Page 63 of Protected By the Mafia

Felicity fought to keep from collapsing. That seemed worse, somehow.

Tristán turned his glare back on her. “Ouu ruun’d eweryhing.” The gunshots weren’t stopping, and she thought she heard echoes of screaming in the chaos beyond the walls, but she couldn’t let herself focus on any of it. Tristán moved his knife to his other hand, stepped closer, and raised it up. “Ghoodbye, Lishy.”

He wasn’t actually going to stab her from that angle. It was a feint. She was almost positive. But, of course, she couldn’t take the risk—and they both knew she could only block from one direction. So, she shielded as much of herself with the pot as she possibly could and let out one more scream, because if she tried to kick him she’d wind up on her ass.

Tristán tried to wrench the pot from her with his free hand, forcing her into a physical struggle unexpectedly.

And then the door swung into her makeshift alarm system.

“What the—”

Tristán’s head swung toward the door.

Felicity darted a glance to the side, even as disappointment crushed her. The muttering voice couldn’t possibly be Cristiano’s. But the disappointment stalled when she realized she had met the man whose eyes were widening. Cristiano had introduced them a couple of days after she’d met his family.

“Fuck,” Ryoma said. In the span of a heartbeat, he had a gun trained on Tristán. The shock was off his face as quickly as it had come and he tipped his head back, half out the door, to release a sharp whistle. “Cris!”

Hope sparked in her chest. He’s here. Cristiano’s here!

Tristán made a distinctly less happy noise. “Fuhk ouu.” He faced Felicity again. Rage darkened his eyes.

“Uh-uh, asshole,” Ryoma said, stepping over her mess of cans and rope without lowering his gun. “Back away from the woman. I’m not allowed to kill you, but I can still put you on the ground before you know what hit you.”

She watched Tristán fight with himself. He never removed his glare from her, never dropped his knife. She suspected he had reached the point where he was willing to fall if he believed he could take her with him.

“I said back away.”

Tristán lifted a foot, slowly, as if he were complying.

He wasn’t going to. She saw it in his eyes. All she could do was try to aim her pot in the direction of his swinging knife, hoping to knock his arm off-course if nothing else. A gunshot rang out, splitting the air. Felicity squeezed her eyes shut, unable to do anything to dodge.

A rush of air in front of her proceeded the clatter of Tristán’s knife crashing to the floor and the hard thud of a body hitting something else solid, several feet away. But Felicity couldn’t bring herself to unclench.

“Watch him.” The words were growled so low she almost didn’t recognize them. Not until a large, warm, strong hand settled over her white-knuckled grip on the pot handle and another cupped her cheek. “Open your eyes, baby. I’m here.”

Felicity blinked her eyes open, almost afraid she was hallucinating. “Cristiano…”

Frown lines marred his forehead as his thumb stroked her jaw. “Let go of the pot.”

She unfurled her fingers and her impromptu weapon fell to the floor. Her lips parted as she sucked in a shaky breath.

Cristiano pulled her out from where she’d pinned herself, hauling her up to his lips in a crushing, powerful kiss. He tangled a hand in her hair and hooked her thigh over his hip.

Felicity whimpered into the kiss, clinging to him as best she could, relief and happiness fueling that spark of desire he always ignited inside her.

Cristiano gentled his hold, rumbling against her as he slid her back to her feet. His hands settled over her spine and he leaned forward enough to press his forehead to hers. “You’re safe now, baby.”

She couldn’t stop the tears if she’d tried. “I knew you would come.”

He wiped her cheeks with both thumbs and pressed his lips to her hair. “Always.”

She reached up to latch onto his arms, wanting to hold him, to have him closer and tighter to her.

Cristiano caught her wrist in a loose grip and examined the towel wrapped around her hand. “You’re hurt.”

She’d forgotten. For just a moment, she’d forgotten about the stinging in her hand. “It was my own fault,” she said on reflex, “and it’s not so bad. The—”

He kissed her again, cutting her off, but this time kept it brief. “Right now, I only care that you’re hurt. The details matter for recovery, not for how it factors in to whether or not I’m pissed off about it.” He kissed her a third time, both hands on her face again, then straightened and turned them toward the room. “Ryoma, get her outside and see about cleaning up her hand. I still need to deal with this piece of shit.”

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