attention to the playing card in her hand. “If you’re so angry, why keep souvenirs?”

“It’s not a souvenir. It’s a trophy for surviving Hell.”

“Where’s my trophy?”

“For what, sinking into a lower circle?” She tosses the card on the coffee table. “You lied to me again .”

She flings the words like poisoned darts.

While I’ll absorb all the venom she can dish out, I’m not doing it sober.

Walking to the bar, I pour myself a highball of whiskey, down it, then fill it to the top again.

“I thought I was doing what was best for you,” I offer, scrubbing a hand over my growing beard. “I wanted to give you a clean slate.”

“That worked out well.”

“You weren’t supposed to come upstairs.”

“I’m sorry,” she drawls, pressing her hand dramatically to her chest. “I didn’t realize your little murder party was invite-only.”

“That’s enough, Becca.”

“Enough?” She lets out a shrill laugh. “Oh, I’m just getting started. Do you get a kick out of driving knives into my chest, or does being sadistic just come second nature to you?”

“I said, that’s enough.”

“You told me not to worry because you had a plan. I begged you to tell me, but you asked for my trust, and like an idiot, I gave it.”

Within three steps, I’m in front of her with my hand in her hair. “I didn’t lie to you.”

“Oh? So that wasn’t your bloody coronation I walked into?”

It’s taking everything in me not to drag her to her feet and bend her over this fucking couch. While that smart mouth is something I usually enjoy, right now, it’s making me want to do some very vile and savage things to her.

“It’s not a fucking promotion, Becca,” I say, choosing my words carefully as my grip tightens. “If you want something in my world, you have to pay a price.”

She stands, that cool smirk melting to a serious stare. “What was yours?”

“Everything,” I say, because there’s no truer answer. My price to end my father’s reign of terror and twenty-two years of pain and suffering for her cost me everything.

My life.

My identity.

My future.

My freedom.

Her.

“You were sending me back to Providence, alone.”

I nod. “Originally, yes.”

“Why not just tell me?” she whispers, her eyes drifting shut.

“Because you would’ve fought me.” Her eyes snap open, and she parts her lips, ready to fire off an automatic rebuttal I intercept with a firm finger.

“Can you honestly say if I’d told you the only way to stop my father and ensure your safety was for me to kill him and become boss, you would’ve asked no further questions and walked away on your own? ”

“Well, I?—”

“Not only would I have confessed to premeditated murder, but I would’ve had to inform you that those men you saw upstairs weren’t insignificant Marchesi soldiers.

They’re the four bosses who make up what’s called the Authority, a.k.a.

the Supreme Court of the underworld, and the ones pulling the strings of Marcello’s execution. ”

“I didn’t?—”

“And that I’d been busting my ass trying to keep them from realizing he’d been using you as a pawn. Because if they knew an outsider had a front-row seat to this whole shitshow…”

“They would’ve made sure I didn’t talk. That’s the reason for all the secrecy and the key and watch. Owen was supposed to find me outside, then take me back.”

“I needed you away from me. My world isn’t safe for you.”

She bats my hand away and drops onto the couch.

“News flash, I’ve been ass deep in your world since I was twelve years old.

The problem isn’t new threats. It’s the men in my life trying to keep me in the dark while they make all my decisions for me.

I’m sick of it. My father, Jack, you… You all treat me like I’m some cracked piece of glass that’s going to shatter into a million pieces at the first rattle.

But you’re all wrong. Look at me, Gianni,” she says, spreading her arms wide.

“Look at all I’ve been through and survived. I’m still here, and I’m not broken.”

“No, you’re not.”

“So maybe instead of demanding I trust you, it’s time for you to trust me .”

“Don’t quid pro quo me, Doc.” Scowling, I lower beside her and set my glass on the coffee table.

“I’m not.” Exhaling a frustrated sigh, she reaches for my hand.

“You told me that once I let the Devil in, he’ll never leave.

Well, you were right.” Holding my stare, she places my palm over her heart.

“He’s here, and there’s no getting him out.

But what about you? Once you trap your butterfly, do you seal the lid, or let her fly away? ”

Damn this woman.

I move my hand from her chest to her cheek, then the other follows, and I’m cradling her face.

Then, my mouth crashes onto hers with the force of all the rage, fear, frustration, and possession I feel.

I mold her to my lips, taking what I want and demanding more.

Becca gives me everything I need, combating every lash of my tongue with one of her own.

The kiss is frantic, hungry, and demanding, and I want more.

So much fucking more.

But the moment I slide my hand under the hem of the button-up, she grabs my wrist.

“Gianni, wait,” she murmurs against my lips before pulling back with a heavy exhale. “I need to know if that’s all.”

“If what’s all?”

She slumps into the cushion and tucks her hands in her lap. “No more secrets and half-truths. Either I’m in this with you as an equal or not at all.”

Fuck .

I didn’t anticipate being backed into another corner so quickly. Then again, this is Becca. The woman has a knack for needling through my armor. The only thing left to do is come out swinging.

“Your appearance rattled a lot of chains, which is exactly what I was trying to avoid. But it did, so I had to deal with the fallout … and quickly.”

Her chalky pallor tells me I’m scaring her. Good. She should be scared. This whole fucking thing should scare the ever-living shit out of her.