I pressed my mouth to hers, cutting her off before I doubled over with laughter. She would only see that as mockery.
Cavolo, I didn’t even realize I was moving until her breath brushed mine again. Something inside me just snapped into place. It felt natural. As though us finally reaching this point was permission to never stop.
The second kiss wasn’t careful.
It was electrical. Hotter. Kind of like stepping into sunlight after months of cold.
She tasted like the secret we’d shared, a little sweet, a little sharp, and something I couldn’t name except that it hit me like an ache.
My pulse kicked hard. I felt it in my fingertips, in the hollow of my throat, in the place where her hand settled lightly on my shoulder. The world tilted—
And suddenly everything was fresh with promise.
The smell of jasmine and moonlight, exotic and enchanting, swirled around me. I kissed her deeper. It was real. I felt the shape of her smile against my mouth. Dio mio, how had I waited so long? How had I walked around pretending I didn’t want this? I slid my tongue against the curve of her lips.
Amanda made a tiny, surprised sound, soft and breathy, and it sent a rush of excitement through me that felt almost impossible to contain.
I pulled back just enough to breathe her in.
She glowed in the lamplight, cheeks flushed, lips pink from kissing, looking like something heaven had misplaced on earth.
For a wild, impossible second, I thought that if she kept kissing me, maybe every bad thing I’d ever done, every bad thing I would do, could be washed clean. Not forgiven. But softened. Redeemed by the simple fact that a girl like her had let me hold this moment.
I lifted her hair and let it flutter down again. “Your initiation into the mob starts now, Mandy.”
“Oh?” She giggled. “But what’s the mission?”
“You’re sneaking out,” I whispered against her mouth. “To have a midnight snack at the diner.”
“Diner, huh?” She wrinkled her nose. “I could go for some pancakes, actually.”
Chapter 28 –Amanda
Ican’t believe I’m doing this.
Of all the twists and turns in my twenty-eight years of life, walking into Mama Ana’s Bar & Grill felt the strangest. Dealing with my dad, coping with whatever threat loomed over our heads because of him, felt manageable. Maybe because I didn’t want to believe he would sell me to some foreigner as a bride. I had spent the plane ride studying up on Dad’s Eastern European business partner. It was bone chilling, the few news articles I was able to find. But that was something I could compartmentalize.
Asking my secret, forbidden first love for a divorce? That felt surreal.
Once upon a time, I dreamed of Vincenzo coming back to sweep me off my feet. But then I grew up, embraced the real world, and forced myself to forget about him.
Looking across the busy restaurant, I realized I never truly forgot. I only buried the memories where I thought they wouldn’t hurt me. The hostess emerged from the back and held up a finger to me, a smile on her young face. This place hadn’t changed. The walls were covered with an eclectic harmony. Sports memorabilia, much of it signed, hung next to Old World images in black and white. There were icons of saints resting on shelves with baseball cards in cases. Red and white checkered tablecloths draped over the aged wood. A mural of Fenway Park stood opposite the one on the far wall of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. The customers? Hard working and filled with a grim determination. They didn’t smile. They tolerated. I might have extra zeroes in the bank, but I understood the energy of this city. Better than most Blue Bloods, who kept houses in the historic parts, but preferred to live in the suburbs or leave the city entirely. Boston wasn’t a melting pot like New York; there were hard lines drawn, and you knew who your people were.
No, nothing had changed. The people were fueled by the same grit. This restaurant still bustled with life. That was Ana Morelli’s vision for this place, and her son, the don, kept it exactly how she designed it. Being here felt like…home.
My gaze trained on the corner table, right where I knew he would be.
Damn, but he was beautiful.
Vincenzo sat with a group of men at the back table. He wore street clothes. A black tee hugged muscles that the athletic boy I once knew didn’t have. Vincenzo was a man in every sense of the word. The harsh lines of his face were cut and hard. Ink spilled over his arms, crawled up his throat. An eager little part of me wanted to know where else it marked. I hadn’t truly had the opportunity to study him. Time seemed to still, and I ate up the opportunity to soak it in.
Always the dangerous one, he sat with his back to the wall. It made my lip twitch to remember why. No one snuck up on him. Being with him meant never having to worry. The neglected part of me reached out to him, to the memory of what being in that space felt like.
What could have been….
“Miss, are you looking for a table?” The hostess interrupted my thoughts. “We have an hour wait because it’s the Sunday night supper rush, but I can try to squeeze you in at the bar?”
I didn’t even look at her. “Thanks, but my party is already here.”
