Page 74 of Bitter Poetry
Meanwhile, the former customer’s eyes lose focus. He wobbles in slow motion before he slides to the tiled floor. Another louder crack follows as his head makes contact.
I blink down at him, made stupid by the horror. I’m trying to process what just happened.
Christian’s dark eyes slide to the door I just passed through and back to me. His face softens into a smirk, at odds with the violent scene. “What are you doing back here, babe?”
The man on the floor gurgles, drawing Christian’s attention, and he casually lifts a booted foot. I belatedly register his intention when his heel comes down toward the man’s vulnerable head.
“Don’t!” The scream feels like it’s torn from me—I’m surprised when he actually stops.
He lowers his foot to the floor beside the victim’s head and quirks one brow at me. Too pretty, too young, and yet his face tells a story in the faint scars: evidence of the brutality of his profession.
The door creaks behind me, and Tony edges through it.
“Get one of the boys to dump him at the hospital,” Christian says, his voice soft and completely calm. “And get a takeout coffee for Mrs. Gallo.”
Tony nods, turns, and leaves.
Suddenly I can’t breathe. It’s like my throat has been sewn shut, and a terrible hoarse sound is all that I can manage.
Delayed shock?
A panic attack? Even surmising what it is doesn’t help me get air into my lungs.
Christian palms my throat and yanks me over the body so abruptly that I crash into him. His other arm anchors me when my legs cut out. “Look at me, babe,” he says. “You’re okay. Just look at me.”
Touching him is making it worse.
Behind me, I hear the door leading to the coffee shop open again, followed by footsteps and low voices.
“Breathe for me, Carmela. Slow and easy.” His body is solid and represents a confused source of safety. His hand is warm against my skin: the same hand that just administered violence to an innocent man.
Someone curses.
I suck in some much-needed air and try to break free. “Take your hands off me.”
“You’re as white as a sheet,” he says, not bothering to glance at whatever is happening behind me. “And will probably fall over if I do.”
I hear scuffling and muttering as they drag the man out.
I can’t tear my gaze away from Christian’s.
Cold.
A killer.
Completely unhinged.
My bodyguard.
The man that my husband pays to ensure my life and the life of anyone who stupidly stumbles into it play by his rules.
We’re alone. The silence is broken only by the rough saw of my breathing.
He still has not released me.
Do I want him to?
“Can’t have you fainting on my watch.” He winks. “Mr. Gallo would not be pleased.”
