“You want this woman, Carlo. I can tell. A mother knows these things.”
“I can’t trust any woman. Look what happened last time.”
“Hazel is not Jasmine. I have spent time with her.” Mother pauses, and then goes on. “Jasmine was proud, deluded. Hazel is …”
“A prisoner,” I repeat, trying to force passion into my words.
I have never felt for anybody the way I do for Hazel. And I have never been more aware of the dangers.
“You remember how cold your father was. He knew how to keep his emotions in check, too, but only in public. But you must remember how warm he was at home, my love. He didn’t close himself off to what it meant to be human. He didn’t isolate himself. He embraced life—”
“And look where it got him!” I flare, leaping to my feet. My forearm throbs. The memory of Giorgio’s weeping widow is too recent. “Look where it got Angel.”
“Carlo,” Mother whispers. “Don’t.”
I kneel before her, taking her hands in mine. “I will always protect our family,” I tell her. “Our family. And Hazel is not a part of it.”
“But she’s such a wonderful girl,” Mother whispers.
I stand up and pace to the door. My head is whirring. I resist the urge to look at the security camera one last time.
“I love you, Mother,” I whisper. “I hope you know that. I am capable of it.”
I stride down the hallway before she can reply. The sounds of laughter and Vivaldi, the sounds of the past, get further away, until all I can hear is the pounding of my own heartbeat.
Since my injury is going to make it difficult to do weights, I head to the cardio gym and jump on the treadmill. I set a thirty-minute interval workout and crank up the incline and the speed to the max, wanting to burn myself out, to forget everything just for a little while. I need to go to the club later, but for now, it’s just me and the challenge.
I run.
I run hard.
And I realize why Hazel must like this so much. I can’t help but think of her as the sweat pours down my face and my forearm starts to sting despite the bandage. I’ve watched her running a couple of times from the security room, admiring how, no matter how hard it gets, she never lets herself stop. Sometimes she’ll talk to herself: “Come on, Hazel, dig deep, you can do it.”
I find myself smiling as I remember it.
It takes a lot to wipe that smile off my face. I try to picture Jasmine instead, the woman for whom I had probably one one-hundredth of the feelings I have for Hazel. Which is scary, because I really believed I cared about her. I remember the sting of betrayal and clutch onto it like a buoy.
By the time I leap off the treadmill, my shirt is drenched, clinging to my body. Then the door creaks open and Hazel walks in, a water bottle in her hand.
“Oh,” she says, seeming shocked to find me here, as if this isn’t my fucking house. Why am I so angry? Is it the oversharing that happened at the pond? Is it Giorgio? “I didn’t—I’ll leave you to it.”
“I think that’d be for the best.”
Her mouth falls open. “You should go to a therapist, Carlo. I’m pretty sure you’ve got split personality disorder. And right now, I’m speaking to the fucking asshole incarnation.”
“You said you’ll leave me to it,” I point out, “but you’re still standing here.”
She looks like she’s just been slapped. I try my best to ignore the hurt in her gorgeous green eyes.
“Fine,” she huffs. “I’ll leave you here to rehearse for the Asshole of the Year award. Have fun with your own company. Somebody should be able to.”
She spins and leaves me. I get the urge to go after her, to grab her wrist and move my hand up her lithe arms, to stroke the untamed wisps of hair from her forehead and kiss the freckles on her cheeks, one by one. But I make myself stay where I am. I force myself to think of Giorgio’s widow instead, of Jasmine, of the cold sting of bullets and a family still scarred by the results.
But then, minutes later, she appears in the doorway, a small plate in her hand.
“What is this?” I sigh.
She comes forward and thrusts it toward me. She looks oddly cute with her head held high like that. Her