Page 15 of Lost Prince

The man's eyes widen, and a flicker of fear crosses his face. "Yeah, he's here. Showed up a couple hours ago. Do you know him?”

I nod, although it’s not like I’m friends with him. He’s my boss’s brother.

“I’d like to go home,” he grumbles.

“I’ll talk to him.”

The mechanic nods eagerly, clearly relieved. "He's in the back bay, working on a sedan."

I thank him and make my way deeper into the garage, my heart pounding. The rhythmic clanking of tools grows louder as I approach the last bay. And there he is.

I approach the sedan cautiously, my eyes fixed on Lazaro's form. He's working on the wheel of a car lifted high above him, his movements sure and precise. For a moment, I just watch him, mesmerized by the play of his muscles under his oil-stained shirt.

A smear of dark grease stretches across his cheekbone, contrasting sharply with his tanned skin. It should make him look disheveled, but instead, it only enhances his rugged appeal. He’s dangerously attractive like this. I chastise myself for thinking such things about my boss’s brother.

What strikes me most is the change in his demeanor. The tension that's been a constant presence since his return has melted away. His brow, usually furrowed in frustration or confusion, is smooth and relaxed. His jaw, often clenched tight, moves slightly as he concentrates on his task.

This is where Lazaro truly finds peace. Surrounded by the smell of oil and the clink of metal on metal, he seems more at ease than I've ever seen him. The storm that usually rages behind his eyes has calmed.

I pause, unsure how to announce my presence without startling him. But before I can speak, Lazaro's head snaps up, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that steals my breath.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself for his reaction.

“What are you doing here?” The calm demeanor slides away, replaced by annoyance.

"I was worried about you," I say softly, taking a step closer. "Everyone is."

Lazaro's scowl deepens, his hands tightening on the wrench he's holding. "How’d you find me?”

"I… I remembered what you said about liking to work on cars. When I saw this place open… I took a chance.”

He stares at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. I fight the urge to give him a hug.

"Why?" he finally asks, his voice low and rough.

"Why what?"

"Why did you bother looking for me?" There's a hint of genuine confusion in his tone, as if he can't fathom why anyone would care enough to search for him.

“Like I said, I was worried about you.”

He turns away abruptly, focusing back on the car. "You shouldn't waste your time caring about me. I'm not worth it."

A part of me wants to hold him and tell him he is worth it. Another part of me wants to slug him for being such a whiny baby. The man has a family worried sick about him. People who love him. Lana spent three years searching for him when everyone else thought he was dead.

I shake my head. “Poor, poor Lazaro D’Amato.”

His head snaps to me, clearly not liking my patronizing tone. There’s a darkness in his eyes that has me wondering if I’ve overstepped. Have I triggered Lazaro’s anger? And if so, what is he going to do to me?

6

LAZARO

It’s an understatement that I’m surprised Diana found me. I'm acutely aware of her presence. It's unsettling how she affects me, how she seems to see past the walls I've put up.

It’s even more shocking that she just suggested I’m a whiny brat. It pisses me off, but not the way seeing Tony pull a gun on Elio did. It angers me because deep down, I know she’s right.

Her expression morphs, and I see the fear I’ve been seeing in people all day. It rips me to shreds even as it angers me more.