The banging from her bedroom continues, and I settle in for what promises to be a very long day. Elena Messina may think she's in control of this situation, but she's about to learn exactly how patient I can be when something important is at stake.
And whether she likes it or not, her safety has become very important to me.
CHAPTER 7
Elena
The nerveof Marco just showing up yesterday morning and announcing he's moving in, like I wouldn't be upset by that invasion of my personal space. This apartment is my peace, my sanctuary—the one place where I can be myself instead of playing the role of Rina's cousin, the girl whose father was exiled, or the outsider trying to fit into a world of perfectly sculpted mafia wives and girlfriends.
This was supposed to be my hideaway from all of that. But apparently, I'll be sharing my space for the foreseeable future.
I didn't get any sleep last night either, knowing that Marco was sleeping on my couch just down the hall. I know he doesn't want to be here any more than I want him here, so why is he really doing this? Following orders like a good little soldier, I suppose.
That's one thing I've never understood about the Rossos or the mafia in general—they all follow the Don so blindly, never asking questions, just nodding along like obedient puppies. I never expected Marco to be a yes-man, though. I always thought of him as Vito's equal, his confidant, but I guess not if he's herebabysitting me. This is definitely an order he's following, not a choice he's made willingly.
I groan as I sit up and stretch, my stomach growling loudly. I'm starving since I didn't leave my room yesterday, but I don't want to deal with Marco. I cover my face with my pillow and fall back down.
Okay, here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to get up, go to the kitchen, get some breakfast, and have a nice, calm conversation with Marco. Simple and rational. I can't avoid eating forever just because there's an infuriating man camped out in my living room. An infuriating, gorgeous man with those damn green eyes and that stupid perfect jawline.
Stop it, Elena. Focus.
I get up and open my door, padding down the hall toward the kitchen. But I stop dead in my tracks when I see Marco doing sit-ups in my living room, completely shirtless.
Oh my God.
His tanned skin glistens with sweat, and his abs ripple with each controlled movement. The man is built like he was carved from marble by someone with very specific and very detailed fantasies about the male form.
I'm staring.
I need to close my mouth and stop staring.
But I can't seem to look away from this six-foot-five, dark-haired, green-eyed man who has the body of a Greek god and the personality of a brooding anti-hero. He stops his workout and leans back on his hands, breathing hard, and when he notices me watching him, a smile plays at the corners of his mouth.
"Not too bad for an old man, huh?" he says, and the spell breaks.
I roll my eyes and walk to the kitchen, trying to pretend I wasn't just mentally undressing him,more. I see my Frenchpress sitting on the counter, which is strange since I usually keep it in the cabinet.
"I figured you'd want that to make your coffee," Marco says, pulling his shirt over his head.
I'm stunned for a moment. "How did you know I prefer French press?"
"I pay attention," he says simply, walking over to join me in the kitchen.
The casual way he says it makes something flutter in my chest. When does anyone ever pay attention to small details about me?
"Would you like some coffee?" I ask, still processing his unexpected thoughtfulness.
"Please."
I heat the electric kettle and scoop coffee grounds into the French press, the familiar routine calming my nerves. Once the water is hot, I pour it over the grounds and set a timer for steeping. The silence between us feels charged, like we're both waiting for the other to make the first move in whatever game we're playing.
"Can we call a truce?" I ask finally, turning to face him. "Please?"
"Elena, there's no truce to be had here." He says it like I'm being ridiculous. "You keep sneaking away so I'm here to watch over you. This isn't a punishment—it's protection."
"Really? Because it feels an awful lot like punishment." I hand him his coffee—black as I somehow knew he'd prefer it. "What's next? Are you going to ground me? Take away my phone privileges? Give me a curfew?"
The corner of his mouth turns up slightly. "Don't give me ideas."
