Page 17 of His Angel

“I can walk, you know.”

“Remind me to fix that later.”

“What? You’re going to break my legs?”

He smacks my ass. “Why would I do that if I can just fuck your body into thinking you can’t stand without me?”

“You’re an idiot.”

He lets out a chuckle that sounds more like a throaty rumble, and it does something to my insides.

My gaze snags on a locked door—heavy wood, out of place among the breezy openness, a steel bolt glinting under the light.

“What’s in there?”

He glances at the door then passes without slowing down. “My office. Boring stuff. Maps, bourbon, bad ideas.”

I narrow my eyes, catching the flicker in his tone, the way his grip tightens around my waist. “Boring, huh? You hiding a dungeon in there?”

“It’s way worse than that,” he quips playfully.

With one arm tight around me, he reaches and opens a glass door that leads out to the deck, then sets me down carefully.

“Wow,” is all I can say as I take it all in.

The deck stretches out from the house with a large infinity pool that makes it seem like it’s part of the ocean. Shimmering turquoise water matches the sea sprawled beyond, the edges smooth cream tiles glinting in the sun, and the surface ripples lazily, catching the breeze that drifts off the waves.

A few tan-colored lounge chairs line one side, cushions plump and inviting, the kind you sink into with a drink and forget the world…except I can’t, not with guards pacing the shore below.

Framed by potted palms, their fronds swaying, softening the edges, the whole setup screams Isaia—rich, relaxed luxury minus the gaudy showiness. I can already see him smirking poolside, shirt off, daring me to jump in and drown my doubts.

“Sit,” he says, nudging me toward a table shaded by a large umbrella. “Lunchtime. Made it myself. Don’t faint from shock.”

I drop into a chair. “If it’s edible, I might.”

He disappears inside, returning with a tray of grilled fish tacos, simple but damn good-looking, the mahi-mahi golden, topped with a mango salsa that’s all bright chunks and cilantro.

Warm tortillas sit beside a bowl of lime wedges, and he’s even tossed together a side of charred corn, kernels popped with smoky spice. It’s not fancy, but it’s skillful, clean, fresh, the kind of meal that says he’s not just bullshit in the kitchen.

“Impressed?” He slides into the chair across from me, popping a piece of corn into his mouth with that arrogant flair I hate to love.

I take a taco, biting in, the fish flakes tender, the salsa sweet and sharp. “Not bad,” I say, chewing, keeping it cool. “Didn’t peg you for a chef. Thought you’d just strangle a fish and call it dinner.”

He grins, leaning back, sun catching the edges of his black hair. “I’ve got layers, baby girl. Stick around. You might like them.”

I swallow, the taste lingering, and glance out at the sea—empty, endless, guards dotting the shore like silent reminders. This place is his, a private kingdom cut off from everything, and I’m here, free to roam…yet tethered to him.

Washing the food down with a crisp, minty mojito, I decide the sting of alcohol is exactly what I need, so I down the whole glass.

Isaia lifts a brow, and I pick up the crystal decanter, pouring some more minty freshness into my glass. “So…are you going to tell me why you brought me here?”

The taco’s halfway to his mouth when he pauses, his eyes locked on mine. He then proceeds to place the taco back on his plate, roughing a hand through his hair, his body language screaming that this is the last thing he wants to talk about.

“The Paladino family’s out for revenge.” He says it so casually, like it’s just another Tuesday. “Anthony was their golden boy, and I painted the church with his blood. They’re not exactly sending thank-you notes.”

I freeze, the mojito’s chill seeping into my chest—or maybe it’s his words. “The Paladino family wants you dead?”

It’s the way his dark gaze settles on me—heavy, weighted, painfully honest. “Memento mori,” he murmurs, and it’s like a piece of glass slicing into my gut.

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