That word was packed with emotions I didn’t want to name, but I felt the possession sink into me. It made my stomach tighten.
“Enzo, we’re not doing this,” I snapped.
His breath hitched, and his grip only tightened.
Pushing through the kitchen, Vincenzo guided me around the barrel-chested cook, who looked like he hadn’t aged a day. Servers and assistants flitted around, but not one batted an eye that the eldest Messina boy was invading their space. They knew better.
Some things never changed.
My mouth watered at the scent of grilled meats, buttery vegetables, and savory sauces. The mixture of oregano, basil, and thyme melded in an enticing cocktail.
A pinch followed by a grumble formed in my belly.
Luckily, it wasn’t audible.
We passed the dish pit and then finally pushed through the back door. While the alley wasn’t silent, it was a different melody of sounds that seemed quieter.
I tugged away from Vincenzo. He let me go.
Putting a healthy distance between us, I moved to stand under the back light. The round disc created a golden circle against the thickly shadowed night.
The mobster didn’t join me.
“I don’t understand what game we’re playing,” I began, planting my hands on my hips. “But I’m done, Vincenzo. It’s been…interesting. But this is the real world. One where I can’t be your wife. I need your word that the marriage license will be destroyed. We can’t be married.”
In the gloom, a flame flicked to life. “You want a divorce.”
I motioned with my hand, the old habit of speaking without speaking coming back as a second language. “Yes!” My hands fluttered again. “Well, no—wrong term.”
Vincenzo chuckled. “Spit it out.”
I pursed my lips. No one else had the maddening ability to make me this flustered. “It’s still the weekend. If the documents aren’t filed with the courts, the marriage never happened.”
“We went to church, Amanda.” A cherry blazed red.
Tobacco burned in the night. The rich aroma danced through the space, an invisible taunt. My fingers curled into a fist.
“That doesn’t hold precedence—”
“You’re saying it doesn’t count?” Smoke exhaled from the dark, curling and dissolving in the light.
I wanted to stamp my foot, demand he come out, and quit hiding, so we could have this conversation face to face.
I wasn’t brave enough to step forward and join him over the barrier of that orange glow.
“We can’t be married,” I repeated.
“We are, and you’re mine.” A hand with a small, rolled cigar stretched out. Those long, strong fingers offered peace.
My shoulder burned with the memory of their touch.
“I don’t smoke anymore,” I said flatly.
A wry chuckle hummed from the pool of darkness. “Neither do I.” His hand jerked with insistence. “Sometimes old habits die hard.”
Because I was hungry, because I was crabby, because I just neededsomething, I let out a growl of frustration and grabbed the smoldering stick. The moment I put it to my lips, a wave of nostalgia hit me hard.
This was our thing. Sharing—everything.
