“It’s six in the morning.” His hand grips the top of the steering wheel, and honestly, I don’t think I’ve seen anything sexier. “Plus, I didn’t want your father to know.”
You know that thrill and jittery feeling? Yeah, multiply that by a thousand.
“Why?” I manage to say while trying to control my breathing. “Are you kidnapping me?”
He could be. Maybe.
I’m just not sure that I really care.
He flashes a smile at me again. But this time, there’s something sinister about it, like a beast lives underneath his skin, and he’s a pro at hiding it from the world.
But my accelerated breathing and hammering heart aren’t from fear. It’s from the excitement and something more I don’t dare try to name.
“Do you want me to kidnap you,il mio sole?”
Yes.
“No.” I exhale, trying to rediscover a normal breathing rhythm. “Don’t you have something more important to do?”
“More important than being with you? Never.”
I’m struck speechless, because everything about that answer—his words, tone, expression, and body language—tells me he’s being entirely truthful.
“Are you insane?” I ask with a level tone, watching him, trying to discern if he really is.
He chuckles. “I’ve been called unhinged before, but never insane. But no, Gina”—he puts his hand over mine that’s resting on my thigh—“I’m not insane. In fact, this is the clearest headed I’ve ever felt.”
We fall into silence as he drives us to wherever we’re going. His hand leaves mine only to work the gearshift.
When he pulls in front of a coffee shop called Caffè Amore in a neighborhood where it and the coffee shop have seen better days, he orders me, “Wait for me to come get you.” He jumps out, hurries around the car, and opens my door.
Slipping my hand into his, he helps me out of the low car. I know he’s not just being chivalrous; his eyes scan our surroundings, and he pulls me close as if to shield my body with his.
As I walk toward the coffee shop that feels like we’re back in Italy, I’m fairly certain I’ve just fallen in love with a mafia man.
And not any mafia man.Themafia man of this city.
Chapter 7
Tommaso
Totallyenthralled.
That’s the only way to describe myself as I watch Gina finish her third pastry—two cannoncinos and one bombolone, an Italian donut. She licks her fingers clean while talking with Bernard and Bianca, the older couple who’ve run this place for over thirty years. They, too, were dazzled by Gina’s radiance and joined us at our table, where the three of them have been talking non-stop. I’m so enthralled that I snapped a picture of her laughing with them, just so I’ll always have this memory, feeling grateful I thought to bring this small camera.
They’re conversing in Italian. While in America, we tend to use English more often than not—as was the case last night at her father’s house—and hearing her speak our language is doing something to me. Not just to my dick, but to my chest. Deep in my soul.
I’m absolutelyfucked.
If I had received the forged marriage contract even a few hours later, after I had laid eyes on Gina, I would’ve challengedmy father and my forged signature. But before going over to Caruso’s house, I had called and told my father I would go along with whatever he was playing at without a fight. We had even arranged for Rosa and her father to come to San Francisco, so she and I could meet before thehappyday.
If I backed out now and broke the contract, I wouldn’t just bring dishonor to my father and our family; it would convey to our allies that our word meant nothing. In our world, breaking a marriage contract would demand a blood sacrifice, but they wouldn’t go for me. They’d go for the one who dared come between.
They’d go for Gina.
So what in the actual hell am I doing here?
Watching her obsessively as she drinks her second cappuccino?
