Page 35 of Protected By the Mafia

Miguel sat as tall as his restraints allowed. “Name’s Miguel, and I’m twenty-one.”

Romeo arched a brow and came closer. “All right, I’ll bite. You have one minute to convince me my cousin hasn’t lost his goddamn mind.”

Miguel didn’t hesitate. “He probably has. He didn’t do shit to verify if my sick-sister story is true or if I made it up. I called myself a fucking cockroach and he basically said ‘wanna join?’, so I dunno, I think you need to pitch to me. Right now you all kinda seem like nutjobs.”

Cristiano watched Romeo’s eyes widen and bit his cheek to keep from laughing. Romeo had likely expected groveling, sniveling, or at least some kind of inquisition. The last and only other time Cristiano had brought someone into the fold, that person had been arguably too respectful upon introduction. This was entirely the opposite side of the coin.

Romeo pointed at the boy and glanced over at Cristiano. “This kid—”

“Miguel.”

“Has potential,” Cristiano said.

“Did he really call himself a cockroach?”

“Word play. He was calling himself a survivor,” Cristiano replied.

Romeo sighed and moved to drop into the chair Cristiano had vacated. “Okay, Miguel. Let’s talk.”

Cristiano inclined his head and turned away. “Don’t fuck it up, kid.” He strode past the remaining men, nodded at Mo in the foyer, and continued to his car. Having the freedom to leave his phone on when they were working at certain in-city locations wasn’t the same as being allowed to stop and check every message that came in. Romeo hadn’t said anything about anyone looking for him, so Cristiano was sure he knew who it was from.

Something twisted sharply in his chest when he read her message.

Foxglove: I need you.

Six minutes. Her message had been sitting, unread, for six minutes. In regular traffic at this time of day, it would take Cristiano ten additional minutes to get back to his penthouse. Un-fucking-acceptable.

It was eight minutes after Cristiano’s text had come in before he came barreling through the front door, and if Felicity were capable of rational thought, she would have worried about what she’d interrupted with her text. Or at least what state of mind it might have put him in.

The reality, however, was that she’d been pacing back and forth between the bedroom doorway and the kitchen island since she reached out to him. Her ears had long since tuned out the sound of her feet slapping against the solid surface of the floor. Her lungs had started to ache, probably more from doing all that aggressive walking while simultaneously bawling and panicking than the walking on its own. Her heart hurt. Her eyes hurt. Her head hurt. She felt like a complete mess, and for an irrational moment, when Cristiano cleared the angled partition that opened into the main space, she had the strongest urge to dive into the bathroom and lock the door.

“Fuck, baby, what happened?” Cristiano didn’t break stride, his keys sliding across the little tabletop where he generally kept them as he crossed to her. Concern filled his eyes, pulling his lips into a frown.

Her throat constricted and Felicity choked on her voice as multiple answers tried to tumble past her lips at once. She was pretty sure she whimpered. Her knees finally buckled.

Cristiano caught her before she could crash, his arms encircling her sides and hauling her straight up. He shifted his hold to sweep her off her feet and carried her to the sofa, cradling her in his lap. He brought a hand up to her nape, tucking her head into the groove of his throat, and rubbed his other hand up and down the length of her back. “I’m here, baby. Take a breath. Tell me how I can make it better.”

She gasped against him in the least sexy way ever and twisted her fingers into his shirt. She needed to find her voice, because he needed to know. “T-Taylor called.” Her throat constricted again.

His hand lowered to her hip, squeezing gently. “Did you have a fight?”

Felicity attempted to nod without lifting her head. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to, but I … I told her I lied.” She sniffled, disliking the way his fingers pressed firmly into her. It felt like disapproval. “I had to. But she got so mad.”

“Felicity,” Cristiano said, a tone of caution in his voice. “Why did you feel that was necessary?”

She dragged in a breath and forced herself to lift her head, needing to see his face. She was afraid she’d messed up, but she hoped he’d understand. As steadily as she could, she told him what Taylor had unknowingly revealed and how confused and frightened she was about it. “I can’t figure out why he’d say that. It has to be significant somehow, right?”

Cristiano cursed and tugged her closer, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Yeah,” he said. “It does.”

She searched for his gaze again. “Did I screw up?”

He lifted his hand from her hip and wiped at her cheek. “No, baby. You and Taylor will make up. I’ll fly you out to California myself just as soon as everything else is settled if you haven’t made up by then.”

A watery laugh bubbled out of her and Felicity leaned into his touch. “You’re not mad?”

He pulled her in and grazed his lips over hers, then teased her lips with his tongue as his hand lifted to tangle in her hair. He deepened the kiss, his other hand dragging down her body to settle on her thigh. He kissed her passionately, intensely, until she started to feel lightheaded. Then he broke the kiss, not easing his grip, and said roughly, “I’m not mad at you, Felicity. I can’t even imagine it.”

She melted, sinking against him, her arms lifting to curl around his neck.

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