Page 73 of Blue in the Deep Blue Sea

He lifted a brow. “Wow,” he chuckled. “Gabriella De Luca.” He stepped closer, lowering his face until it hovered just inches from mine. His hand came to my chest, fingers digging into the unbuttoned fabric of my navy-blue shirt. Then he lifted me clean off the ground, my feet dangling in the air.

“Are you saying you want to sit on my face?”

His eyes drifted from mine to my lips.

“No.” I swallowed. “I. Don’t. Want. That.”

“Then don’t tempt me with a good time,” he said, pulling me even closer until his mouth was almost against mine.

I raised my hands and pressed them against his, tapping at his fists until he let go. Slowly, he lowered me back to the ground before taking a step away.

“You can walk,” he said. “The rocks should be fine now.”

The rocks beneath my bare feet were gentler now. No sharp edges bit into my skin. Little patches of grass broke through the gaps between the stones, and clusters of yellow flowers pushed up from pockets of earth.

I focused on them, desperate to think about anything except what had just happened. My whole body trembled, shivers racing up my spine.

It was as if he’d altered the chemistry in my brain, lacing it with poison. The goosebumps that spread across my skin from a single touch were something I’d never experienced before.

I’d never felt this way. I’d never let anyone make me feel this way.

The walls I’d built around myself had never cracked. I’d made sure they stood twice as strong, impossible to break through. Yetsomehow, he’d found the smallest fracture and slipped inside uninvited.

Why the fuck did this have to happen?

Why couldn’t my brain remember how badly he’d hurt me between 1992 and 2003? It had been eleven years of hate. So why didn’t I feel it now?

18

SQUALO

It’s been two hours of silence, and I preferred it this way. Because if she said a single word again, I’d end up doing something I’d regret. In my mind, there were hundreds of ways to shut her up, but none of them involved her being an inch away from me, and a lot of it included her mouth on mine.

The sun hung high in the sky, burning our skin by the time we reached the lighthouse. From where it sat, I could tell it was late afternoon as I squinted against the light.

When I first came here, I’d thought it would take me hours to reach it. Instead, it made me realize the island was smaller than I’d imagined, and I’d arrived far sooner than expected.

The lighthouse door was locked. I would’ve assumed someone had bought the island and built everything here, including the lighthouse, hoping to make a life on it. Instead, the place had simply been abandoned.

The island was surrounded by open sea, with no other islands nearby. That meant it was the perfect place to hide. And if Bianchi knew about it, it was dangerous. They could stash stolen art here, maybe even drugs.

I wanted to break in, but then I remembered an old trick with a key Lorenzo had taught me after I’d once locked myself out of the apartment I was renting. Just as I was about to slide the key into the lock, I realized it was the one Gianni had left me.

It fit perfectly.

The lock clicked open, and now, all I had to do was push the door open.

I let her step inside first. Then I stayed by the entrance, leaning against the doorframe as I scanned every inch of the tall walls beyond it.

The lighthouse was wider at the bottom and narrower at the top. A spiral staircase wound its way from the ground floor all the way up to the beacon that guided ships away from the island. At the bottom, on the right, sat a single bed, barely big enough for one person, with a small toilet tucked beside it. On the left was what looked like a tiny kitchen, and next to it a wooden desk with two chairs. The lower level had only one window, while a few more appeared higher up the tower.

The whole place was a mess, thick with the stale smell of air that hadn’t moved in years. The table was buried beneath papers and letters, which only begged the question of how they’d all ended up here. Dirty dishes still sat in the sink. Every surface was coated in dust, and the wardrobe beside the bed held clothes that looked like they belonged to an older man.

As she stepped inside, her gaze swept across the room before settling on me. I tried not to meet her eyes, so she slowly drifted towards the wall where the wardrobe stood, studying the photographs resting in gold frames.

In two quick steps, I reached the table. My eyes skimmed over the scattered documents, searching for anything that could connect this place to Gianni. The moment one of the papers landed in my hands, everything finally clicked into place.

On the page, a small table listed the dates and names of people who had registered on the island. Among them was a permanent resident, Victor De Luca, who, according to the document, first arrived in 1988 and stayed until 1990. He returned later and remained until 2002.