The Don's Deadliest Obsession

Nerissa’s POV.

Lysander lowers me gently onto the car seat, making sure my feet are inside before he shuts the door.

A moment later, he gets in beside me and rhe driver pulls away almost immediately.

I lean back against the seat, staring blankly at my hands.

There is still blood beneath my fingernails.

His blood.

The image of the man dropping to the floor flashes through my mind, and my stomach twists. I close my eyes, trying to shut it out, but that only makes everything worse.

The gun, rhe sound of the shot, the blood and the words he said.

I curl my fingers into my palms.

No.

Not tonight.

I can’t think about anymore of this tonight.

I’m so deep in my thoughts that I don’t even realize we’ve arrived home until someone knocks on my window.

I jump, my heart slamming against my ribs.

Lysander stands outside, looking at me through the glass.

”We’re home.”

I stare at him for a second before nodding.

I reach for the door handle, but he opens it before I can get there. Then he holds out his hand.

I look at it.

For some reason, the simple gesture makes my throat tighten.

I don’t know what to do with this version of Lysander. The one who carries me when I can’t seem to move, who looks at me as though my tears physically hurt him, and who doesn’t demand an explanation for every little thing.

It’s confusing.

But I don’t have the energy to figure him out tonight.

I place my hand in his and he closes his fingers around mine then leads me into the house.

Neither of us speaks.

He takes me straight to the kitchen, where I climb onto one of the stools beside the island. I watch him move around the counter, rolling up his sleeves as he searches for something in the cupboards.

”Want some coffee?”

I shake my head.

”No. But some alcohol will do.”

He pauses and looks at me over his shoulder.

”Alcohol, right.”

There’s something suspiciously amused about his tone, but I don’t have the energy to question it.

He takes down two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. He pours himself a little before filling mine almost to the brimm.

When he hands it over, I take it gratefully.

”Thank you.”

He gives me a small nod before taking the stool opposite mine.

I don’t waste any time. I lift the glass to my lips and swallow half its contents.

”Easy there.”

I shoot him a glare.

”Shut up.”

He chuckles.

”Good to know you’re getting yourself back,” he says.

I roll my eyes and take a small sip.

For a few minutes, we sit in silence. Lysander doesn’t push me to talk, and I almost convince myself that perhaps he’ll let the night end without asking questions.

Almost. Until....

”Wanna talk about it?”

I down the remainder of my drink.

”Nope.”

”Okay. I understand.”

I glance at him, surprised by how easily he accepts my answer.

Then he leans forward, resting his forearms on the counter.

”But did he say anything to you before he pulled the gun? Anything at all? I need a clue.”

My fingers tighten around the empty glass.

There it is. The question I’ve been dreading.

I stare down at the whiskey bottle between us, but I don’t really see it. All I can see is that man’s face. The way his lips curled when he looked at me and the cold satisfaction in his eyes.

And I just know I can’t.

I can’t let Lysander into this. I can’t tell him what happened all those years ago, or why the sight of that man made every part of me feel like I was back in the nightmare I’d spent years trying to escape.

And I certainly can’t tell him about The Devil, Salvatore.

If that bastard discovers Lysander has become involved in my past, he won’t hesitate to come after him. Lysander might be ruthless, powerful, and feared by all the criminal world, but Salvatore is dangerous in ways he doesn’t understand.

There’s a reason he is called Fhe Devil.

I won’t put him or his family in danger because of me.

I won’t.

I draw a shaky breath and force myself to look up.

”No. He didn’t say anything to me.”

Lysander studies my face.

I hate how observant he is, I hate how it feels as though he can see every lie I tell, even when I make sure my expression doesn’t change.

Before he can say anything else, I reach for the bottle.

I need another drink. Something strong enough to quiet my thoughts, even if only for a few minutes.

I lift the bottle, but before I can pour, Lysander stands and snatches it from my hand.

”That’s enough, peque?o motín.”

*Little riot.*

I blink at him.

”Excuse me?”

”You heard me.”

”Give it back.”

”No.”

I reach for the bottle, but he lifts it out of my reach.

The audacity of this man.

I lean across the counter, trying to grab it, and somehow manage to get my fingers around its neck.

”Got it.”

I pull it toward myself triumphantly but my victory lasts approximately two seconds.

Lysander takes it back with infuriating ease, then moves around the counter until he’s standing directly between my parted thighs.

He places the bottle far behind him, well out of my reach.

”I said that’s enough.”

I glare up at him.

”And I said give me the freaking drink, Lysander.”

”No.”

”You’re sooo insufferable.”

”So I’ve been told.”

”By everyone, I hope.”

”Mostly you.”

”Good. At least somebody around here has sense.”

His mouth twitches.

Under different circumstances, I might have found that amusing. Right now, I want to throw something at his head.

”Now,” he says, his voice losing its teasing edge, ”we need to talk about what happened.”

My stomach drops.

Fuck!. Fuck!. Fuck!.

Does he not believe me? Did he notice something in my face? Did I hesitate too long? Has he figured out that I’m hiding something?

My mind races through a dozen possible answers, and every single one ends badly.

I need to distract him.

And because apparently my brain has decided to abandon me at the worst possible moment, I do the stupidest thing I can think of.

I reach up, grab the front of his shirt, and pull him down to me.

Then I kiss him.