Giovanni Read online Natasha Knight (Benedetti Brothers #4)

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Angst, Crime, Dark, Erotic, Romance Tags Authors: Series: Benedetti Brothers Series by Natasha Knight
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Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 69102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
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“She said she had an emergency. Took a taxi I’d called for someone else. She gave me this.”

I take the money and assume it’s to cover her meal. It’s an insult to me. I exhale.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know what to do. I told her to wait, but she simply left.”

“It’s all right, it’s not your fault,” I say, my mind distracted. She expects me to chase her. She must know I will. I smile at Giacomo, pat his back. “You have any of your homemade Limoncello?”

3

Emilia

I’m not sure why I left. It’s not like he doesn’t know where I live. And I know he’ll come after me. In fact, during the ride to pick up my car and then onto my apartment, all I’ve been doing is worrying about this. His phone call gave me the opportunity to slip away, and I took it without thinking of the consequences.

He’s too observant. Too curious. He can’t start snooping. What he learns, it could destroy everything.

I hope he finds Alessandro and leaves me alone. He doesn’t believe I won’t help him with that. I don’t ever want to see my brother again. I don’t ever want him near me again. But I already know Giovanni is a force to be reckoned with. He won’t let me off the hook, and I do believe he will hurt me if he has to.

It’s just a matter of choosing which will be worse. Which of the two I am more likely to survive.

When I climb the final staircase to my apartment, I half expect him to be waiting there for me. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed when he’s not.

I unlock my apartment door. I have to remember to make an appointment with a locksmith to change the locks. I wouldn’t be surprised if Giovanni had a key. Hell, maybe I have to move altogether. If he could find me, Alessandro can too. Maybe he already knows where I am.

No, he can’t know that. If he did, he’d have come for me.

My keys clang against the bowl on the table by the door where I drop them. The lights are on. I’d left them on this morning. I don’t want to be surprised again. I walk into the kitchen, pour myself a glass of water, and stand by the counter, watching the door as I drink it, waiting. Waiting for him.

What he said keeps repeating in my head.

“Family isn’t something you just decide you’re no longer part of. The farther you try to run, the tighter you’re tethered.”

I lied to Giovanni earlier. I am hiding from my own brother. I took the Larrea name for two reasons. One, I don’t think Alessandro would expect me to do so. He’d expect me to do what Giovanni said. Use a name like Jones. But the second reason is more important. I don’t want to be a part of the cartel, but that doesn’t mean I’m ashamed of who I am. Who my father is. My mother. My grandmother. And making Larrea my legal name, in a way, it makes me feel closer to them.

I’m not running or hiding from my past. Just my brother.

When a full hour passes, and he doesn’t come, I wonder if I’m wrong. If he’s not going to come after me tonight. Maybe he’d had enough after that dinner. I’m sure I didn’t provide the challenge he expected, the fire he so liked. I’d ordered what he suggested, let my hair down when he asked, and our conversation had to be about as enjoyable for him as it was for me. So maybe fucking me has lost its appeal.

I double-check the lock on the door before heading into my bedroom. It’s large and beautiful. The whole apartment is, with gorgeous hardwood floors, heavy, ornate doors, intricate crown molding, and chic but comfortable furniture. The colors are all muted, white and beige with gold tones and hints of color in shades of softest green.

I slip off my jacket, and when I open the closet doors, the lights go on automatically. Here, too, everything is neat and in its place. The housekeeper comes twice a week and knows how I like things. I lay my suit jacket, skirt, and blouse in the dry-cleaning bag. She’ll take care of it at the end of the week. My shoes I place in their cubbyhole among the rest. I touch the shiny heel, stand back, and look at them, then look around the closet. Here, too, the colors are muted, subtle, for the most part.

Stripping off my bra and panties, I drop them into the hamper and make my way back through the bedroom and into the bathroom. The marble in here matches that in the kitchen, and the fixtures are brushed gold to pick up on the lines in the marble. I look at myself in the mirror. My face is blank of expression as I run the water and wrap my long hair back up into a clip to wash off my makeup. I then walk over to the shower and switch it on, glancing back at my reflection as the water begins to steam, looking at the lines that crisscross the whole of my back. I’ve gotten good at this. I don’t feel anything when I look at them anymore. Not pain. Not shame. Not betrayal. Not fear.


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