Giovanni

  Giovanni

  Natasha Knight

  Copyright © 2018 by Natasha Knight

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For Diane D. and Kcee B.

  I want you both to know how much I appreciate your constant friendship and support. It can be a pretty lonely business being a writer and I am so grateful that you are in my life both personally and professionally.

  Thank you.

  Contents

  About This Book

  Prologue

  1. Emilia

  2. Giovanni

  3. Emilia

  4. Giovanni

  5. Emilia

  6. Giovanni

  7. Emilia

  8. Giovanni

  9. Emilia

  10. Giovanni

  11. Emilia

  12. Giovanni

  13. Emilia

  14. Giovanni

  15. Emilia

  16. Giovanni

  17. Emilia

  18. Giovanni

  19. Emilia

  20. Giovanni

  21. Emilia

  22. Emilia

  23. Giovanni

  Epilogue 1

  Epilogue 2

  Sample from Captive Beauty

  Thank You!

  Also by Natasha Knight

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  About This Book

  I’m the right-hand man of the mafia king.

  She’s a girl with a past she’s desperate to hide.

  But I need something from her.

  And I know she won’t help me. Not willingly.

  She’ll need some persuading.

  Lucky for her, I can do that.

  Something about this girl makes me curious, though, and it’s more than the scars that line her back. She’s on the edge of something. Something bad. She’s like a beautiful, perfect doll coming apart at the seams. And the last string is about to snap.

  She thinks I’ll hurt her. Break her.

  But thing is, she’s already broken. And she and I, we’re two peas in a pod. She’s my match, the perfect opponent. She’ll fight me to the finish, but I’ll win. I always do.

  Because I’m a man used to getting what I want. And what I want is her.

  Prologue

  Emilia

  I can sleep. It’s strange, but I can always sleep. I learned it on that grimy basement floor four years ago.

  Sleep.

  Forget.

  Sleep until they wake you. Sleep until they make you.

  The past has a way of creeping up on you.

  Of repeating.

  Reappearing.

  I don’t know if mine will ever be finished with me. I thought it would. I thought it had. I thought the night I crawled out of that window and away from that house, that I had beat it. That I had somehow survived.

  But the thing with surviving is you have to keep doing it. Every. Single. Day. You never beat the thing that breaks you, not really. It owns you. It’s always with you, no matter what. It becomes a part of you. Like skin. Like broken skin.

  Like scar tissue.

  The night Giovanni Santa Maria stalked into my life, I knew it was happening again. My life on repeat. The past reappearing.

  Sunshine. That’s what he calls me.

  I’m anything but, though.

  He’s a powerful man. A ruthless one. One more dangerous than any I’ve battled before. But I will battle. It’s in my nature.

  Just as it’s in his to win.

  He’ll take my body. He already has.

  But I fucked up and he saw inside my soul, and now, he wants that too.

  He likes to watch me. Likes to pull me apart and see the damage inside. I know men like him. They like the chase. They want you to run. To fight. It gets them off.

  He’s wrong if he thinks he can break me, though. I’m already broken and the thing with survivors is we have nothing to lose.

  And I’ll give him the fight of his life before I let him steal my soul.

  1

  Emilia

  I love living in the city, but parking is pretty much always a pain in the ass.

  The rain has tapered off, leaving that sticky, steamy humidity behind. It would almost be better if it wouldn’t rain, but this July has been stifling.

  I climb the stairs up to the outer door of the townhouse and shake out my ring of keys as I balance two grocery bags and my large tote. There are six apartments in this building, one on each floor. I’m lucky to have the top floor because it comes with a rooftop terrace. I just have to remember that it makes up for the six flights of stairs I have to climb daily. Although I hate going to the gym, so this is usually my excuse not to.

  It’s almost nine at night. I’m later than usual. The light goes on as soon as I step on the sixth-floor landing. It’s the motion detector, and for some reason, tonight, it makes me jump. Then again, I’ve been jumpy all day.

  My heels click on the hardwood floor as I make my way to my apartment. It’s just my door and one other on this floor, a janitor’s closet. Looking over the top of the bags I’m holding, I find the right key and slip it into the lock, hear the click, and feel the familiar weight of the lock turning. That’s usually enough to reassure me. To tell me I’m safe. But tonight, it’s not, and when I push the door open, it takes me a moment to register that a light is on. The reading lamp over the armchair. It casts a soft glow and is my favorite place to sit.

  Except tonight, someone is already sitting in it.

  My heart races. Still holding the stupid bags, I look at the huge man in my chair. He’s looking at me, and he’s incredibly relaxed. Almost smiling, even. He’s beautiful, disarmingly so, and impeccably dressed in a black suit. The light bounces off the gold of his cuff links as he brings his glass to his lips.

  I take a step back. The overhead lights go on, and I bump into someone behind me. I turn. Another man, also in a dark suit. He’s big too, but he doesn’t quite look at me. Just makes sure I know I won’t be leaving just yet.

