He pulls a black plastic card from his pocket and holds it up to a discrete box mounted on the side. The lock on the door flashes green and slides open.
Before Sandro can tug me through, Sloane lets go of my hand and grabs his forearm. “Stop,” she says. “Where are you taking her?”
Sandro looks down at her and blinks, like he’s coming out of a trance. His gaze slides to me, a muscle in his jaw jumping. “Just to talk.”
She folds her arms and meets my eyes with a questioning look.
I nod. “It’s okay.”
She steps back and narrows her concerned gaze at Sandro. “I’ll be waiting right here.”
Sandro’s grip on my hand tightens as he leads me into the room, and the door shuts behind us. He’s walking fast, but I’m gaping at the very different atmosphere here.
It’s quieter. A gambler's paradise with slot machines, poker, blackjack and roulette tables. Obviously illegal. Men and womendecked out in designer clothes turn their heads in curiosity as he marches me through the middle of the room to a closed door in the back.
Unlocking it with a key, he pulls me in, shuts, and locks the door behind us. It’s a spacious office with file cabinets to the right, a black leather sofa and coffee table to the left. The only light is coming from a hanging, gold pendant lamp in the far corner.
I stand there, not sure what to do as he releases my hand and crosses the floor to stand in front of the large desk in the middle of the room, facing away from me. His head is bowed, and his hands are perched on his hips.
Long seconds tick by. I shift my feet, starting to feel the ache in my toes from dancing in heels. I know he’s struggling with anger and questions. So am I.
Suddenly, a growl escapes his throat, and he sweeps his arm out, knocking everything off the desk. The clattering noise of a laptop hitting the dark wood floor startles me.
Striding over to the bar cart in the back corner, he pours some amber-colored alcohol from a crystal decanter into a glass. Then he tips it back and downs it in one swallow. Slamming the glass down, he finally turns to look at me.
There are shadows beneath his eyes and within them. Shadows of pain and loss and deep-seated anger.
He slowly walks around the now-clear desk and stands in front of it, crossing his arms. His hot, blue-black gaze travels from myfeet, up my body and finally reaches my eyes. His voice is gravel as he says, “Come here.”
I want to tell him I’m not a dog, that he can’t just order me around. But I’m buzzed enough that I’m feeling brave and need to hear what he has to say. I walk across the office and stand in front of him. In heels, my eyeline is level with his chest. There’s black ink peeking out from his collar. I wonder what kind of tattoo it is, and how much more ink is on his chest. I already noticed the ink on his hands and forearms. I catch myself before I reach up and touch it.
Damn Long Island iced teas.
Barely concealed anger in his tone, he says, “You fucking left without the courtesy of even a goodbye. Just fucking left, Lennon. Why? I understand why you left Tampa. But…” his voice drops to a guttural whisper. “Why did you leave me?”
My eyes snap up to his face. And there it is. Raw pain. I’m actually stunned for a moment at the fact that he still cares. I thought for sure he would have moved on, forgot about me. I stare into his eyes and my heart somersaults.
Because right now I’m not looking at a furious mafia boss with a grudge, I’m looking at the hurt eighteen-year-old boy I walked away from. He’s still in there. A small tremble begins in my body.
What can I say? Because youareTampa, the mob and something so much more lethal to my heart. That would be the truth.
Instead I whisper, “I’m sorry.”And I am.Yes, I had to leave. But he’s right. I could’ve said goodbye. I was a coward. Afraid if I saw him again, I wouldn’t be able to walk away. “Can you forgive me?”
His gaze is traveling over my face like he’s memorizing it. It stops on my mouth.
I lick my lips and his eyes darken, his body stiffens.
He reaches out slowly with his large hands and grips my hips. One tug and I’m pressed against his body.
A small gasp leaves me as I feel a jolt of electricity shoot into my core at the contact. I have my palms pressed against his hard chest. I should stop this. No good can come of this.
But as he reaches up and brushes his knuckles gently down my cheek, then down my neck to my chest, I break out in goosebumps and lose all ability to think. The world shrinks down to his eyes, his mouth, his touch. If the room caught fire right now, I still wouldn’t be able to break the spell between us. We would burn together, and I’m okay with that.
I see the moment he loses control. His nostrils flare. His eyes grow hooded and a deep groan vibrates in his chest. He slides his hand behind my neck, his fingers gripping my hair just firm enough that I can no longer move. Then, holding eye contact with me, he leans forward.
“Are you happy?” he asks.
Happy? Not even close.I’m keeping busy. I’m trying to be content. I’m surviving.
