Page 33 of The Red Queen

She moved her face out of his hold and shadowed her disappointment with her eyelashes. Why couldn’t someone just want her for herself? Was she so difficult, so unlovable?

“Do you… do you know about my mother?” she asked, holding her breath as she waited for his answer.

“Si, not only do I know about her, but I have spoken to Theresa Amada on the telephone.”

She looked up sharply, shock etched on her features. “You talked to her?”

Desi hadn’t spoken to her mother in 25 years. Not since she was taken. She’d had the opportunity once she was granted more freedom within the Garza cartel but hadn’t taken advantage of it. She hadn’t wanted to draw Nico’s attention to the little family she had left in case he used her mother against her when he went into one of his rages. She’d wanted him to think she’d forgotten her origins and was loyal only to him.

She had so many questions, but she didn’t know what to ask, or how to ask. She didn’t want to give Giovanni a weapon to use against her any more than she’d wanted to give one to Nico. She couldn’t trust him.

“How is she?” she asked, straightening her shoulders, and infusing coolness to her tone.

He looked at her shrewdly, as if seeing through her. “Theresa is well,” he told her. “She’s living in the same home that you grew up in. She’s married now and has two children besides yourself.”

It took everything in Desi not to react to the news. She had siblings. She wanted to know everything about them. She wanted to immediately fly back to Mexico and see her mother.

She should have done it after Nico died and the Garzas fell. She should’ve abandoned her ill-conceived vendetta against Mateo and gone home. Her mother might have accepted her. She could be with her new siblings, meet her stepfather.

But then she wouldn’t have met Giovanni, and looking up at him, tracing the outline of a firm jaw, cruel lips, sharp cheekbones, and a hawk-like nose, she had to admit, she wanted to see where they were going. If he would follow through on his words. Install her as his wife, use her passion and loyalty.

“Why would you think I care about them?” she asked coldly.

He chuckled. “You aren’t as heartless as you try to show the world. I know you care, Desiree.”

They were interrupted before she had to respond by a knock on the door. Giovanni bid the servant to enter and waved them through the French doors, instructing them to place the meal tray on a small wrought-iron table.

“Please, come,” Giovanni said to her, taking her by the arm and half-lifting her from the chair. She didn’t have any choice but to follow him.

She sank onto one of the chairs and waited while Giovanni poured out two cups of coffee and added two heaping spoonfuls of sugar to hers and a dash of milk. She opened her mouth to ask him how he knew about her coffee preferences, but then closed it.

It was time to accept that he knew everything about her. The clothing in her new closet fit her to perfection, right down to the size of her new underwear. He knew about her family; he knew what she liked to eat and what she didn’t. He’d done his homework.

What she wanted to know was what he hoped to gain from his knowledge. Did he plan on using it to woo her or to trap her?

“I have no heart, Giovanni,” she murmured, sipping her coffee, her gaze meeting his unrelenting one. “I hope you don’t expect love from me. Ours will be a marriage of convenience only.”

He chuckled, then leaned toward her. The lines fanning his eyes crinkled and his lips turned upward, as though he didn’t have a care in the world, and they were having an amusing chat over a light breakfast. He took her chin in hand once more and leaned closer. So close that she could see tiny flecks of amber in his dark eyes.

“You have a heart, Desi,” he said, his deep voice a purr of satisfaction. “It beats to the rhythm of its own drum at the moment, but soon it will be mine. You know what I will do with it once you give it to me?”

Helplessly enthralled by his words and his gaze, she shook her head.

He placed his hand over her breast, just above her cleavage, drawing a gasp from her at the contact. His hand was warm, his long fingers burning as they made contact.

“I intend to tear it from your chest and keep it for myself.” His voice dropped another octave, and his tone grew darker. “You will belong to me, heart, body and soul. I will accept nothing less from my wife.”

Chapter Fifteen

Desi couldn’t stop thinking about her morning with Giovanni.

After he’d delivered his speech, promising to tear out her heart, he’d sat back in his chair and proceeded to eat a pleasant breakfast. Though he’d piled her own plate high with an assortment of fruit and pastries, she’d barely touched any of it.

The image of him reaching into her chest and ripping out her beating heart played over and over in her head until she couldn’t focus on anything else. Why would he say that? Why would he want her heart? She couldn’t imagine loving him or any man but Nico and theirs had been dark and twisted. She was never sure the object of her affection returned her feelings. She’d been groomed as his lover and raised knowing she would live with him until death do them part. She suspected it wasn’t actual love but had no basis for comparison.

Perhaps Giovanni wanted the same. He wanted her loving devotion; the sick obsession Nico had cultivated in her. Now that Nico was no longer alive, she saw her love for him for what it was. A prolonged form of Stockholm. She’d loved him because she’d had no choice; her survival had depended on it. And she’d be damned if she transferred those feelings to another.

Besides, Giovanni had gotten off to a terrible start if that was his plan. He hadn’t beaten her once. Not really. He’d defended himself when attacked, but he hadn’t hurt her. Not deliberately or otherwise. He’d even defended her against his own men.

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