Page 77 of Savage Prince

“You, trusting?” I barely suppress a laugh.

“I know, right?” She shakes her head. “I already told him you were half dead, and I had your gun.”

I eye the sleek weapon sitting on the counter by the door. I could have taken possession of it when she walked out, but instead, I’d fallen asleep like a baby. Obviously, I’m the one that’s too trusting.

“So what excuse did you give him for choosing to remain?”

“It wasn’t an excuse,” she grits out. “Ale is almost here so there was no point inPapàcoming or knowing anything about my cousin’s involvement. Besides, the town is still crawling with mafia goons, and I’m hoping another day will buy us some time.”

“Us?” That one word brings more satisfaction than an orgasm. Which reminds me if I don’t get a release soon, it’s very likely my balls will explode.

“Yes,bastardo, me and the mouse in my pocket.”

“I’m sure yourpapàloves that you’ve stayed with me despite giving you every chance to escape.”

“Yeah, well, he’ll just have to deal with it.” She lifts her hand before I can respond. “And don’t you dare ask me why I stayed with you again.”

I lean in, dropping my hands to the back of her thighs. “Because you’re afraid of the truth?”

“Because I want to punch you in the face every time you ask.” She smiles sweetly before prying my fingers off her legs and freeing the phone from her pocket. “Anyone you want to call?”

I pause to consider for a moment before shaking my head. “No, but I would like to find out who the hell burned down my mother’s house.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“I have an old college friend, not in the business, who can hack anything. If he can get into the security system at the villa, he’ll be able to provide faces to our arsonists. Once we have that, it’s only a matter of time until we find out with certainty who was behind it.”

CHAPTER 38

GRAND THEFT AUTO

Serena

Antonio grits his teeth as he carries the container of gasoline toward the banked Riva, its glossy hull protected by the boathouse we’ve been hiding in for days. I’m shocked he’s keeping to his word to deliver me to Alessandro in Milano. He hasn’t said more than two words to me since yesterday, and he’s waited until the absolute last moment to leave the confines of our little wooden cabin. In some ways, it feels like a lifetime has passed since the day Antonio snatched me off the streets of Manhattan, and other times it feels like it was only yesterday.

A vein pulses across his forehead as he lifts the cannister and tops off the engine for our trip. The wound on his chest has barely had time to heal and since he’s forced to keep it open because of my stupid attempt at sewing it with a needle and thread, he’s clearly in a lot of pain. But of course, he’s too stubborn to admit it.

“You sure you don’t want me to help you with that?” I call out, leaning against the exterior wall of the boathouse, the wood worn and warped from the moisture in the air.

“No,” he rasps through clenched teeth. “I can handle it.”

“Sure, if handling it means you’re going to pass out any second now.”

He swings a glare in my direction as he fits the nozzle into the tank and the gasoline gushes out, the distinctive noise muffling his ragged breaths. He doesn’t even bother to tell me he’s fine for the hundredth time, only continues to ignore me.

Tipping my head back, I pretend to watch the stars winking overhead, while keeping one eye on the stubborn Italian who’s attempting to single-handedly drag the boat back into the water. At this rate, he’s going to bleed out before we make it to the other side of the lake.

Instead of arguing with him, I stomp toward the stern and give it a good shove, so it dislodges from the sandbar.

Antonio glances up over the windshield and shoots me a pointed glare. “I told you I could handle it.”

“And you’re no good to me if you’re bleeding out or dead,” I hiss.

Before he can answer, I give it another good shove, and he has no choice but to refocus on the task at hand or risk getting run over by the Riva. By the time I hear the waves lapping against the hull, I’m dripping in sweat and cursing myself for ever offering to help. Who knew that thing would be so heavy?

But at least we’re finally almost on our way. By this time tomorrow, I’ll be sitting on Ale’s jet heading back to Manhattan. As much as I would love to ignorePapà’s wishes altogether, I know that if I don’t at least make an appearance back home, he’ll completely lose his shit and drag me back himself.

Antonio leans against the side of the boat, wiping the beads of sweat from his brow. He’s back in his clothes, the canvasof scars and tattoos across his back once again hidden. I’m so tempted to ask what happened, but given his current mood, I don’t waste my time.

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