The Bodyguard's Betrayal

Chapter Eight

Gabe

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West Adams at night feels like hell.

Sweat drips from my forehead as I lie on my worn mattress, my hand propping up my head. Even during those sweltering Italian summers as a kid, I can't recall ever feeling as uncomfortable as I do now. Back then, my room was more of a converted closet, quickly put together by my grandmother when my mother left me in their village without warning. The broken ceiling fan and lack of air conditioning made the heat almost unbearable, but it didn't bother me much.

I had my grandmother, whose support in the aftermath of my parents' abandonment was enough to make even the most unbearable nights feel worth it. It's when you have nothing—no hope, no future—that everything becomes suffocating.

I close my eyes, thinking of Piccola instead—specifically when she declared she never wanted to see me again. I try not to hold it against her. I was arrogant—a trait I've been reminded of more times than I care to admit—and assumed her loyalty to her mother would override any distaste she had for my methods, making her compliant.

I made a mistake. 

I never make mistakes. 

I wouldn't again if given the chance, but I can't see any way of forcing myself back into her life after this. In her eyes, I did the one thing she's deemed unforgivable: I took her freedom.

If only she knew I was prepared to take a whole lot more.

I exhale slowly, attempting to divert my thoughts, only to end up thinking about her body. I can almost feel the softness of her skin against mine, the warmth of her breath on my neck. Her dress, clinging to her curves, holds me hostage. Three months of her would have been absolute torture, so maybe I got lucky.

It's almost three am. Lifting my t-shirt, I wipe away some of the sweat from my face, wishing it were morning. Nights in this place are unbearable enough without torturing myself further.

I shift uncomfortably on the lumpy futon, the worn fabric barely cushioning me from the unforgiving springs poking through. My gaze drifts across the room, taking in this shit-hole apartment. The walls are a dull beige, stained with age and neglect. A broken dresser stands in the corner, half-blocking the door. I think back to Evangeline's mansion, with its dozens of rooms and air conditioning. After tonight, this is as good as it gets for me.

Once Denaro discovers I fucked up, he'll undoubtedly come after me and possibly my brother. A few broken limbs are guaranteed, but I have a feeling he won't let me off so lightly this time, not with millions of dollars at stake. Either we run and hope he never catches up or wait for him to get us.

The problem is my ego won't let me run.

Abandoning any hope of sleep, I sit up and rub my face before heading to the living room. Collapsing onto the sofa, I sift through the press clippings and documents I've gathered over the last few weeks. It's all useless now—the floor plans of her house, the profiles of her closest associates—but I can't bring myself to accept defeat.

I get that from my father.

At the front of the papers is the contract for her new security system that was supposed to be installed tomorrow. I gather the documents, jaw clenched, ready to toss them into the trash when my phone rings. Evangeline's name flashes on the screen, stopping me in my tracks.

Seeing her name there, after everything that's happened, is the last thing I expected. I take a moment to compose myself, then gruffly say, "Hello?"

"It's Evangeline Ryder," she says, her voice clipped. "I know it's late, but I had no one else to call. Did I wake you?"