“Merci, monsieur,” I say to the shop owner as I reach across the counter and take the bag he hands me.
“De rien. Bonne journée, mademoiselle.”
I spin on my heels and walk towards the exit, happy with my purchase. I found a super cute magnet with Dagny’s name on it, the first I’ve seen since being in Europe. It’s got a drawing of the Eiffel Tower and one of Paris’ iconic lamp posts on it. She’s going to love it.
Briefly, I stop and take a photo of the magnet before sending it off to her. I want her to know I’ve been thinking about her because who knows when I’ll be able to see her next. And maybe this will go some way towards apologizing for my fiancé shooting her.
Walking out of the souvenir shop, I turn my head to the left then right, debating which way I want to head next, when I slam to an abrupt stop.
My heart crashes violently against my rib cage and bounces right off with enough force to make me dizzy.
Leaning against the archway, standing not ten meters from me, is Thiago.
His back is to me, his face turned to the side as he scours the crowds of tourists. I only have a partial view of his profile, but that’s exactly how I first laid eyes on his face.
I’d know him anywhere.
Tall, dark and imposing. Sticking out like a sore thumb on this fancy street, getting the attention of all the women and the jealous glares of all the men around him. He’s in his signature black suit, his glower firmly in place.
I’m frozen watching him, warring feelings of disbelief, fear and attraction competing for dominance. The crowd between us feels like it moves in fast forward as I simply stare at him, drinking in my fill of his features.
He’s so close I could take three steps and touch him. Inexplicably, my knee twitches, almost as if it’s urging me to take those steps.
The sound of my thundering heartbeat is loud in my ears, drowning out the noise around me. It’s all I can hear. I wish I could convince myself that it was fear making my heart race, but fear isn’t responsible for the yearning in my belly, for the potent lust pooling even lower.
He’s still in Europe. He’s still looking for me. Somehow he found the city I traveled to, again.
He isn’t giving up, just like he promised.
“Thiago!”
The sound of his name piercing through the air snaps me out of my thoughts and into action. I dip back into the store, hiding behind a postcard stand. I rotate it slightly, pretending to browse but taking advantage of a gap in between the rows to continue staring at him.
He turns and my breath catches between my lips. FaceTime doesn’t do him justice; he’s so much more attractive in person. Video does nothing to capture the power of his gaze, the charisma that oozes off him, and the sheer size of his physical presence. He’s a masterpiece adorned with tattoos, making him even more spellbinding.
If he’d turned a couple seconds earlier, he would have seen me.
“What is it?” he asks. “Did you find her?”
I almost go into cardiac arrest for the second time in five minutes.
Just when I think he can’t possibly affect me any more, he raises his hand. Clutched in his fist is my pink scarf. He presses it against his face and inhales like an animal, his eyes rolling back into his head. My knees go weak and waves of arousal hit me in the belly.
“Mademoiselle?”
I nearly jump out of my skin at the voice behind me. The shop owner is staring at me weirdly, probably wondering why my face is pressed halfway into his postcard stand.
“Desolée,” I answer, flustered. Desperately, I clutch at the remnants of my secondary school French to form what I hope is a cogent sentence. “Deux minutes.”
He walks away muttering something under his breath that I’m pretty sure are colorful expletives cursing the British.
When I turn back around, Thiago’s hand is down by his side and his guard is level with him. It’s the one I recognize as his lieutenant, the one I’ve been referring to as Younger Guy in my mind.
“No, jefe. Sorry.”
A look of annoyance crosses Thiago’s face before he waves at him to continue.
“Fabian just called. He took care of the two Italians we captured last night.”
“Did they give him a name?”
The guard stands with his back to me so I can’t see his expression, but he shakes his head.
“No. They said they had no idea who was responsible. They were in the death room for twelve hours and never wavered from that. Fabian thinks they were telling the truth.”
Thiago roars furiously, scaring unsuspecting people walking past him in the process. His expression blackens completely, all traces of humanity gone from his face now.
“Fuck!” he thunders. He starts pacing, uncaring of the crowds around him who jump out of the way to avoid his storming presence. Finally, he stops in front of Younger Guy and points a finger at him. “Enough of these low level footmen who don’t know shit. I want Augusto.”
I can see Younger Guy’s face now and he blanches.
“You mean…”
“Augusto Leone. The capo. I want him captured alive, whatever it takes. He’ll know who was responsible.”
A chill rolls down my spine at his tone. I know the name Augusto Leone, all of London does. He’s the head of the Italian mafia, a key part of the Underworld, and a ruthless killer. Going after him is a death sentence.
“Jefe, you know I’d never question your orders but Augusto Leone…he’s untouchable.”
Thiago grips his guard by the collar and yanks him against his chest. “Find a way, Marco. I’ve been playing nice for far too long. That ends today. I don’t care what it takes or how much it costs, but you get me Augusto Leone. He’ll answer firsthand for what his family did to Adriana.”
I turn away from the postcard stand and stumble back deeper into the store.
I’ve heard enough.
This connects back to what I overheard at the charity event. He’s avenging his lost love even as he’s scouring Europe looking for me.
Frustration and disappointment swirl in my gut. Frustration that I let myself think for even a second that his search for me was anything but wounded pride. Disappointment that I was stupid enough to think that someone could be doing something for me.
“Vous…avez sortie autre?” I ask the shop owner in butchered French. When he gives me nothing but a quizzical expression in return, I sigh in annoyance. “Oh, sod this.” I take a hundred euro bill out of my wallet and slap it on the counter. “Can I use your back exit?”
He picks up the bill and pockets it, pointing behind him. “Of course, right this way.”
And of course he speaks English now.
Heading towards the back door, I go through a stock room of sorts, and finally erupt onto a side street. I don’t even bother looking back to make sure no one is following me, I run.
