"You ride a Vespa?" I ask, placing the helmet over my head.
"You don't like it?" he asks.
"It's just not very mafia Don of you," I say, trying to secure the chin strap.
His eyes flash with surprise and something else I can't decipher.
"What makes you think I'm a mafia Don?"
"You mean apart from the kidnapping and the coercion?"
“Touché.” He smirks, making something flutter inside my belly. “But I’m not the Don.”
He steps forward, moving with the grace of a predator as he reaches for me. I hold my breath as visions of last night consume me once more.
His fingers deftly fasten the chin strap of the helmet.
The scent of his skin infiltrates my lungs, and it takes everything in me to breathe normally. He swings his leg over the Vespa with practiced ease.
"Come on. You'll like the view," he says.
I hesitate. “This isn’t going to end with me in a ditch somewhere, is it?”
His whiskey eyes are glimmering now. "Not unless you insult the Vespa again.”
I climb on behind him, still skeptical. “You’re not what I expected, Dante."
He revs the engine. "The feeling is mutual,piccola."
We take off, the wind snatching the rest of my thoughts. There's a grab rail at the back of the scooter, but I hold his shoulder instead.
His muscles bunch underneath my hand the second I touch him.
He feels so solid underneath me. So masculine.
I try not to get too ahead of myself.
I keep seeing kindness in his eyes, but it's very possible that I'm just seeing what I want to see in him.
After a beat, I yell over the noise, “If you’re not the Don… who are you?”
He doesn’t answer right away. But then he replies, “Someone who doesn’t like being told what to do. Even by the Don.”
There's something in his voice that I recognize—the frustration of feeling trapped. The anger and the helplessness that comes with it.
But then again, I might be completely off.
The fresh breeze and sunshine make me feel like I'm living in a movie. I'm enjoying this. I'm enjoying it way more than I should.
The winding roads of the small town are beautiful. As we descend the mountain, I catch glimpses of the dazzling ocean. I see distant white sailboats and the azure blue of the water.
After a few minutes on the road, he slows down.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" he asks.
Our eyes clash in the side mirror. He's been watching me. I barely recognize myself in the mirror. There's wind in my hair and a bright smile on my face.
“I don’t know what I love more, the view or riding on this scooter,” I say.
