Page 45 of Revenge on the Mafia

“Show me, then. Show me it’s enough.”

I fucking did. Pulling the knife out of my pocket, I waved it wildly in front of me. “No me toques.”

“How can I not touch you?” His gaze turned bitter. “When that’s all I want.”

Alarm bells went off in my head. I jabbed the air in front of me. I fucking hated him. “Te odio,” I snapped.

“I know you hate me.”

The room shrank. Joder. He was two strides in. I had to do it. Another step. I had to. Another. I shrieked. Pulled the knife in.

What the hell was I doing?

His lips tilted in amusement, and he easily caught my wrist. Brought it down flat on the counter before I hurt myself.

“Suéltame.” My voice cracked. Hatred and frustration bundled in the demand to let me go.

He didn’t. Instead, his unblinking intention focused on my face as he worked my hand to grip the handle tightly. “Like this,” he rasped. “Sí?”

“Te dicho que soltarme, joder.”

“Make me, Anna. Make me let you go.”

My grip was tight around the handle, but it was only because he was forcing it. His other hand caged me against the counter. All I had to do was twist my hand and stab him. I could do it. He’d let me. I knew it like I knew the exact number of notes in my favorite sonnet. I’d practiced it over and over again. Like I’d practiced holding this stupid thing in my hand.

But he didn’t look convinced. He looked like I needed a push. I did. Because his warm breath was twisting my insides. The pulse on my collarbone had gone wild.

To my horror, he drew closer. Inch by inch, he drank the air between us. He surrounded me. His presence. His scent.

My vision zoomed in on his lips. His upper lip was a perfect cupid's bow, framed by his light scruff that ran around his mouth and outlined by his sharp jaw. I shouldn’t have been noticing this. So stop it. But I couldn’t. Couldn’t move either. Or breathe. My entire body went stiff with tension. An electric air hummed between us. His breath was a mixture of saffron and whiskey. It floated between us like dark magic. Then he did an atrocious thing. His lips brushed mine. So lightly it could have been a dream. I struggled to breathe. He pulled back. Stared at my lips like he was counting the lines. A sigh fell between us. Then he gripped the nape of my neck and did it again. Fully. Possessively. Ownership outlined with it.

Joder.

I struggled in his arms. Opened my mouth to tell him to fuck off, but he swept in with his tongue and brought his taste along with it. It branded my insides and burned them into molten lava. Made me weak. My resistance wore off. For just a second, an insane thought danced in my head. Kissing him feels like a good day on the Playa de la Vibora.

My head dipped back. A low groan filled the room. I wasn’t sure whose. I thought it was him, but I couldn’t be held responsible for my thoughts because I was kissing my father’s murderer.

My. Father’s. Murderer.

My vision blurred. Sickness twisted my stomach. I yanked back. The crack in the air was the sting on his cheek. The imprint of my palm painted on his face.

“¡Hijo de puta!”

But he wasn’t paying attention to my insult. He was staring at the black fabric of his shirt. Where it was staining in the center of his chest. Right in the middle, a knife was planted into it. Mine. I choked on a sob. System shutdown. Going down. My gaze jarred off and focused behind him, but black spots danced before me. My teeth chattered. Words spilled out. I didn’t know what.

Bile was rushing up my throat. I pushed him away. Stumbled off him. Staggered out of the room. The house was warped, and it carried me to the basement. The rooms shifted and spun. Cried and laughed. Somehow, I made it to a toilet somewhere. Bile splashed all over it. It must have been the evil inside me. I lay there for what must have been hours. Shaking. Sweating. Muttering. Then, after the sweat on my spine had cooled down completely, I brought my shaking hands to the handle and flushed it down entirely.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

NICO

Vale, tienes tu fuego.

There, you have your fire.

The barbed knife I’d given her snagged at my skin, before dropping to the floor innocently. The dark stain she put in my chest spread across the fabric. Crimson seeping into black. I should have worn white. Still, something told me this was going to be my favorite shirt. Our first kiss sealed with blood.

I traced the outline of my lips with my tongue, sealing the memory of hers. Reluctantly, I stepped away from the counter, picked up the knife and went looking for the first-aid kit in the kitchen. I cleaned the knife with water and placed it next to the sink. Ready for the next time she had a jab at me. It had only gone in half an inch before she’d hit my sternum. If she was planning to get through to me like this, I should probably give her a bone saw.