Page 59 of Hostile Secret
He glances over at me for a beat and then moves to a set of cabinet doors, opening them wide. Spotlights automatically reveal a collection of neatly presented handguns hung like wall art.
“Pick one.”
“But… these are yours.”
Reno had his own arsenal of weapons in the spare room of our Miami apartment. They were locked away too, and the code was my birthday. He let me look at them to familiarize myself with each make and model. Every so often, we’d clean them together. It had been our thing.
Giovanni shrugs. “I have a bunker full of rare and eclectic weapons. The ones in this cabinet are my favorite, and now one of them belongs to you.”
My stomach knots. “You remembered what I said.”
“What did I remember?”
“That Reno gave me a gun every year for my birthday.”
He leans into the side of my face, his breath hot against my cheek. “Don’t get all sentimental, India. You like guns and I have a shitload of them. Take your pick.”
“Careful, Giovanni Souza. You’ll make me think you like me.” I close the distance between me and his high-priced arsenal.
His distant chuckle rumbles like thunder on a hot night. “I like you enough not to kill you—and to gift you a handgun.”
“And I like you enough not to shoot you with it,” I whisper, my eyes roaming.
The gold P22 Combat TB catches my eye first, but the custom Cabot 1911 steals my breath, probably because Reno had one just like it. From an early age, I was fascinated with the trio of stars on the trigger. I guess that’s how my love affair had started.
“That one. The stainless Damascus steel Cabot.” I point to the matte silver pistol.
“Good choice.” He unhooks it and offers it to me.
The weight of it in my hand feeIs good, substantial yet not too bulky. I do my best to swallow the rollercoaster of emotions it brings. Tears sting my eyes and I blink them away. Crying won’t raise my brother from the dead, but shooting targets would certainly make my day.
“Reno had one just like this.” I clear my throat to stop my voice from quivering. “He had a black Cabot.”
Giovanni closes the cabinet doors and places his large hand on my lower back. The sensation of his firm touch is comforting, as if he senses the grief twisting around my heart and wants to soothe it. But he doesn’t really care. I know that.
“And now you have one of your own.” He cocks his head; his inky hair draping over his brow.
“Yeah,” I whisper, the lump wedged in my throat becoming uncomfortable.
Without saying another word, he ushers me past the central table and away from my prison cell, reaching elevator doors at the far corner.
After he hits the call button, we stand in silence and wait for the doors to open. We both get in and I turn around to face the shadows we’re leaving behind, not feeling anything other than bone deep sadness––and gratitude for the gun in my hand. The pistol that somehow makes me feel closer to my brother and dare I think it––Giovanni.
Under the subtle overhead lighting, I study his inked torso, noticing silvery scars scattered through the designs of demons emblazoned across his taut muscles. He really is the god of war.
Next to him, without bars, he appears taller and more masculine––exceptionally lethal in the best possible way.
“Like what you see?” he asks, breaking my inspection of him.
His brows hitch at the same time as the elevator rises. I swallow in a gulp and tighten my fingers around the gun handle for something to do rather than touch him.
He watches me, his pensive stare intensifying the atmosphere. My chest rises as I breathe him into my lungs and regret how it gives me tingles.
“I do.” I raise the gun between us, drop my gaze to the unloaded weapon and rotate it. “I like it very much. Thank you.”
His subtle smirk makes my stomach flip. A bell dings and when the doors slide open, we step out into a polished concrete corridor. There aren’t any windows, only LED ceiling lights that illuminate a set of doors at either end. He grabs me by the wrist and drags me to the right.
“What’s down there?” I ask, looking back over my shoulder.