  “Hope you don’t mind that I helped myself to a drink,” says the man in the chair. His voice is a deep timbre.

  I’m not looking at him. I’m counting the others, three that I can see, standing in various places throughout my apartment. All are well dressed. All looking somewhere in my direction but not quite at me. None but the one in the chair, that is. And his gaze penetrates to my very marrow.

  The door clicks closed behind me. I turn my head to look and see one of the suits blocking it, his hands folded in front of him. He’s a soldier. I recognize soldiers. There’s something in their stance, in the look in their eyes. And these guys are high-level. Whoever the man in my chair is, he’s important.

  “It’s good stuff.”

  I turn back around when he speaks and watch as he swallows the last of the amber liquid in one of my tumblers. Ice clinks against the crystal. It’s such a pretty sound. A familiar one. Reminds me of my dad and me sitting in his study as he drank his whiskey.

  But there’s no comfort in that sound today.

  The man is still watching me. I’m not sure he’s taken his eyes off me since I walked inside. And his expression, it’s intense. Like he’s trying to figure something out.

  He rises to his feet, gives a nod. “Help the lady with her bags.”

  Another suit comes toward me. I step to the side, but there’s nowhere to go. For some reason, I’m clutching the bags like they’re a shield. But a moment later, he takes them from me and sets the groceries on the large kitchen island, its white marble
veined with gold. It’s what separates the kitchen from the rest of the open floor plan living and dining space.

  I hear the sound of liquid being poured and watch the man’s back—the one who’s obviously in charge—as he refills his glass. He approaches me with a second one. He takes me in, his dark eyes roaming my face, my body. He’s not smiling anymore. He’s big, maybe a good foot taller than me. Even with my three-inch heels, I don’t think the top of my head comes to his shoulder. And he’s powerfully built. His suit fits him perfectly, stretched tight over broad shoulders and thick arms. I stupidly wonder if it’s custom-made.

  “Here,” he says, holding out one of the tumblers.

  I don’t move. This isn’t my first rodeo. It’s not the first time I’ve been taken by surprise in my own home. I don’t think he works for my brother, though. He’s no soldier. He’s too elegant. Too beautiful. Too much in control.

  And I can’t see him bowing to my brother—or any man.

  My hand shakes when I reach out to take the tumbler, and I know he sees it too. “Who are you?” I ask. “What do you want?” How does my voice sound so calm?

  He sips from his glass and waits for me to do the same. I take the smallest sip. I don’t drink whiskey often. I don’t really like it. When I do drink it, it’s only to try to recapture a fading memory.

  “Sit down, Ms. Estrella,” he says, rolling the r, watching my face as he says my name. My real name.

  I swallow. “It’s Larrea. I’m Em Larrea. You have the wrong—”

  “I’m not a fool, Emilia.” He gestures with a tilt of his head toward the couch.

  I look at all the men standing there, and as if they’re not enough, a toilet flushes and, moments later, another man walks out of my bathroom. I’m outnumbered. Even if I could get to the kitchen, I’m sure they’re all armed and much faster than me.

  But I’m not a pushover. I’ll fight. I’ll claw out their eyes if I have to, but I’ll fight because not fighting makes you a victim. An accomplice, even. I am neither. I will never be again.

  Although them thinking me docile will only work in my favor. I walk over to the couch and perch on the middle cushion.

  He nods and resumes his seat in my armchair. He swirls ice around his glass before taking a sip, but he never once takes his eyes off me.

  “You look very different than your brother. Aren’t you supposed to be twins?”

  I was right. He doesn’t work for Alessandro, or he’d never be asking that question.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m Giovanni Santa Maria.”

  Italian. So my guess is mafia. Are they gentler than the cartels? I don’t think so.

  “What do you want?”

  “Information.”

  “I hardly think I have information that would be of value to you,” I say, swallowing a mouthful of my drink and rising to my feet.

  The moment I do, two soldiers step forward, each with one hand disappearing into his jacket. Reaching for their guns, no doubt. My heart is racing, but I remind myself they can’t hear that. I stop when they move, but Giovanni puts up a hand to halt them. I can see him watching me. It’s unsettling the way he does that. Like he’s looking for something.

  “I’m hungry,” I finally turn to him to say. “Do you mind?”

  “Go ahead.”

  I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to get a single bite of food down, but I need to get to the kitchen.

  I feel his eyes burn into my back as I make my way across the room and around the island. My heels click along the hardwood. I keep my focus on the task of unpacking the groceries, taking out a box of pasta, a jar of sauce, a baguette, a bottle of wine, and several of water. I fold the paper bags and eye the drawer where I keep my pistol, but I don’t reach for it just yet. Instead, I tuck the bags into the cupboard beneath the sink and take a water glass from the draining rack. I open one of the bottles and pour myself a glass. Only then do I return my attention to the man in the chair.

