No matter how hard I try to tap into my previous dislike of Ras, I can’t seem to do it.
Not after he spent days nursing me back to health.
And not after what happened in his kitchen.
Last night, I had a dream about him. We were on a bed, and I was feverish, my back pressed against his front. He dragged a cool washcloth over my neck and then dipped it down over my chest. It was at that moment in the dream that I realized I wasn’t wearing any clothes. The washcloth slid between my breasts, over my abdomen, and down between my legs where everything felt so sensitive that I couldn’t help but moan. Lips pressed to the side of my neck, and a familiar voice asked. “Are you wet for me, Peaches?”
I woke up then, aroused and sweaty and in desperate need of a release.
I’ve never lusted after a man like that before, and there’s a flicker of guilt at the back of my mind. After all, I’m engaged to marry someone else in just a few weeks. Even though I don’t love Rafaele, it still feels wrong to be having sex dreams about another man.
I swallow and glance over at Ras. His long hair is neatly pulled back at his nape in a loose man-bun, and he’s trimmed his beard. His tanned hands flex on the wheel as he takes us out the neighborhood, following the GPS. One of the rings he’s wearing is the one I tried on in his bedroom. The realization makes something hum beneath my skin.
“Ras, what are you really doing here?” I ask, unable to keep an exasperated note from slipping into my voice. “Whatever it is can’t be that important if you’re willing to spend all this time chauffeuring me around.”
“Did your papa tell you to ask me that?”
“No.” I frown. “Why would he?”
“He didn’t seem to believe me when I told him I’m here on a diplomatic mission to get to know our American partners a little better.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that when Damiano commits to doing a deal as big as what we’re considering doing with the Messero and Garzolo clans, we need to be sure the two of them can deliver what they promise.”
The line sounds rehearsed, but the gist of it makes sense, I guess. It doesn’t sound so unreasonable, although I can see why Papà wouldn’t like it.
If that’s what Ras is here for, why is he so eager to volunteer to drive me around?
Something is off with all of this.
I have a feeling it has something to do with the bruise on my face. Vale still hasn’t brought it up, and I know my sister. She wouldn’t let something like that go.
Is Ras here to also keep an eye on me?
I guess I should be grateful if Vale did ask him to do that. Papà isn’t stupid enough to hit me while Ras is staying at our house.
I’m safe from him for the time being.
But there is a new threat. The one posed by the man in the driver’s seat.
Maybe I need to remind myself of all his flaws so that I can nip this crush in the bud.
He’s arrogant and shameless.
He’s unable to stand the cold. As in, he’s a total baby about it. A smile tugs at my lips at how miserable he looked last night.
I scan him. Even now, he isn’t dressed for the weather. He’s wearing a wool suit and a crisp gray button-up, but no coat. The heat in the car is on full blast. He really didn’t pack for a New York winter, did he?
What other flaws does he have? Have I ever seen him ruffled by anything?
A memory resurfaces. “Tell me how you got your nickname.”
By the way his brows furrow, I can tell he wasn’t expecting that to come out of my mouth.
“Why?” he asks suspiciously.
“Just curious. Does Ras mean something?”
He switches into the fast lane. “In the system, it means someone with authority who still reports to a higher boss.”
That makes sense. After all, he reports to Damiano. “So Dem gave it to you?”
He shifts in his seat. “No, I’ve been called that since I was sixteen.”
“How come?”
There’s a subtle shift in the mood inside the car. His profile hardens, and I get the distinct sense that I’m wading into something uncomfortable.
He hesitates for a while before finally answering. “I got it from a kid in my class,” he says in a low voice. “We didn’t get along. I did something I shouldn’t have, and that started a war between us. He gave me that nickname as a way of humiliating me.”
Whatever I was expecting, it was not that. My nails dig into the soft flesh of my palms. “What did you do to him?”
“I stole his new motorcycle and crashed it. His parents worked for my father’s business, and they had saved up for years to buy it. It was a bad thing to do,” he admits, dragging a thumb over his bottom lip. “And Nunzio made sure I paid for it.”
“Did he beat you up?”
Ras huffs a humorless laugh, like there’s far more to it. “Yeah.”
I rake my gaze over his powerful, muscular body. “I have a hard time imagining that.”
“I didn’t look like this back then. I was a skinny kid. As son of the area capo, I could have told my father about it all and gotten Nunzio taken care of, but that would have been admitting that I couldn’t handle the situation on my own. I was too proud for that. So I took his beatings for nearly two years until he finally decided to deal the final blow the night of our graduation.”
Ice slips inside my veins at his tone. A foreboding of something terrible. “What did he do?”
He clears his throat. “His friends held me down while he tried to slit my wrists in the playground behind our school. They wanted me to bleed out slowly, so that I’d feel myself go. They almost managed to do it, but then one of the teachers came out to have a smoke and saw them.”
Horror wraps around my throat and squeezes as we pull into the parking lot of the department store. I turn to look at Ras. His profile is a mask. There’s no hint of what he’s thinking or feeling.
Suddenly, I’m at a loss of what to say.
He could have died.
My chest squeezes with the need to comfort him, even if this happened long ago. I can’t imagine how traumatic that must have been. To be held down like an animal while someone cut up your veins.
My stomach lurches. “Ras, I’m so sorry.”
He doesn’t say anything as he parks the car. When he turns off the ignition, I reach over and wrap my palm around his wrist.
He freezes. Stares at where I’m touching his skin.
Gently, I pull his arm toward me. Dark ink seeps out from under his sleeves, and when I push the sleeve up, I see it. There’s a thin scar about three inches long right in the center of his wrist. The tattoos wrap around it without crossing over even once. It’s like he made a point to make it stand out.
“Why not cover it up?”
“I want to remember it.”
I drag my thumb over the scar, and he shivers in response. Slowly, I lift my gaze to meet his. “Tell me you killed him.”
A fire burns inside his eyes. He takes his hand back and says, “Not yet.”
CHAPTER 16
GEMMA
We walk into the department store, Ras’s story looping over and over in my head.
My heart clenches at the realization that he trusted me with something deeply personal. When I asked the question about his nickname, I was searching for a flaw. Instead, it feels like I found a strength. Made men don’t like to show their vulnerabilities. In fact, they like to pretend they don’t exist. But somehow, seeing Ras embrace his, makes him all the more impressive in my eyes.