She laughs, but it’s breathy. Anxious. “Right.
“Has to look real,” I say. “That’s the whole point.”
“I know,” she replies. “It just feels surreal.”
I say nothing. There’s nothing to say.
She fills the silence, nervous energy spilling out as words. Talks about her job, how she ended up bartending instead of finishing her business degree. Her family, the big loud dinners, the parents who worry too much. Her dating history, which is mostly unremarkable until Viktor.
“He was charming at first,” she says quietly. “They always are, right? The bad ones. They know exactly what to say.”
My gaze slides her way. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”
“I know. I just...” She trails off. “I guess I want you to know I’m not stupid. I didn’t see who he really was until it was too late.”
“You’re not stupid.”
She goes still beside me. I can feel her gaze on the side of my face, but I look back at the road. I don’t know why I said it. I don’t do reassurance. I don’t do comfort. But something about the shame in her voice scraped against a raw place inside me.
“That’s...” She swallows. “Thank you. For saying that.”
I grunt in response. The silence that follows is heavier than before, weighted with something I don’t want to name.
Sierra shifts in her seat. When she speaks again, her voice is lighter. Forcibly cheerful, the way people get when a conversation cuts too close to bone.
“So. Your turn. Tell me about yourself. If my family is going to believe we’re madly in love, I should probably know more than your name and your apparent vendetta against my ex.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything. Anything. Start with the basics. Job, family, hobbies.”
“You already know my job.”
“The mafia thing, yes.” She rolls her eyes. Gutsy. “But that can’t be all you do.”
I consider not answering. Keeping the walls up where they belong. But she’s right. If we’re going to sell this, she needs something to work with.
“I fix up old motorcycles,” I reply. “Buy them broken, rebuild them, sell them.”
Her face lights up. “Really? That’s actually cool. Do you enjoy it?”
“It keeps my hands busy.”
“And your family?”
“Just my ma.”
“Are you close?”
I glance at her. She’s watching me with those big brown eyes, genuinely curious. Like she actually gives a shit about the answer.
“Yeah,” I say. “She’s my ma.”
“That’s sweet.” The smile that crosses her face is real this time. Warm. “Are you secretly a big softie, Matteo?”
I almost laugh. Almost. “Don’t be ridiculous, Sunshine.” The nickname comes out with a sarcastic bite.
“Sunshine?”
