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I haven’t interacted much with him, but it’s clear he’s a man of few words.
I follow him down the stairs, my gaze drifting over his broad shoulders before locking on his gun.
Even at home, where we’re surrounded by an army of his men, he’s armed.
When I take the last step, my left heel gives way, and not thinking, I reach out to catch myself. My palm slams into the gun at Damiano’s back, and instantly, the blood drains from my face.
Shit.
Damiano spins around, and as I suck in a breath to gasp, his fingers wrap brutally around my throat, and I’m twisted around before he slams me down onto the tiles.
Pain shudders through my hips and shoulder blades. The air explodes from my lungs, and the next second, the barrel of his gun is pressed against my forehead.
ShitShitShit.
Fear fills every inch of my body as I choke the words past his painful grip on my throat, “It was … an … accident.”
Crouched over me, his features are carved from granite, his eyes twin pools of danger.
My heart thunders in my chest as I stare up at him, and I make a strangled sound as I try to suck in a breath.
“It … was … an accident,” I gasp. “My heel … broke, and I …. tripped.”
He moves an inch, and not easing his hold on my throat, he glances at my broken shoe. Seemingly satisfied with my explanation, he finally lets go of me and straightens to his full height.
Caro Dio.
I suck in desperate breaths of air as I quickly climb to my feet. Only when my eyes land on Damiano, who’s already walking away from me while tucking his gun back into the waistband of his chinos, does anger begin to swirl in my chest.
The asshole. He just slammed me against the tiles and almost choked the hell out of me, and he can’t be bothered to say a single word?
I rip the broken shoe off my foot and almost throw it at his back, but luckily, I catch myself in the nick of time.
Scowling at his retreating back, I slam my hand against the button on the wall to call the elevator. When the doors open, I step into the small space before glaring at the stupid shoe that almost got me killed.
My shoulders and hips still hurt, and I lift a trembling hand to my throat.
He didn’t need to overreact like that.
Dio, like I’d try to kill him? I’m not stupid, and I certainly don’t have a death wish.
Heading to my bedroom, I quickly change my shoes before rushing to the dining room.
I don’t even look in Damiano’s direction and offer Mrs. Accardi a forced smile as I take a seat next to Carlo.
Just get through dinner with your head held high.
From years of abuse, I’ve become a master at hiding my true feelings. I refuse to let people see my vulnerable side because I know they’ll use it against me.
Reaching for my glass of water, I take a sip.
As I set the glass down, Mrs. Accardi’s eyes lock on my neck. “Where did the bruises come from?”
“Bruises?” Mrs. Falco asks, her features tightening.
I feel the air tense around the table and know if I glance at Damiano, he’ll probably give me a look of warning to keep my mouth shut.
My stubborn streak, that’s taken a rest the past week, flares to life, making my anger grow.
