Page 5 of Romeo

“Fucking hell,” I mutter under my breath. I recognize that low-life as one of the enforcers for the Colombo family. I’ve been in this business for too long to believe in coincidences. He’s here to grill Thalia and then dispose of her.

But I can’t let that happen.

I need her. Well, I need her answers. I need to know what she knows, and that’s it. What else would I need her for?

A fleeting image of Thalia smiling up at me appears and then evaporates before my eyes, and I shake off the feeling that this woman is about to change everything. She can’t. I won’t allow it. Men like me weren’t made for soft, doe-eyed, innocent little lambs like Thalia. I’d ruin her the same way my father ruined my mother and spend the rest of my life in a loveless marriage surrounded by opulence and an endless parade of extravagant gifts.

Or maybe I’m projecting.

Looking over my shoulder, I catch another glimpse of Thalia. She’s cradling her burnt hand against her chest, her eyes closed as she folds in on herself. I can fuckingfeelthe weight of her entire world resting on her shoulders, the fear pumping through her veins, and the exhaustion tugging at her soul.

I can’t keep Thalia as mine, but I can protect her in exchange for her honesty about what she saw last night. That’s all. It has to be all.

Then why does something in me break when the first tear falls down her cheek? Why do I want to wipe it away and hold her in my arms?

The rustling of leaves draws my attention back to the present, and I know I don’t have much time to act before the Colombos get to her. Fuck me, this isn’t going to end well, but I have no choice. I can’t let anyone hurt her. I won’t stand for it.

Tucking my piece into the waistband of my pants, I cover it with my jacket and knock on Thalia’s door.

CHAPTERTHREE

THALIA

Idrop to the floor as soon as I hear the knock, barely registering the mug falling from my hand and cracking against the cheap linoleum. My knees are still bruised and bloody from when I fell last night, but the pain burns away in the face of sheer panic.

Squeezing my eyes shut and holding my breath, I curl into the tiniest ball I can manage. Another sharp knock lands on my door, and I can’t suppress the whimper that falls from my lips.

I passed out last night for a few hours after the adrenaline drained from my muscles. I crashed into an all-consuming, almost drugged sleep filled with gruesome, bloody nightmares. It was still dark when I woke up, but my anxiety wouldn’t let me fall back to sleep.I’ve been shuffling around the apartment all morning, trying to make sense of what I saw and heard and how much danger I’m in.

“Thalia,” a deep voice says, clipping out my name like a command. Every muscle in my body locks up, my entire being frozen in place except for my jackhammering heart. “Let me in if you want to live.”

Yeah, right.Only someone who wants to kill you would say that.

The man on the other side of the door sighs heavily as if searching for the right words. I stay huddled up in the corner of the kitchen, peering at the door and silently praying for the molecular structure of the cheap wood to miraculously transform into impenetrable steel.

As it is, I have no doubts the stranger could huff and puff and blow this whole building down without much effort. Something about that softens me toward the man outside. If he truly meant me harm, I’d be dead already.

“I know you have no reason to trust me, but I give you my word, no harm will come to you under my protection.”

He’s absolutely right. I have zero reason to trust him. And yet, hearing him say he’ll protect me… A spark of hope dares to light up my chest, tentative though it may be.

It’s not like I have a lot of options. If he’s not here to kill me, someone else will be soon. I’m a sitting duck with nowhere else to go. I have nothing to lose.

As I uncurl myself and slowly stand, I search around the small space for something to use as a weapon. I know Thomas keeps a gun around here, but I’ve never cared enough to look for it. Something silver and shiny draws my attention, and I see one of my large crochet hooks. It’s made of metal and has an ergonomic handle.

All the better to stab with, I reason.

Picking up my weapon of choice, I take a deep breath and roll out my shoulders. I have to be limber in case I need to defend myself.

Dragging the tables and chairs away from the thin, cracked door, I realize how vulnerable I am. It takes me all of thirty seconds to shove them out of the way, which means anyone could have easily done the same.

Pausing with my hand on the doorknob, I take one last grounding breath and let it out before opening the door.

I’m face to face with a broad chest, covered in a sleek black button-up and adorned with a red tie. I tip my head up, up, up, gasping softly when I’m met with brutally beautiful eyes. They are dark, nearly black, and filled with passion and power.

A jagged white scar slices through his left eyebrow, making him look even more severe. His hair is midnight black, shaved close on the sides and left longer on top. A slight stubble litters his chin and cheeks, giving the man a rugged edge to his otherwise pristine appearance.

He reaches out for me, but I recoil on instinct and then thrust my crochet hook in his face. “Don’t m-make me use th-this,” I say with a trembling voice, waving the hook in front of him.

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