Alessandra
Iwoke the next morning in Savio’s arms, and I felt safe. I knew that the road ahead of us would be difficult. Still, being with him made me feel as though we could take on the world. I wanted him to believe the same.
Shadows flickered along the wall as the sun illuminated the room. Romeo knew about us. I wasn’t sure when he saw us together, but he’d figured it out. I should have known. He was, after all, pretty crafty. His injury had barely healed, but he was already walking around the house as though he was fine, which shocked me. I was even more surprised by the fact that he hadn’t said anything ruthless toward his father. If I were him, I’d have spat in his face over the way he’d treated Romeo as he bled out on the church floor.
Savio rolled over in bed and smiled at me, his eyes fluttering open. His cheekbone shadowed the side of his face as he leaned further into the pillow. His soft gaze sent me over the edge, and I was overwhelmed with where we’d gotten to. I had thought that it was all finished when I saw him at the church. I could understand where he was coming from. I’d nearly done the same to him until I realized how desperately he wanted to make things right.
“How are you feeling?”
I drew a deep breath, enjoying the sweet expression on his face. His eyes gleamed in the sunlight. “I’m nervous, actually.”
He brought his hand to my face from beneath the blanket, and his fingers grazed my cheek. “What are you worried about,tesoro?”
“Oh God,” I said and chuckled. “It sounds weird. I don’t think that’s a good nickname.”
“What?Sweetheart? How is that a bad nickname?”
I shook my head. “No, it’s just that it sounds too much like what Romeo calls Lucia. It makes me a little uncomfortable. I’m sorry.”
“You know what?” he said, laughing. “That makes complete sense. Sorry.”
“You can call me Aly. Chiara does sometimes.”
“But it’s not really a nickname, is it?”
“It can be. If you call me it, then I’ll consider it a nickname. A lot less strange than calling metesoro. I don’t really like the idea of having an Italian nickname like that, especially when it’s so similar to what your brother calls my sister.”
“I get that, and I agree,” he said and shifted closer to me. “Do you want some breakfast?”
“That would be lovely, actually. Are you going to make it?”
Savio scoffed. “Me? No. Our chef works from one of the kitchens. There’s probably some food around somewhere. He usually makes breakfast sandwiches in the morning, unless you want something specific. I’ll have to order it from him, if that’s the case.”
“That seems a little over-the-top.”
He pushed himself up from the pillows, his arms flexing, making me want him all over again. “Well, it was my father’s idea. Come on. Let’s see what’s made.”
I watched as he swept his legs from beneath the blanket. I loved watching him walk away from the bed in only his black briefs. His body was like something out of Ancient Greece. He was lean from all the running and had muscles that flexed and shifted with each step. He glanced back at me and gave me a half-smile.
“You enjoying yourself over there?”
“How could I not? The view’s pretty good from where I am.”
He laughed to himself. “Glad to hear that. You should get dressed too.”
“Can’t we just have it delivered to the room?”
“No,” he said, still laughing. “That’s not how it works. Is it your legs that are giving you trouble? If it is, I sincerely apologize, princess.”
I rolled my eyes. “My legs are fine. And I’m not a princess.”
“Well, your father was the leader of a mafia family that spanned all the way back to your great-grandfather. I think that makes you a princess.”
I hated it when people called me that. Usually, it was reserved for Lucia, but I could remember my father’s goons making comments about Chiara and me as we were growing up. It made me wince.
“Then, as the princess, I bid you to fetch my breakfast.”
Savio was enjoying himself. He turned to face me and crossed his arms across his chest, revealing the tight muscles in his arms. I tried to keep from staring too intensely, but it was hard not to. He reminded me of a statue, etched to perfection.
