Page 13 of Her Cruel Bodyguard

I want to say there is something about him that unsettles me, because frankly there is. But how can I be sure it has nothing to do with the fact that he is the one she is being all lovey dovey with?

I tear my eyes from him, overcoming the incessant urge to punch his sunken jaw. I drop my eyes to my phone screen, refreshing my message to see if Mindy has replied to my text.

I am not physically present in their lives, but I care a great deal about them, especially about him. They are better off away from me. It’s the best way to keep the dangers of this life at bay and allow them to have normal lives—the lives that they deserve.

That is a noble reason to keep my distance; the other reason is that no one can find out what I did.

I refresh again. I know she won’t be answering anytime soon, but I keep refreshing; perhaps if I focus my anger on being ignored by her, I will be able to live through the torture of watching Eva practically sprawled on the kid. Pete, Paul or whatever the fuck he goes by.

Eva says something, and Gloria giggles. Most of her talks with her loser of a lover are hard for me to hear, and sometimes, like just now, I can't make anything out. Gloria whispers something back, and Eva loses it, throwing her head back and then dropping it on Paul’s shoulder as a ping of laughter shrieks through her.

I grind my teeth, wanting to be let in on the joke. The very one that seems to be making her laugh in that cackling way.

He has got her real good.

I want her to be happy, to enjoy her youth, and not have certain things denied to her. This is what I want, but it doesn’t mean it hurts any less.

My phone begins to vibrate in my hand, and some molecule of hope that Mindy might be the one calling gets doused with a spring of water when I see the screen and Emanuele’s name flashes on it.

Great.

The cafeteria is not as loud as it was an hour ago, so I take the call on the spot.

“Where the bloody hell are you?” Emanuele barks. He is not known for losing his temper except when it comes to either Vittoria or Eva, the fucking apple of his eyes.

“We will be back soon,” I hedge his question.

“From a different planet or what? You were supposed to be back home two hours ago and you are still on your way?” I hear the sound of his lighter flicking, a habit he’d stopped after marrying Vittoria. If he is back at it now, it means he is worried.

He has every reason to be. He’s got a madman of a son roaming about. Salvatore is unstoppable, and I should be more careful.

I button up my suit jacket. “She needed supplies for her photography class,” I lie. “She will be home soon,” I stand by that. I don’t think he can tell I lied, but I know he can tell something isn’t adding up.

“Supplies? What kind?” He grinds.

I clip my tongue, refusing to answer. Anything I say next can and will be used against me, especially if he finds out I am lying, which he would if I say anything else. Emanuele is too involved in Eva’s life; he knows practically every piece of equipment and term in photography.

“Bring her home; supplies be bloody damned,” he waits for a second, and then the call goes off.

That’s an order.

I toss my phone in the inner pocket of my suit and clear my throat louder than needed so Eva can hear me. I don’t go over; she knows it’s the signal that I need her here. She grumbles something before standing up and coming over to me.

“Time to go,” there is no room for argument in my tone.

“We are not done with…” She attempts to protest because she wouldn’t be Eva if she didn’t try to make things difficult for me. “Give me a minute to gather my things,” she slacks and returns to the table to begin packing up.

“I told your father we went to pick up some supplies for your photography class,” I stop the car in front of the main building of the estate.

“And I am supposed to thank you,” she rolls her eyes.

Eva has been quiet since she entered the car and we drove off, and it borders on annoying because it makes me want to fill the void with words I seem to be coming short of. I was waiting for her to chide me, to say something to me, anything at all, but nothing.

For most of the drive, she was talking to Vittoria on the phone about how the baby shower should look. But I cannot shake the feeling that she’s being quiet because she misses the dumbass—I mean, her boyfriend.

I cannot but think she sees me as the enemy of their love story for peeling her off him and bringing her back home.

“I won’t do it again,” I unlock the car door.

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