to try to make a power move, take over the top family position.
I didn't know when that stopped being the main motivator.
Fuck.
Sure I did.
It started right there in my closet. Right before I even put my hands on her. When I felt a tug somewhere inside, something new and interesting and, yeah, fucking terrifying, if I were honest.
There had been hints of affection before then, having appreciated her attitude and fighting spirit right from the jump, but in that closet, when she showed me something soft under all that hard, that was when the change started.
It had only continued to grow since then.
I just didn't realize how big it had gotten until the night before. When, for the first time, I was genuinely worried I wouldn't be able to get her out of this mess.
Right then, panic had gripped me, a tight sensation in my chest and throat, a sloshing in my stomach.
It was then that I knew I would move hell and earth to get her free, to get her justice. And to give us a real shot at something.
Not as debtor and collector.
Not as a kidnapper and hostage.
Just as a man and a woman.
I wanted to give that a shot.
I had a feeling there was something there.
A future.
But to have that, I had to fix the present.
And, I reminded myself as I gave Chris a nod, watching as he moved out of the way, the present was far from fixed.
But we were close.
So close.
Or so I thought.
My father opened the door to the unfinished side of the basement, and I could hear the rattle of the chain as a half-dozing Giana jolted awake, eyes swollen, but from exhaustion, not tears.
No, she hadn't been crying.
There was a strange swelling of pride inside at that.
I had no idea if that was because I was happy she had that much spirit, or if it was because she trusted me that much, or a combination of the two. But it was there, a floating sort of sensation in my chest.
Her gaze slid up my father's body, her chin jutting up as she got to his face. She didn't look at me, and I got the feeling it was because she didn't want it to seem like we had any sort of connection. Which was good. My father would be pissed if he thought someone respected me more than him.
"What was your name again?" he asked, glaring down at her, trying to intimidate her. And if that didn't show you what a little fucking man he was, I didn't know what did, trying to scare a small woman less than half his age.
"Giana," she told him, no tremble in her lip, no tremor in her voice.
"Giana. You fucked up last night," he told her.
"Or did I make things easier?" she asked, shrugging one of her shoulders.
"How the fuck could killing a family friend make anything easier for me?"
"When did he ever pay on time?" she shot back. "And I can assure you, Mr. Costa, that when he did, it was only because I made sure it happened. My father was never good with money. I think he was very impressed with you," she added, and I could hear the hint of disgust in her voice, but only because I was beginning to know her well enough to. I knew what she was trying to do. Stroke my father's ego. And it was killing her pride to do it. But she was doing it. And I felt another wave of pride. "He was always trying to emulate you. Buying things we both knew he couldn't afford because he wanted to be more like you."
"He was a decent man. Flawed, but decent," my father said, chest puffing just the slightest bit. "Which makes me wonder how wicked his daughter must be to shoot him in cold blood with no provocation."
To that, Giana took a deep breath, giving him a version of the truth I had a feeling she had been working on all night, making sure there was no way any part of it could be taken the wrong way.
"I used to think the same thing about my father," she told my father. "That he was decent, just flawed. Which was why I always nudged him to do what was right and pay his debts, no matter the personal sacrifice he might have to endure. It's important for your word to be honorable. But last night, sitting at your dining table, I realized I was