Page 32 of Devil's Tulip

GIANNA

Silence stretches between us, long enough to make me think he won’t answer. But then he slides into the seat across from me, pinning me with those vivid blue eyes that have my heart fluttering. “I’m Michael Hart. Who are you?”

I drop my gaze to my hot chocolate again, needing a moment to breathe. Why is it that every time he looks at me like that, my brain turns to mush? His stares are too damn intense. I take a sip, hoping the warmth will help me pull myself together.

“I think you know exactly who I am,” I tell him, cradling the warm mug between my hands. The drink tastes exactly the way it would if I had made it myself. And that realization shifts something in my perception of him. Why would he put such effort into making it just right?Why me?

He smirks in response, and just like that, my moment of contemplation turns into suspicion. I narrow my eyes on him. “Why are you doing all this?” I blurt out, fingers tightening around the mug. “If my uncle sent you to find me, won’t you be in trouble for helping me?” Not only helping me but making sure I’m comfortable and fed.

He tilts his head, that devastating almost-smile playing at his lips. “If you’re trying to imply I should be scared of Aldo, don’t. There’s nothing he can do to me.”

The casual confidence in his voice sends a shiver down my spine. Is he serious? Most men tremble at my uncle’s name. But Michael doesn’t evenblinkor seem remotely concerned about the consequences. He’s either fearless or reckless—or both.

I frown, opening my mouth to pry a little deeper, but he beats me to it.

“Tell me, Gianna, why did you run away from home? And why were you working at that bar? You have a degree.”

I scoff, successfully distracted—damn him. “A degree without the experience recruiters want. Besides, that’s where Uncle Aldo would look for me first. He knows how much I wanted to be a practicing nurse.”

For a long moment, he simply studies me, and I brace myself, worried he’ll push for an answer to the first question. Why did I run? I’m not ready to talk about that. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to discuss the way I was treated in that house with a man as sure and confident in himself as Michael.

Thankfully, he lets it go.

“So, nursing, huh?” He smiles. “Why go down that route? Why not medical school?”

My hackles rise instantly. “And what’s wrong with being a nurse?”

His hands go up in surrender, though his grin only widens, the ring in his brow piercing glistening under the overhead lights as he tilts his head. “Easy there, Nightingale. It was an honest question, not a dig. I’ve got nothing but respect for nurses. They keep the hospital running, in my opinion.”

Oh. Well. That’s… not what I was expecting. At all.

I clear my throat and stare into my mug, watching a marshmallow slowly sink into the rich, swirling chocolate.Another sip buys time, helps me escape the keen intelligence gleaming in those baby blues. He’s too perceptive, and Ihatethat I just gave myself away like that.

“I take it nursing wasn’t your first choice?” The quiet observation hits too close, yanking my gaze back up. Why the hell does he have to be so discerning?

I shrug in response, hoping that will be the end of it.

It’s not.

One of his brows arches. “You were going to go into medicine, weren’t you?”

I tense.

“Why?” he presses. “And what changed your mind?”

“What’s with all the darned questions anyway?” I snap.

He only leans back, studying me like I’m some bug he has under a microscope.

I should get up. Walk away. Retreat to my room where those scrutinizing eyes can’t dissect me and my intentions. But I don’t. For some reason I stay seated, oddly reluctant to leave his presence. The man has me wrapped around his ringed pinkie without even trying.

His first question is as difficult to answer as the second, but I choose it as the lesser evil. Better than admitting why I let my dream get derailed. “I was in the car with my parents during the accident.” I pause, dropping my gaze to my hands, tracing the rim of my mug as I search for words. I’ve never talked to anyone about this before. How do I voice it without crumbling?

When I glance back up at Michael, he’s staring at me blankly—but not in a careless way. He knows. The cold police report version. That helps a little. I don’t have to explain every gruesome detail, just… the rest of it. “I must have blacked out when our driver lost control of the car. When I came to, all I heard was gunfire.” I let out a small, humorless laugh. “At first, I thought it was just thunder. But then I–”

I blinked my eyes open to see receding footsteps. Blood. Skull fragments where my dad’s head should have been. He had chosen to sit in the front with the driver—his secretary—so they could discuss business.

Beside me, my mom had a bullet hole in her chest. She was still alive… for a few seconds longer, at least. I stared at her in horror, and she smiled at me. Opened her mouth to say something.

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