I loosen my tie, feeling overdressed beside her casual ease. Sitting on the couch, I lean forward to grab a slice of pizza. “Probably not.”
When I showed up here tonight with the eyepatch, I knew she’d be asking questions. What I never bothered to consider was whether I wanted to answer or not. The explosion isn’t a secret, and neither is the fact I lost my eye.
But that doesn’t mean I want to discuss it over pizza and wine, like it’s a funny or unimportant event. Not when it’s something that’s fundamentally changed me.
“Fine,” Raven says. “I’ll stop asking and pretend it’s totally normal you suddenly show up with an eyepatch.”
“Sounds good to me,” I reply.
She pops the cork free with a triumphant grin and takes a swig directly from the bottle. Her throat works as she swallows, and I find myself transfixed by the movement. When she passes the bottle to me, her fingers brush mine, a touch that shouldn’t affect me as much as it does.
“I’ve been thinking,” she says, tearing into her pizza slice.
“Always dangerous.” I take a pull from the bottle, tasting her lipstick on the rim.
She ignores my jab. “About our arrangement. Our routine. It’s too…” She wiggles her fingers, searching for the word. “Staged. Manufactured.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Enlighten me.”
“We show up at the same time every night. We sit at the same booth. We leave together.” She tears at her pizza crust, a nervous gesture I hadn’t noticed before. Her toes wiggle against the hardwood as she stretches out her legs. “People are messy, Matteo. Real relationships are unpredictable.”
“And you think our fake one needs to be messier?” I ask, taking another bite.
She nods, eyes bright with that chaotic energy I’m beginning to crave more than oxygen. “Exactly. If I’m supposed to hear things they wouldn’t say in front of you, I need freedom to move. To talk. To exist without feeling your eyes bore into me.”
I study her for a moment, processing. She’s right, though I’m reluctant to admit it. The routine we’ve established is too perfect, too rehearsed. No wonder we haven’t found the mole yet—they can see us coming from a mile away.
“So what do you suggest, Little Thief?” I ask, passing the bottle back.
She takes it, her fingers lingering against mine longer than necessary. “I could arrive by myself some nights,” she suggests, watching my reaction carefully. “Break up the pattern.”
My jaw tightens reflexively. The thought of her walking into the Leone Room alone, without me there to protect her, makes something dark twist in my gut. But she has a point, goddamn it. A good one.
“You know,” I say after a moment, “it might be worth trying.”
She blinks, clearly surprised by the compliment. “Is that a yes?”
I sigh, reaching for another slice. “Yes. But I’m not leaving you there alone—”
“Oh, come on,” she pouts.
Ignoring her interruption, I continue. “I’ll spend more time upstairs and less on the floor. That’s my best offer.”
A genuine smile breaks across her face, so bright it’s almost painful to look at. “Deal.”
When we finish eating, I surprise her by sliding off the couch to join her on the floor. Our fingers brush as we pass the wine bottle back and forth, the conversation flowing as easily as the alcohol.
She gets up to grab another bottle, her ass at eye level as she bends to reach into a cabinet. “Need a glass this time?” she asks over her shoulder, catching me staring.
I laugh, the sound dark even to my own ears. “I’ve tasted your pussy, Little Thief. I think sharing a bottle is the least of our concerns when it comes to bodily fluids.”
She flips me off, but her cheeks flush pink as she returns with the wine. And just like that, we’re back to our rhythm—banter and heat and the electric feeling that at any moment, one of us might catch fire.
The wine burns warm in my veins, loosening my tongue in ways I rarely allow. Something about this—sitting on her floor, passing a bottle back and forth like teenagers—strips away the armor I wear everywhere else.
Raven’s watching me with those sharp eyes that miss nothing. It should make me want to retreat. Instead, I find myself leaning in, drawn to the chaos she radiates like a moth to my flame.
“Do you actually like all those fancy suits?” she asks, head tilted as she studies me. “Or is it just part of the scary Mob boss aesthetic?”
