Page 55 of Sweet Prison
“Please, sir… I-I didn’t mean to offend.”
“Drink!”
“That’s enough!” I snap and grab the damn bottle of foundation from the woman’s grasp. The poor thing was already bringing it to her mouth. “I’m sorry. We’re leaving.”
I tug on Massimo to pull him away, but he isn’t budging and continues to glare at the sales clerk. The lady seems to be seconds from fainting, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she actually did. Having an enraged six-foot-seven man glaring at you like he’s ready to commit murder has to be terrifying.
“Massimo.” I yank on his arm again. “Please.”
Thank fuck he lets me drag him away this time. I keep my grip on his forearm until we’re out of the store.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” I say as we step inside the elevator. “It happens all the time. It wasn’t her fault.”
“Well, she won’t do it again.”
“It was unnecessary. And mean—you scared her.”
“You didn’t see the look on your face, Zahara. I did.” He punches the button for the parking level, then braces his palm on the wall right next to my head. “No one gets to hurt you like that.”
“She was just a clueless old lady.”
“Clueless old ladies included.” He leans forward and seizes my chin with his other hand. “School gossip. Fucking math problems. Thousands of ways how to make puff sleeves. For years, you wrote to me about every little thing but you never once mentioned your vitiligo. Why, angel?”
My breath catches in my lungs. His face is right there in front of me, his eyes searching mine. The urge to step back, to somehow run away and hide from his inspecting gaze overwhelms me. I know he’s already seen every discolored spot on my face. The huge pale patches around my eyes. Another on my forehead. Several small ones on the left side of my chin, right where his fingers are pressing. He’s not blind, even if he didn’t bring them up before now like so many others. Still, his sudden question leaves me feeling raw. And there’s nowhere for me tohide here. I’m caged between the elevator wall and Massimo’s body, so I have to endure his scrutiny.
“You,” Massimo rasps, tilting my chin up, “are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever set my eyes on. And if anyone makes you doubt how fucking gorgeous you are, I’ll make them regret it for the rest of their lives.”
A loud ping signals the elevator’s arrival at the parking level. I remain rooted to the floor, my back plastered to the cool panel behind me. All I can do is gape at Massimo.
“You got that, angel?”
I nod.
“Good.”
He releases my chin and without saying another word, takes my hand and leads me out of the elevator.
He called me beautiful. No…gorgeous. Did he mean it? Or was it simply a white lie to make me feel better about myself? Some of his actions confuse me, give me whiplash with the mixed messages he’s sending. Like during that… moment in the store. I could have sworn he was going to kiss me before the sales associate interrupted us.
I steal a sideways look at Massimo, observing his harsh profile as I try to keep up with his long stride. The way his body moves—with measured, purposeful motion while he scans his surroundings like a predator on the hunt—is making my heartbeat erratic. He’s the hottest man I’ve ever seen. No, of course he wouldn’t have kissed me. I’m just imagining things I wish could be true.
We’re between two parked vehicles, heading toward Massimo’s Jag where it’s tucked away in the back row, when he abruptly drops my hand.
“Get down,” he whispers, simultaneously reaching behind his back without breaking his stride. “Now, Zahara.”
I immediately sink to a crouch.
Massimo twists to the left, gun in hand. A loud bang explodes in the wide space, followed by the unmistakable shattering of glass. Instinctively, I wrap my arms over my head.
More gunshots. A car alarm starts blaring somewhere, and then another. A bullet hits the white sedan on my right. It’s hard to determine where the gunfire is coming from, but I can see bullet casings fall to the ground around Massimo’s feet as he returns fire. I count three before the noise dies down.
“Let’s go.” Massimo grabs my hand and pulls me up. “Quickly.”
We cross the distance to his car at a run.
“Stay low,” he barks, shutting the passenger door after I get in and rushing around the hood to get behind the wheel.
The tires screech as he backs up and then turns toward the exit ramp. When we pull up to the garage gate, he slows down and opens his door, looking at something on the ground. I lean over to see what it is, only catching a pair of legs before Massimo slams the car door shut and hits the gas.