Bound by the Italian's Contract(78)

                “Am I going to need one?”

                “Maybe.” He upended the heavy glass, added two fingers of his imported Scotch and handed it to her.

                She took the chair before his desk as well as the drink, struck with déjà vu of her very first meeting with him when she had just turned twenty and wanted desperately to be seen as a grown woman. That had been her first time drinking single-malt Scotch and dealing with an arrogant young champion. Both had been heady experiences she’d never forgotten.

                “To you,” he said, raising his glass.

                She clinked her crystal to his, the clink clear and loud. “And you.”

                They each drank, hers a sip, his much more, then a spate of numbing silence.

                A chill rippled through her, at odds with the whisky warming her tongue and throat. “Are you going to tell me this news?”

                He nodded and cradled his glass between both palms, gaze lifting slowly to hers. “Mario is dead.”

                She blinked. “You’re sure?”

                He nodded. “Near dawn, a witness reported that Mario sped past their coupe on the A16, only to lose control. His Lamborghini shot over the stone wall of a viaduct and burst into flames on impact.” He knocked back the remainder of his Scotch and grimaced, anyone’s guess if the mouthful of liquor or distaste over the tragedy caused his expression. “It has taken an autopsy to determine Mario was behind the wheel.”

                “He’s dead,” she said. “He can’t hurt me anymore.”

                “Correct.” He pushed to his feet and paced the room. She massaged her temples, this day and everything that transpired happening far too fast for her to grasp. Or maybe the bit of alcohol had mixed unfavorably with the abundance of excitement.

                * * *

                He stood from his seat and walked to the view offered through the glass windows in his office. “With Mario dead, you can return to Colorado whenever you wish to. I will cover all expenses, as agreed to.”

                She caught the gasp that nearly burst free. He was setting her free. Giving her back the control over her life. She didn’t have to remain in Italy under his protection a second longer. Not unless she wanted to.

                And she did want to stay with Luciano. She didn’t want this to end swiftly and so coldly. But every inch of him, from his body language to his words, made it clear he didn’t share her view.

                “Thank you for taking care of everything for me,” she said in a surprisingly controlled tone that still made her tight throat ache. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

                She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t.

                He frowned, tapping three fingers on the nearly floor-to-ceiling credenza. “I disagree. You are destined for greatness and would have achieved it with or without me. But I am glad, honored and grateful you agreed to work with me on the therapy pod.”

                “It was my pleasure,” she said, painfully aware that was the only thing she could say because it was true. Being with him had been her pleasure and passion. Leaving was going to hurt for a long time.

                He dropped in his chair and meted out another drink for them both, causing her to wonder when she’d drank all of hers. “To your continued success.”

                “And to yours,” she said, retrieving her glass to join him in the toast.