Page 62 of The True Garza
With that, the spell breaks. Searing heat spreads from where his hand is and swiftly sets me on fire where I stand.Dammit to hell. Why did he have to touch me? Why did he have to say his name out loud?
“Do you still want me—True—to move my hand?”
The word is like a hairball caught in my throat, threatening to choke me to death, but I fight with everything in me and cough it out, “Yes.”
He removes his hand.
And I immediately yearn for his touch again.
Regret is bitter.
~
The meeting picksup right where it left off last night. Albeit sober and more rigid, seeing as it’s caffeine that’s flowing this time around.
When True’s finger starts drumming, I ignore it.
Avoid looking to the mirror across the room.
And when he puts his hand under the table, I pretend not to notice.
Screw him. He knows he can leave the room if he wants to.That’sthe reason I’m here. Not to hold his fucking hand. Let him damn well leave, so I can finally let go of the breath I’m holding andbreathe.
Lorenzo and Stefano switched seats this morning, so the demon Italian is able to examine me without hindrance now.
In a low voice, Lorenzo asks, “Do I make you uncomfortable?”
“Uncomfortable? No? Irritated? Yes. I’d like to punch you in the fucking throat.”
“You should learn to like me, London,” he replies. “We’re going to be family soon.”
Say what now? “What the hell are you talking about?”
He doesn’t answer. He just takes a sip of his coffee.
True leans a touch forward and looks past me to him. No verbal words are exchanged, but some sort of silent communication is made, because Lorenzo’s dark brows lift slightly, and then he nods.
With that, Lorenzo leans back in his seat and doesn’t look in my direction or speak another word to me for the remainder of the meeting.
The meeting isonce again adjourned until lunch. An entire year of tit-for-tats is being planned, after all. Being at the top seems exhausting as hell.
Back at the villa, I’m lounging on the private balcony off the bedroom, reading a book on my tablet, when I feel his presence.
Silly me for forgetting to lock the door.
He doesn’t speak.
I try to ignore his presence. But it’s impossible. The words on my tablet are like another language right now.
I give up and rest my tablet face-down on my belly. Without looking at him, I ask, “How does Red Cage have the kind of reverence and demand it does? And don’t say, ‘cause we’re good at what we do,’ because it’s obvious that there’s much, much more to it than that.”
A beat of silence—then, “If I tell you I don’t know, you won’t believe me.”
That makes me shift on the lounger to look at him. He’s leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets. “How can you not know? You’re a senior vice-president.”
He shrugs. “The boss is the only one who can answer that question.”
“The more I know, the more confused I become.”
