Page 23 of Tainted Obsession 1
And George…
He ran.
I hear the door to the suite open, and an unfamiliar man speaks in Spanish, a language I understand.“You were shot? Let me see.”
It’s the doctor, here to treat Massimo’s wound.
I step toward the threshold to the sitting room, peering around the doorjamb to further assess my situation. Some instinct for self-preservation warns me not to boldly step into the room and join the men. The Italians had spoken in sharp, angry tones, so I choose to linger in the privacy of the bedroom and take in whatever information I can.
The suite is surprisingly fancy for a safe house, with ornate crown molding and bold crimson walls. Antique furniture with carved mahogany accents gives the space a sumptuous feel, and the highly polished, dark wood floor is cushioned by a large rug with an intricate red, navy, and cream design.
But the men in the room command my full attention.
I get my first look at the two Italians who’d arrived first to interrogate Massimo. They’re almost identical—clearly related. Both men are model-handsome and almost as imposing as my dark savior, even though Massimo is a few inches taller. He faces away from me, but I can clearly see the other two men in profile as they fix him with twin glowers. The only discernible difference between them is their choice of hairstyle—one military short and the other in loose black waves that frame his granite face.
The clean-cut man barks something else in Italian, and Massimo rolls his shoulders as though shaking off irritation. Then, he grasps the hem of his shirt to reveal the gory wound at his side.
He’s even more powerful than I’d realized, muscles rippling as he moves with shocking grace despite the pain he must be enduring. Blood coats his right side, and a darker gash scores his ribs.
I clap a hand over my mouth to smother my gasp.
The doctor goes to work, inspecting and cleaning the damaged flesh. I swallow down my nausea at the sight and focus on the Italians, who have resumed speaking to each other in their native language.
Amidst the indecipherable words, I catch on to one that they repeat several times:Crawford.
They do know George, then.
Then Massimo speaks to the doctor in Spanish, and my whole world crumbles.
“It’s not serious. Barely a graze.”
My stomach drops. I recognize that oddly accented voice.
Is she innocent?
Massimo was in that basement with me on the night of my kidnapping. He was the one who saved me from the cartel.
He killed my kidnappers.
He murdered them to save me.
That man wasn’t in law enforcement. He’d been familiar with the cartel members.
And Interpol agents don’t murder criminals; they arrest them.
Massimo is associated with Duarte’s men somehow.
Now you’ll have to taste broken glass too. I will make you lick it up like the dog you are.
His macabre threat to the man who tried to roofie me plays through my mind. In that moment, I’d known he was dangerous, but I hadn’t truly considered his capacity for such brutal violence.
And the way he’d handled himself when he’d jumped in front of the barrel of that gun to save me…
Someone had screamed in that alley, and Massimo had been the only man to emerge.
The bedroom spins around me, and I stumble back, desperate to put distance between myself and the lethal man in the next room. The world tilts, and my knees hit the plush carpet.
My heart slams against my ribcage with bruising force, and my lungs burn.
