Franco.
After having dinner with Renzo and Dario, I stop at Paradiso to check on things.
Once I’ve changed into my uniform, I take a moment to send Samantha a message.
MMM: How are you?
While I wait for her reply, my thoughts go back to the panic attack she had. It was fucking bad, and it’s clear our meetings haven’t helped as much as I thought.
My phone vibrates in my hand, and I quickly read the message.
Samantha: Honestly? MMM: Yes.
Samantha: Not so good.
MMM: Do you want me to come over?
Needing to be there for her, I whisper, “Please say yes.”
Samantha: Please. I’d really appreciate it.
“Thank fuck.”
MMM: I’m on my way. Open the window.
I’m up and out of my office at the speed of light, and as I rush through the back entrance to the club, Milo and Lorenzo kill their cigarettes and give me a worried look.
“What’s wrong?” Milo asks.
“Nothing. I’m going to Samantha’s place,” I say as I open the back door of the G-Wagon.
My men pile into the vehicle, and when we’re on our way, my thoughts return to the cluster fuck of a day I’ve had.
This morning I was extra harsh with Samantha so she doesn’t figure out who I am. I also wanted her to go home and rest, but that fucking backfired on me.
She wasn’t supposed to be at the office when Renzo and Dario arrived, and when Dario held out his hand to her, I didn’t intervene because I wanted to see whether our meetings were helping her.
Watching Samantha struggle to breathe while her green eyes were drowning in terror is up there with the worst shit I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen some fucked up shit in my life.
Milo stops the G-Wagon near the side of the building, and as I open the door, I say, “I might be a while.”
“The balaclava,” Lorenzo reminds me.
“Fuck,” I mutter as I quickly pull it over my head, and when I get out of the vehicle, I run toward the fire escape.
One day someone is going to see me and call the police on my ass.
When I reach Samantha’s open window, I climb through and find her pacing in the living room.
Her head swings to me, her eyes wide and her features drawn tight. Christ, I need to hold her.
“Can I hug you?” I ask as I slowly move closer to her. Her face crumbles, and her head bobs up and down.
I close the distance between us, and the moment my arms wrap around her, a sob escapes her lips.
I pull her tightly to my chest, and even though the fucking balaclava is in the way, I press a kiss to the top of her head.
I can’t describe what I feel as I finally get to hold her in my arms, but it’s so fucking powerful it leaves me breathless.
She places her hand against my chest, and her fingers fist the fabric of my shirt.
“I’m not getting better,” she whimpers. “You are. You’re letting me hold you.”
She pulls away from me. “I tried to shake a man’s hand today and ended up having a panic attack in front of my boss.” She lifts her hand and tucks her hair behind her ear. “God, he’s going to fire me.”
“He won’t.”
“You don’t know him like I do,” she argues. “The man has no soul, never mind a heart. He has a new PA every couple of months. I made so many mistakes today he’s probably plotting my death.”
Christ, it sounds like she hates me.
“I seriously doubt that.”
She starts to pace again and cover her mouth with her hand when a sob bursts from her.
Fuck this.
I stalk toward her and pull her back into my arms. “Don’t worry about work right now. Let’s focus on you.”
She nods and pulls away from me again. I hate letting go of her, but I don’t want to make things worse.
When she takes a seat on the couch, I sit on the coffee table so I’m close to her.
Leaning forward, I hold my hand out to her with my palm facing up.
Her eyebrows are drawn together, and she looks so fucking sad it takes a swing at my heart.
She doesn’t hesitate and places her hand in mine. When my fingers wrap around hers, I say, “You just need time. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I hope you’re right.” When my thumb brushes over her skin, her eyes settle on our hands. “What can I do to make you feel better?” I ask.
“You’re already doing it.” A smile wavers around her lips as she looks at me. “At least we’ve ticked hugging off the list.”
We continue to hold hands and she’s quiet for a while before she whispers, “I hate him.”
Her words deliver a blow to my heart. “Your boss?”
She shakes her head. “My ex.”
I almost ask her what’s the fucker’s name so I can have him killed but stop myself in time.
She stares at our hands again. “I keep thinking I should’ve done a million things differently. I shouldn’t have become friends with him. I should’ve broken things off the first time he got aggressive. I should’ve gotten a restraining order against him instead of just breaking up and assuming he’d stay away. I should’ve gone to the police when…”
Fear and disgust ripple over her face, and unable to keep quiet, I ask, “Did he hit you?”
A look of shame tightens her features as she nods.
Getting up from the table, I take a seat next to Samantha and link my fingers with hers. She leans her head against my shoulder and closes her eyes.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I whisper.
“I keep telling myself that.” She squeezes closer against my side. “Maybe I’ll believe it one day.”
Letting go of her hand, I lift my arm around her shoulders, and she places her hand against my abdomen.
We’re quiet for a good ten minutes before she says, “Don’t forget about the tattoo. I’d like to get it as soon as possible.”
Fuck, it completely slipped my mind.
“I’ll make an appointment first thing tomorrow morning.”
Silence falls between us again, and when her body relaxes next to me, I glance down only to see she’s fallen asleep.
You’re definitely making progress, baby.
Careful not to wake her, I rest my chin on top of her head and close my eyes.
It feels so fucking good to sit beside her with my arm around her shoulders.
With my free hand, I reach for the balaclava and lift it enough so I can press my lips to her hair, and I take a deep breath of her vanilla scent.