I run and I run until I come to a Metro station. I buy a ticket and blindly get on a train, not even checking the direction in which it’s heading.
Settling in by the door, I look out of the windowpane. Exhaustion hits me out of nowhere. It’s bone deep and it overtakes me, making me fall back against the section divider.
I’m so, so tired.
Of running. Of being constantly on guard.
Of being alone.
I drop my head back against the partition as the doors close. The train doesn’t move yet and I stare absentmindedly off into the distance, watching unseeingly as long legs wrapped in tailored black trousers run down the steps, taking them three at a time. His top half isn’t visible yet but whoever he is, he must be late because he’s running furiously to catch the train. I feel bad that he’s just missed it.
I lift my head when the man reaches the platform. Realization hits me at the same time as my gaze collides with a pair of vivid, honey-colored eyes that I’ve come to know all too well. I straighten, my heart lurching violently into my throat. My mouth dries instantly, my tongue becoming rough as sandpaper.
Oh, god.
I blink, thinking the exhaustion is making me imagine things, but when I open my eyes he’s well and truly there.
Thiago.
He marches determinedly towards me, the energy that’s swirling around him dangerously volatile and destructive, until he comes to a stop right in front of me. All that separates us is two inches of plexiglass.
His chest heaves laboriously, pushing insistently against the material of his dress shirt as he stares back at me. His eyes rake almost manically over my face like they don’t know what to look at first.
Like they can’t get enough of looking at all.
I must be as taken in by my own perusal of him because I don’t notice that his hand moves to clutch the exterior handle of the train door until I hear him try to yank it open.
Mercifully, it doesn’t budge.
I’m shaken out of my stupor when he tries once more, then a third time, making the door shake in its hinges. I’m afraid he’s actually going to manage to force it open, the brute. I clutch the interior handle to help keep it latched. I don’t know if I’m actually doing anything worthwhile, but I have to try.
Why isn’t this freaking train moving?
I have my answer seconds later when an operator comes on the speaker and announces that we’re waiting for a train at the next station to leave before we can move. We’ll be stationed at this platform for a couple more minutes in the meantime.
“Amor.”
A shiver runs down my spine, raising goosebumps all over my body. His voice is as clear through the glass as if he’d whispered the pet name right up against my ear.
Slowly, I lift my gaze back up to meet his.
His eyes darken to midnight, the pupils dilating and suffocating the color from his irises. That look is all-consuming, as claiming as two arms physically wrapping around me. No one’s ever stared at me that way before.
I can’t help but feel like I’m in danger. Not of bodily harm, no. Of something far worse.
It’s too much and I break our eye contact, looking down and away.
I hear an angry, menacing growl followed by a loud crack that makes my bones rattle and startles the other passengers around me.
His tone is lethal. “Look at me, amor,” he orders.
I do. His right hand is smashed against the glass, fingers splayed wide at chest level. I’m transfixed by the size of his hand, how large and dominating it is, seemingly taking up half of the window.
Slowly, gaze locked almost hypnotically on his palm, I raise mine to his and place it softly on the other side of the glass. His fingers are over an inch longer than my own. A shudder runs through me when I remember how he’d gripped my hair, how those very same fingers had thrust inside me while he whispered dirty things up against my ear.
His gaze slides unhurriedly down to where our hands meet through the glass. We both stare until I notice his eyes turn disturbingly possessive when he sees the diamond ring still adorning my fourth finger. His fingers bend as if wanting to lace his with mine but he grunts in frustration when he remembers the barrier that keeps him from me.
“I’m bringing you home,” he vows gutturally.
His words rumble up his throat, deep and hoarse and more of a guarantee than a suggestion. He tries the door again, to no avail.
His men have gathered behind him, overtaking the platform and sending any other potential passengers scurrying. He speaks to me like it’s just the two of us, like no one inside or outside the train stares when in reality dozens of eyes watch us.
The operator comes back on the speaker to announce the train will be moving soon and just like that, the spell is broken. Reality rushes back in. I drop my hand from the glass and take a step back.
Alarm flashes across his face when he overhears the announcement and realizes this is coming to an end. Three long beeps sound and then the train begins to move, slowly making its way out of the station. My heart starts racing once more, equally glad to put distance between us and dismayed it’s over.
He walks alongside my carriage, never quickening his steps and easily keeping pace. I stay at the window, both hands coming up to brace myself.
“Say something,” he asks.
There’s an imploring note to his words that heats my blood. He’s never been shy about revealing exactly how I affect him.
I shake my head no and then he’s walking faster, abandoning all pretense of casualness.
“Say something,” he repeats. “Anything.”
I’m certain the tone he uses is a rare occurrence and it pulls at something low in my stomach. A flash of an unidentifiable emotion darts through his eyes before quickly disappearing. I don’t know what it was exactly but it has an unstoppable urge bubbling up my throat and bursting past my lips in the form of a word, my voice unrecognizably soft and longing.
“Thiago,” I whisper.
It feels, somehow, like a confession.
He stops abruptly in his tracks.
By now, the train has picked up enough speed that it outpaces him and I lose him.
I’m not ready to lose him yet.
Twisting my neck, I try to look for him through other side windows but there’s no clear view.
Something like anxiety twists in my gut and I find myself making my way down the wagon, pushing past passengers with polite “excuse me”s and ruder shoulder shoves when they don’t immediately move, until I get to the end of the carriage and can look at him through the back window.
He’s standing on the edge of the platform, rapidly receding into the distance. But he’s still staring unflinchingly at me and his expression?
His expression is grippingly territorial, downright animalistic even.
It sends a fresh shiver coursing down my spine.
I blow him a kiss and turn away, thankful to have narrowly escaped.
