Page 231 of Hate Mates

She could be. My sister could have been killed and there's nothing I can do about it.

Donatio sold her.Sold her. And the way he said it was like he was talking about a piece of meat.

If he says she’s either dead or on the way to fuck knows where then I was always too late.

What am I going to do now?

Oh Lana.

Cristiano pulls out his phone from his pocket, reminding me he’s here.

He glances at my still, hollow form and makes a call. "Any word on Lana?"

I look at him properly, my heartbeat kicking up several notches as I realize he must know more than I think.

Of course he does. He's here, and he saved me, and he came just in time as if he was watching, waiting.

In the soft moonlight streaming through the window, I get a good look at him as he speaks in Italian to whoever's on the other end of the line.

He's still hard around the edges and still devastatingly handsome enough to soften his abrasive exterior.

He’s had that hardness since I met him. I was sixteen, and he was eighteen. He’d just moved from Italy to the States with his family. Even before we officially met, I knew he came from a mafia family.

It was spoken about in hushed tones at school, and no one dared mess with him. He had that badass attitude that warned you not to.

Strangely, we first met when he saved me from my school bullies, and then we got together months later.

My parents didn't like him because of who and what he was. They also weren't fond of me dating a senior, but I never let anything stop me from being with him. Neither did he, not even when my dad warned him away from me.

Our plans were to go to UCLA so we could be together, away from everyone who wanted us apart. And we did. I followed rightafter him, and we had a glorious time together until the night he left me with no reason.

"I'm going to need all hands on deck for this one," he says in English again, then hangs up.

I don't even realize tears are streaming down my cheeks until one drops onto my arm, followed by more.

Cristiano’s dark eyes meet mine again, holding my gaze a little longer. For a moment I see a flicker of the man who used to be mine. There's so much unsaid between us—so many questions and accusations.

“Are you hurt?” He looks me over.

“No.”

“My men are tracking Lana." He nods, breaking his stare. "I'm trying to get her back."

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “She’s alive?”

He nods slowly. "Yes, but it's imperative we get to her as soon as possible. She was in Sicily earlier. The man who bought her is moving her to a different location, but we don’t have details of where that is.”

That bastard Donatio made me believe Lana was still in Chicago. And I was so stupid to believe him. I wipe away my tears and drag in a deep breath.

"Thank you. Thank you for saving me and for trying to find Lana. But what are you doing here, helping me?" My frail voice sounds like it may shatter from the tension filling the space between us. “Howare you here, Cristiano? And you know about Lana?”

"It’s complicated.” He glances away, back to the road, his jaw clenched.

“Then uncomplicate it. I haven’t seen you in six years. You left out of the blue, and I couldn't find you. Now you'rehere.”

His face hardens and his grip tightens on the steering wheel. "I'm sorry. A lot happened that I couldn’t tell you back then.”

“Why?”

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