Giovanni

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. 

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.

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. 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.”

A soldier 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.

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.

“Who are you?” I ask. “What do you want?”

“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.”

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. 

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.”

“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. “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.

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.”

“I’m fine. 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. 

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

“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.”

“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 me to death. 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. 

“Get out. Now,” I say, cocking my gun when he takes a step toward me. It takes all I have not to retreat. 

“And here for a minute, I thought you were just an innocent girl caught in an ugly world.”

“I’m not a girl. I’m a woman.”

His gaze sweeps over me. “I can see that,” he says, and I think he expected my retort.

“I’ll shoot,” I say, this time taking that step backward when he keeps coming toward me. “I mean it.”

His smile widens, and he stops, putting his arms up in mock surrender. Without looking away from me, he gives an order to his men. “Put your weapons away, gentlemen. Emilia is just protecting herself against this perceived invasion.”

“My name is Em. And it’s not perceived. You broke into my home.”

“Not true. Building manager was kind enough to lend me a spare key.”

“What?”

He ignores me. “Emil was your father, right? Strange he named his daughter after him and not his son and successor.”

“My family is none of your business. Get out, because if you think I won’t shoot, you’re wrong.”

His smile vanishes. “You and I both know you won’t, so go ahead and put down your gun, Emilia. I won’t ask twice.”

I swallow. Somehow, he’s walked me backward far enough that my back is against the wall. When did that happen?

“Please go. I won’t ask again either,” I say, nerves making my voice quaver.

“All right, then, we’ll do it your way.”

*Text has been modified for website.