Adriana fell asleep, her head resting against the window.
Tony wrapped an arm around my shoulders, giving me a squeeze. I listened to the tire noise, watched the yellow light fly by and cascade through the glass and into the car.
Through it all, I still saw the calculating expression on Nico’s face, still felt the caress on my skin.
And I knew it like the sky was blue, he’d been thinking about me.
It was Thursday afternoon. Hot sun burned on concrete, while the smells of fresh bread and garlic filled the air outside Francesco’s green double doors.
My gaze focused on the ground as I walked from the car to the restaurant, because the strap on one of my heels had come undone. I tried to fix it, hopped on one foot, and when I began to tip sideways a strong hand gripped my waist from behind and steadied me.
“You’re a walking hazard, you know that?”
I tensed. His deep voice rushed over me and filled my insides with a warmth it shouldn’t.
As I stepped away from his grasp, his palm skimmed from my waist to my hip. A burning caress. It felt obscene when he touched me, like he had his hands in much different places than only on my side. The feeling was frustrating because I couldn’t stop it, nor could I turn off the thrill that buzzed beneath my skin when he was near.
My eyes narrowed but I kept my mouth closed. I’d gone over how I would deal with this man: I wouldn’t. Don’t engage him. It was the best I could come up with.
When I continued to walk awkwardly with my strap dangling against my ankle, an amused breath came from behind me.
“The silent treatment, huh?”
My teeth clenched. He thought this was funny. How could I be so confused and twisted up about him, while he thought it was all amusing? I spun around, retorting, “You pushed me into a pool! Why should I talk to you?”
Light blue shirt, gray waistcoat and pants, black tie, stupidly handsome face. I swallowed. Why did I engage? It was too late to go back now.
He ran a thumb across his bottom lip, his gaze falling to coast over my strapless nude dress and pink heels. “You’re the little liar, Elena.”
Of course he’d turn this around on me; he was too good at that. “Me? You tried to blackmail me!”
“If you would’ve listened to me in the first place I wouldn’t have had to.”
Was he serious? His gaze remained stoic. Ugh, he was.
I turned around, and when I almost fell again, I braced a palm on the hot brick wall and managed to buckle my shoe with one hand.
“Where’s your cousin?” he asked, typing something on his phone. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
Benito had only dropped me off at the door to go park, and Mamma and Papà had driven separately with Adriana. But that was none of Nicolas’s business.
“Quit the brotherly act. I already have one.”
I said it just because I thought it bothered him.
His jaw ticked. “Inside, Elena.”
“Ask me nicely,” I retorted, mocking him from the time he’d said it to me.
His gaze came up from his phone, amused, dark. “If you don’t get your ass inside, Elena, you’ll be the one screaming please.”
My God . . .
“That was inappropriate,” I breathed while heading to the doors.
“Perfectly platonic,” he parried.
It was then I realized I’d really screwed myself over with that word.
The red-lettered Closed sign was visible through the window near a few shelves of fresh bread, but when I pushed the door open, I was immediately greeted with, “Mia bella ragazza!”
A smile tugged at my lips. “Zio.”
My great uncle grasped my face and pressed a kiss to each cheek. He smelled like oregano and nostalgia. Some things will forever have that smell no matter if they never left to begin with.
Francesco Abelli lived on the tamer side of the Cosa Nostra. Every cent laundered in our family name was a product of this dress pants and shoes, wife beater and apron-wearing sixty-five-year-old. When he wasn’t cooking books, he was running this restaurant.
“Have a seat near the windows. It’s a buona giornata.”
It wasn’t that beautiful of a day. It was hotter than Hades, but he probably hadn’t set foot outside. He lived upstairs.
I took a seat at the table and poured myself a glass of water from the pitcher. Blinding sunlight streamed through the large window. It was an awful spot to sit, honestly, but Zio’s word was as final as Papà’s, no matter if everyone was miserable because of it.
Benito came in and took a seat, clearing his throat and pouring himself some tea. My eyes narrowed on him as I sipped water through a straw. “You got a hickey on your neck.”