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My chest ached, as though it was on the verge of cracking open to release all of my inner turmoil on an anguished scream.
I sucked in a desperate breath to stave off my panic, and the scent of leather and amber suffused my senses. I was wearing the beautiful stranger’s shirt. The smell enfolded me, blotting out the scent of drying blood that made my camisole stick to my skin.
Massimo’s blood.
He’d thrown himself in front of a bullet to save me.
And George…
He ran.
I heard the door to the suite open, and an unfamiliar man spoke in Spanish, a language I understood. “You were shot? Let me see.”
It was the doctor, here to treat Massimo’s wound.
I released a shaky breath and stepped toward the threshold to the sitting room, peering around the doorjamb to further assess my situation. Some instinct for self-preservation warned me not to boldly step into the room and join the strange men. The Italians had spoken in sharp, angry tones. I didn’t know what I would be walking into, so I chose to linger in the privacy of the bedroom and take in whatever information I could.
I got my first look at the two Italian men who’d arrived first to interrogate Massimo. They were almost identical—clearly related. Both men were model-handsome and almost as imposing as my dark savior, even though Massimo was a few inches taller. He faced away from me, but I could clearly see the other two men in profile as they fixed him with twin glowers. The only discernible difference between them was their choice of hairstyle—one military short and the other in loose black waves that framed his granite face.
The clean-cut man barked something else in Italian, and Massimo rolled his shoulders as though shaking off irritation. Then, he grasped the hem of his shirt and tugged it over his head to reveal the gory wound at his side.
He was even more powerful than I’d realized, muscles rippling as he moved with shocking grace despite the pain he must be enduring. Blood coated his right side, and a darker gash scored his ribs.
The doctor went to work, inspecting and cleaning the damaged flesh. I swallowed down my nausea at the sight and focused on the Italians, who had resumed speaking to each other in their native language.
Amidst the indecipherable words, I caught on to one that they repeated several times: Crawford.
They did know George, then.
My heart skipped a beat. Did they know he was corrupt? Were they taking bribes from the cartel too?
Then Massimo spoke to the doctor in Spanish, and my whole world crumbled. “It’s not serious. Barely a graze.”
My stomach dropped. I recognized that oddly accented voice.
Is she innocent?
Massimo had been in that basement with me on the night of my terrible ordeal. He’d been the one to save me from the cartel.
He’d killed my kidnappers.
He’d murdered them to save me.
Now you’ll have to taste broken glass too. I will make you lick it up like the dog you are.
His macabre threat to the man who’d tried to roofie me played through my mind. In that moment, I’d known he was dangerous, but I hadn’t truly considered his capacity for such brutal violence.
And the way he’d handled himself when he’d jumped in front of the barrel of that gun to save me…
Someone had screamed in that alley, and Massimo had been the only man to emerge. In the aftermath of the fight, his heartbeat had been steady.
My chest convulsed, and an awful choking sound caught in my constricted throat. The bedroom spun around me, and I stumbled back, desperate to put distance between myself and the lethal man in the next room. The world tilted, and my knees hit the plush carpet.
My heart slammed against my ribcage with bruising force, and my lungs burned.
I couldn’t breathe.
A tinny ringing pierced my eardrums, smothering the heaving sound of my failed breaths. They stuck in my tight throat, the air never reaching my oxygen-starved lungs.
