Page 5 of Her Cruel Bodyguard

When he agreed to be my model, I should have known it was a trick. Fabio would never let me take pictures of him. I was eager, I was a little over the moon but a part of me knew there was something else to it.

He couldn’t even pretend and let me get one shot before coming clean.

I hate it.

I sulk, wishing Vittoria was here. She always knows what to say…

“You can do better kiddo,” at the sound of Salvatore’s voice, my heart drops to my stomach. I am one thought away from bolting, but he lifts a pistol and swings it in the air recklessly. “Kill the thought,” he snaps, as if reading my mind, and then scowls at my studio. It is good to see his hatred for my art is ever-blazing.

“Salvatore?” It is him. I know this. It’s obvious. But I cannot stop myself from wondering how he is here, in the estate. I can see he came in through the window but how did he get past the security at the back and front gate?

“In the flesh,” he smirks, “You don’t look too happy to see me,” he strides to the stool I had kept for Fabio and sits on it, “That makes two of us,” he scratches his stubble.

There is something being evil does to someone. It’s like it comes with its own makeup to rebrand a person. His curls have lost their sheen. His eyes and cheeks are sunken. His cheekbones are more acute. His collarbone almost tearing out of his skin.

I have always known he had it in him to be ruthless but to betray his family and take sides with the same man who murdered his mother, fought his father tirelessly for years, and threatened his family? That is a different level of ruthlessness.

“What are you doing here?” My eyes drift from his face to the gun in one hand and an envelope in the other.

“We will get to that, but first,” he stands and goes to the door, “I have a question for you, kiddo,” he locks the door and walks back to sit on the stool. He has always been the one to not care about his appearance, but he seems to have made an effort today. By this, I mean his white T-shirt is white and his blue jeans look bright.

“Stop calling me that,” I clip, trying for bravery because it looks like he does not wish to use the gun if I don’t give him a reason to. But I won’t put anything past him. If he can try to kill his father, our father, I don’t see why killing me will be any problem for him.

“I am in the mood to be a good big brother, and to make sure you don’t make mistakes,” he rests one hand, the one holding the gun, on his lap, “Tell me, how is it that you like that guy?”

I am trying to understand what he is asking.

“Fabio,” he throws hastily, “How can you even like him?”

“What gave you that impression?”

“It’s all over you,” he swings the gun up and down at me, “You were sulking, and I could give you some tips but that would go against my own plans.”

“Thank you but I can only imagine the kind of advice you would give me,” I gulp.

“I know you might not agree with me, but I want what’s best for you,” he stands, “You are my little sister.”

“You could have fooled me,” I pick up my glasses and put them back on with trembling fingers. I have seen guns before, but I have never liked them—let alone one in Salvatore's hand aimed directly at me.

“Eva,” he grits and stalks to stand in front of my desk, “Let me do the talking, we can fight when all of this is over.”

“Over to you then,” I try to look at the bright side, but I can’t see any in this situation.

He drops the envelope on the desk, dragging his free hand through his hair, down his face, and then lingers to scratch his stubble. He digs his hand into his back pocket, brings out a cellphone, and tosses it on my desk.

“You could have at least shaved,” I grumble.

“Shut up,” he bites out. He looks like a shadowed version of our father.

“Just saying,” I fold my arms across my chest to help apply pressure on my pouncing heart.

“I said shut up,” he barks and I clamp my lips in a whimper, “I did not come here to have you bug me,” he uses the tip of the gun to slide the envelope towards me, “I have good news,” he smiles but it doesn’t leave his lips. “I am now the new head of the Bratva,” he blows out air like he is living a dream come true.

“Do you even hear yourself?”

“Yes, and the last time I said something, it was that you should shut the fuck up,” he flicks the gun at the envelope, “Pick it up,” he nudges.

I reach for it hesitantly, unsure of what it might be. It can be a letter bomb. My hand halts, hovering above the envelope.

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