Page 22 of Corso DeLuca

Visible signs of age mar the photo album’s leather spine, but it’s newer than the jewels. Inside is a faded photo of a dark-haired little boy with bright eyes and a wide smile running on a huge, sculpted estate. A beautiful woman, willowy and Turner Classic Movies couture, looks on from a braided beach chair with a broad-shouldered man watching them both from a second-floor terrace. Corso and his parents. They look perfect… and happy.

There’s more of the same, but with older, more handsome, more rugged images of Corso maturing for boy to man. Eventually, the woman I presume is his mother disappears from the storyline. I turn the page and freeze. Greg’s smiling face, glasses, and neat-trimmed curls stare back at me. In the picture, he looks happy and more carefree than the man who came to my bed. Weird… it’s the same backyard from the first picture, the one with the beautiful woman and the man on the terrace. The man on the terrace and Corso are older and this is a different woman. Corso looks… changed. I can’t explain it. He’s still a boy, but more sad than the laughing kid in the previous stills.

He and Greg are young, smooth tan skin, dark hair… Corso’s as straight as his posture. It's obvious who is the older alpha male of these two. Greg looks to be fifteen in this picture. He looks like the woman. Their fuller nose and big curls are identical. I hold back a tear, this is Greg’s mom. She's wearing a crisp white nurse’s uniform and a silly grin. It must've been a chicken and egg joke Greg shared because Corso's expression is closed off and stoic. He did that often when we were alone. Was this the beginning of his transformation from hopeful young man to a hardened criminal? His eyes are haunted like he saw death incarnate and awoke in a nightmare. What would give a kid, barely out of high school, such an empty soul? I narrow my eyes, studying the photo for clues. And then I see it, the likeness… the man on the terrace, Corso, and Greg.

“Oh shit,” I gasp before my heart seizes in my chest. It can’t be, yet the resemblance.

Out of nowhere, lights blind me. Poised to run, I dropped the book. It hits something with a thunk, and I pray the pearl brooch is unscathed. A big muscle arm circles my neck.

“You’ll regret snooping, cop. I’m going to carve your pretty face off,” a man hisses in my ear before tightened his grip on my airway. I use my nails to claw at what feels like a steel band choking the life from my body, robbing me of vital oxygen. Mouth open, I struggle for air that has no entryway. He’s going to kill me, and I’m helpless to defend myself. Seconds tick by, my vision starts to dim. I’m losing the battle.

With the use of one limb, I’m no match against his strength. My injured arm is pulsing with pain. I know if I don't do something fast, I’ll lose consciousness and be at Joseph’s mercy. I hinge forward and rear back, using speed and momentum to strike fast, hit hard. Greg taught me this technique for taking down people taller than me. The back of my very hard head makes contact with a soft fleshy nose. I hear a crunch, and suddenly, the arm that had been around my neck falls away.

“Bitch!” he yells.

I don't look back. Instead, I sprint for the door I’m trying to reach—

“Corso!” I yell.

A hand circles my ankle. The grip brutal and crushing. My feet come flying out from under me. I slam to the ground, face down against the marble floor.

Pain hits me with the force of a lightning bolt. I’m overwhelmed by the growing tidal wave of agony. My whole body erupts in a sweat. I’m fighting to breathe through the pain. I torque my legs, flipping over onto my back. The lounge pants are slippery, but my attacker manages to drag me back to him.

I kick and flail, aiming my bare foot at his face and throat. He blocks each blow. With my uninjured arm, I’m grappling for anything to defend myself. My fingers tangle with an electrical cord. I wrap it around my palm and yank with all my might. A heavy ceramic lamp comes crashing down to the floor, shattering in hundreds of pieces. I cover my eyes, protecting my face as tiny pieces cut and embed themselves in my skin.

“Let her go, Joseph,” Corso snarls.

The male peering down at us looks like Corso, but his voice is full beast mode, real king of the jungle roar… and he’s brought company. A gleaming black Baretta is pointed at Joseph—not me.

The two face off, disapproval flaming in both their eyes. On a curse, the bodyguard drops my ankle.

“That wounded FBI agent was found with a bullet to his brain in southeast DC tonight, Corso,” he bellows. “I caught her looking through your desk. Once she finds what she wants, you’ll be next.”

Quickly, I mask my surprise at the mention of my old neighborhood. Off track is an understatement. Teal was a prick, but I could never kill a man fighting on the right side of the law. Corso has killers on speed dial. It could have been the female psychopath from the wedding with the Batman cape. Dani.

But Joseph’s unrelenting position, the risk he’s taking at contradicting a man as unforgiving as Corso, has me second-guessing my theory.

The bodyguard’s eyes brim with violent intent. Male aggression blankets the room. Fuck! Clamoring inside my head beckons me to exit this territory. But if I run, just like the predators they are, the men will hunt me as prey. Without Corso’s intervention, I’m sure my face would be hanging on Joseph’s wall or a gruesome Halloween mask to mail back to the bureau in a pink bakery box.

In a voice harder than steel, Corso utters one word. “Enough. She’s not a threat to me.”

“You’re the boss.”

Joseph’s stance relaxes, but not before he cuts through me with a lethal glare. It’s a warning. The only one he’ll ever give.

Corso regards me. Without a word, he secures his weapon, lowers to his haunches and then scoops me up.

Milana runs into the room wearing the same clothes from earlier.

Really, chick?

What businesswoman looks like Federica Ridolfi working nine to five at one o’clock in the morning?

“Is everything okay, Mr. DeLuca?”

“Yes,” Corso grinds out. My focus is on the man holding me. The DeLuca who keeps putting himself between me and dire circumstances. More than just my eyes have opened to the content of Corso’s character. My heart has too. Resting my head against his chest, I listen to his steady heartbeat. Strong, steady, unchanging. How can I resist him?

To Joseph he says, “If you ever touch Jessie again. I will kill you.”