  He’s quiet and patient and hasn’t taken his eyes off me for one second. I know instantly not to underestimate him. He’s studying me. I wonder what he’s learning. One thing I know not to do is mistake his silence for weakness. This man is as dangerous as he is devastatingly beautiful.

  He stands, and it takes all I have not to visibly shudder.

  As he walks toward the island, I turn to find a pot, one with a long handle, fill it with water, put it on the stove, and turn it on.

  “You need to salt the water,” he says when I pick up the jar of sauce and struggle to twist the lid off. My hands are sweaty, though, and I have to wipe them on my skirt before trying again. Failing again.

  A moment later, he’s beside me, too close, and taking up entirely too much space. Using up too much of the oxygen in the room. One side of his mouth seems to be in a constant smirk, and I notice his gaze slip to my neck momentarily and wonder if he can see my pulse. If he knows how hard my heart is beating.

  How scared I am. Because the calm, it’s a facade.

  But he just smiles and holds out his hand.

  I look at it, confused, but he reaches for the jar of sauce I’m holding. When his fingers touch mine, there’s almost an audible spark of electricity.

  It takes me a minute to shift my gaze from his big hands back up to his eyes. He’s still steadily watching me, and it’s unnerving. He takes the jar and an instant later, there’s a pop. He smiles and holds out both the lid and the jar to me.

  I take them from him. “Thank you.”

  “You should make your own. It’s not hard and much better than that crap.”

  “I’m fine.” I turn my back to pour the contents of the jar into a pot and watch as the pasta water begins to boil. Another weapon if I need one. Two. But I’m hoping I won’t need them.

  I return my attention to him.

  “What information do you want? What is it you think I know?” I finally ask. Because I need to ask them to leave. I hope that they will.

  “You’re awfully calm for having a crew of armed men in your apartment,” he comments.

  I have no response.

  “Curious.”

  He’s studying me again, memorizing me. Reading my mind? Whatever he’s doing, it’s unsettling, his gaze unnerving.

  “I have business with your brother, Alessandro. I want to know where he is.”

  Did my brother really think he could screw with this guy? I’m not even involved in the family business, and I know not to fuck with him.

  “I’m sorry, but you came to the wrong place. I don’t know anything about Alessandro’s whereabouts. We don’t keep in touch.”

  “Hmm.” He’s scrutinizing me again. “You aren’t close to your twin brother? Isn’t that how twins are? I mean, don’t you have some sort of radar or something?”

  I lean against the counter. I’m close to the drawer where my gun is, but I need to be careful. I’ll have only one chance, and I’m still hoping he’ll leave.

  “No, there’s no such thing as twin radar. At least not with us. Alessandro and I aren’t close. I know nothing about his business or any cartel business for that matter. I left that world when my father was killed. Even when he was alive, I was never a part of it.”

  He sighs. “Well, that’s too bad.”

  He turns his back. I hear the water beginning to boil and glance over at the pot. Not yet, though. Not yet. He takes a few steps away, makes a point of turning a circle as if to take in the apartment.

  “So you mean to tell me your job as an event coordinator at a tiny little hotel pays for all this? Quite the cushy job you’ve got there.”

  He’s done his homework. Naive to think he wouldn’t have.

  “I’m a manager, and the tiny little hotel is an exclusive boutique hotel. But my expenses aren’t your concern. I told you, I don’t know anything about Alessandro’s business or whereabouts. There’s nothing I can help you with. I’d like you to leave now. Please,” I say, adding in that please as an afterthought
.

  He cocks his head to the side. “Touchy about the money, huh?”

  “It’s none of your business. Please, get out.”

  “Or what?”

  The water is boiling harder, and when I look over to the stove, I see the tomato sauce sputtering, leaving red-orange stains on the pristine marble. I hate messes. I hate them.

  I walk over to the stove and adjust the heat on the sauce, then open the box of pasta and throw in a handful. I put the lid on the pot then walk back over to the drawer that houses my gun, which is near the sink, and rinse my hands. I pick up the towel to dry them. We’re watching each other. I’m waiting, though. I’m waiting for the water in the pot to boil over, and, right on time, I hear it, the hissing as it falls onto the stove, the gurgling sound of the lid as it vibrates, and I watch Giovanni do exactly what I think he’ll do. He goes over to it to take off the lid and turn down the heat. I think he’s making some comment about my cooking skills, but my ears are ringing, and I don’t quite hear it because I’m opening the drawer and my hand is closing around the handle of the gun. It’s heavy and familiar and still scares the shit out of me. Just as I aim it at him, five soldiers are aiming their weapons at me, the deafening sound of guns being cocked bouncing off the walls.

  Giovanni casually turns around, his dark eyes—they’re darkest green, I realize. Not black, like I’d thought. His expression hasn’t changed. If he’s surprised, he doesn’t let on, but I suspect he’s not.