His breath hitches almost imperceptibly. "Elena..."
"What?" I step closer, until there's barely an inch between us. "You've been taking care of me, protecting me. The least I can do is take care of you too. Make sure you eat properly, have a comfortable place to sleep..."
"I sleep on the couch."
"That's your choice." My voice drops to barely above a whisper. "My bed is much more comfortable."
The tension between us ratchets up to an almost unbearable level. Marco's hands come up to frame my face, his thumbs brushing across my cheekbones.
"What are you doing to me?" he asks, his voice rough.
Before I can answer, his phone rings again. We both freeze, the moment suspended between us like a held breath.
Marco closes his eyes and drops his hands. "I have to take this."
"Of course you do."
He answers the phone with a sharp "What?" and I slip past him, heading for my bedroom.
"Elena," he calls after me.
I pause in the doorway and look back. "Good night, Marco."
I close the door behind me and lean against it, my heart racing. This game I'm playing is more dangerous than I thought. Every time I get close to Marco, every time I let myself believe this domestic fantasy could be real, I remember what's at stake.
Dad's debt. The threats. Rina's baby.
CHAPTER 19
Elena
Three days later,I'm maintaining my perfect facade beautifully. Marco is more suspicious than ever, but he can't quite put his finger on what I'm doing. Every time he tries to corner me with pointed questions, I deflect with domestic tasks or innocent conversation.
This afternoon, Marco had to leave for some urgent business with Vito—something about the Irish that had his jaw clenched and his eyes dark with barely controlled anger. Of course, he didn't go without making arrangements. Tony and Lorenzo are stationed outside, one at the front entrance and one covering the back alley and fire escape. I spotted them both when I looked out the window earlier.
For once, I'm behaving well enough that Marco felt comfortable leaving me. Or maybe he just didn't have a choice—when Vito calls, you go. Either way, I have a few hours of freedom. Sort of.
Becca comes over with supplies for a paint-by-numbers project and a bottle of top-shelf gin. She takes one look at my serene expression and perfectly organized living space and raises an eyebrow.
"Okay, who are you and what did you do with my chaotic best friend?"
"I'm just trying something new," I tell her, measuring gin into a shaker. "Being more... zen."
"Zen." She looks around at my spotless apartment and the neat row of plants by the windows. "This is about the tall hunk of man meat, isn't it?"
I hand her a perfect martini, complete with olive garnish. "Maybe I just decided to embrace my domestic side."
"Elena Maria Messina, I have known you since college. You once ate cereal for dinner for three weeks straight because you couldn't be bothered to grocery shop. This Martha Stewart act is not you."
I settle onto the couch beside her and open the paint-by-numbers kit—a pastoral scene with flowers and a cottage. "People change, Becca."
"People change, yes. People completely transform their entire personality in the span of a week? That's suspicious."
We work in comfortable silence for a while, the gin loosening my shoulders and making everything feel softer around the edges. It's nice, having a friend here who doesn't know about Dad's debt or the threats or the constant fear that follows me everywhere.
"So," Becca says, carefully painting a tiny yellow flower. "How are things with Marco? And don't you dare give me some innocent bullshit answer. I can practically feel the sexual tension from here."
"It's complicated."
