Page 62 of Filthy Little Lies

“Both of us,” she admits.

“That’s okay, you can be mad at me. But I won’t let you be angry at yourself. The past is the past; you can’t change it. It made you who you are today.” I slide my hand down her body, breach the waistband of her jeans.

These damn things need to be banned. Maybe I’ll make her wear skirts when I’m home. Better yet, nothing at all. I can keep her chained to my bed. That way she can’t get herself into trouble, and I will always know where to find her.

Just as I brush my fingers across her clit, there’s a banging on the door. The door handle jiggles.

We freeze.

“Gabriel!”

CHAPTER 18

Savvy

A blood-covered Roman greets us at the back door of a townhouse three miles away from Gabriel’s home.

“Messi’s with him now.” Roman shuts the door behind us once we’re inside the kitchen. Sitting around the small kitchen table are three more men with blood-soaked shirts. One holds a bag of ice to the side of his head.

It’s hard to tell if the blood on them is their own or from the man they’ve brought here for medical attention.

Gabriel walks over to the man with the ice and pulls his hand away so he can see the damage. There’s a gash running along his cheek, but it’s nothing compared to the swelling on the side of his face. Bruising is already forming.

I wince at the sight of it.

“Ricci’s men?” Gabriel asks, steel running through the question.

He’s in control. Complete, calm control. His back ripples with tension when he moves around the table, doing a quick inspection of his men.

“Payback for the warehouse,” one of them says, picking up a pack of cigarettes from the middle of the table and lighting one. When Gabriel cuts him a sharp look, he holds it up, glancing at me, then back to Gabriel. “Shit, sorry. Do you mind if I smoke?”

“No, go ahead,” I say before Gabriel has a chance to answer. “Your eye is swelling. You need ice, too.” I take off my coat, draping it on the counter, then busy myself finding a bag and filling it with ice while Gabriel talks with his men.

I slide behind Gabriel and hand the ice to the man blowing smoke toward the open window behind him.

“Thanks.” He takes the ice, eyeing Gabriel as he does so. “Thank you,” he repeats.

A bellow of pain comes from beneath us, and I tense. Gabriel’s jaw tightens, and the men all look down at the table.

“Who’s down there?” I ask, noticing Roman is up here, but Lucian is missing. Damien had been the one to interrupt our…talk…at the house. I don’t know all of his men. I’m sure there are too many to remember, and it’s probably best if I don’t know names or faces, anyway.

“Joey,” the man with the swollen face says, keeping his gaze settled on the center of the table.

“His brother,” Roman offers from behind me. “He was shot in the back as we were getting into the cars. The doctor is working on him downstairs.”

“Shot?” I place my hand on Gabriel’s arm to get his full attention. “He needs a hospital if he was shot. An operating room, not a basement.”

Gabriel covers my hand with his own. “Everything the doctor needs is down there.”

“But—” He squeezes my hand, stilling my argument. With a small flick of his chin, he gestures to the men sitting around the table behind me, watching us.

“Gunshot patients get reported to the police when they enter the hospital system,” he goes on to explain. “Messi was a combat surgeon; he’s operated in worse conditions.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Guilt rains down on me.

Gabriel brushes a quick kiss to my forehead. “No, we just have to wait it out.”

Roman digs through the bottom cabinets, pulling out a bottle of whiskey. He brings it, along with glasses, to the table and starts doling out drinks.