Page 8 of Veiled Amor

This was her fault.

Santiago was dead, and she couldn’t squeeze out one freaking tear.

The rest of his family was dead because of her father.

How could she look anyone in the eye knowing a secret was choking her?

And thenhewalked in, and her lungs loaded with air.

Giancarlo Mercado.

Better known as Capone.

Suddenly she felt life shunt into her body as he strode through the crowd, her eyes following like a loyal disciple.

Taller than God, more powerful than the Devil, accepting sympathy and pats on the shoulder.

Such an arresting man—a biker. But today, he wore a suit in a slate gray color, fitted perfectly to his overwhelming solid frame. His inky hair, only two inches all over. He towered over the mourning crowd, who looked to him for guidance.

The last remaining Mercado. And he was coming right to her.

She’d always felt weird around Giancarlo, like she suddenly didn’t know how her limbs and tongue worked.

The eldest son.

He’d always been civil with her. But there was something quietly unnerving about him.

No, that wasn’t quite right.

He made her stomach roll over and her pulse hammer in her throat until she became a stuttering wreck in front of him.

Nothing was calming about Giancarlo, who people called Capone, because of his love for the movie. He had a biker’s reputation that preceded him.

She shouldn’t think of him as a Latin beefcake, but that’s what he was.

Having been in his family for a year, she’d witnessed him dating countless women. It was his easy smirk and the way he carried himself, women flocked to the danger he presented and the sexiness he exuded.

Rich brown eyes suddenly lifted and caught her watching him. A hand stole to her throat as he held her gaze and kept on walking.

When he reached her, his dark head hung low as if to speak only to her. “Have you eaten, Lucia?”

It wasn’t what she expected.Get out. It wouldn’t have surprised her, at all.

An older woman came up, and he turned to hug her, to settle her weeping, but carried on watching Lucia.

“Well, have you?” He asked once they were alone again.

“No, I’m not hungry.” She replied. “Do you—do you want me to get you a plate?”

“Not hungry either. I’ll be better when I can get these people out of my house,” he half-smiled; her stomach bottomed as she tried to suppress a giggle. It wasn’t right to laugh, not today. Not when everyone thought she was the nineteen-year-old, heartbroken widow.

How polite was it to cut out early?

She felt like a fraud among the people who were genuinely grieving.

No one here knew her truth.

They thought she was a young widow burying her husband. Lucia had cried, of course. She wasn’t heartless. The entire neighborhood ricocheted with the loss. She would miss his parents and sister deeply.

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