I sink further into my seat and then tuck my head back, half expecting her cup to come flying at me. To my surprise, however, Michelle takes a long, slow breath and then flattens her hand on the table between us. “I’m only going to say this once,” she says, voice low. “I didn’t think I’d have to because I thoughtyou had more common sense, but alas, perhaps I gave you too much credit.”
“Hey—” I sit up a bit, ready to defend myself. Her glare sends me cowering back in my seat to wait for my tongue-lashing.
“If youevergo a week without letting me know that you’re okay when you’re in a dangerous situation again, I’m going to personally take each of your books and rip the covers off before burning them in a big-ass bonfire.”
The gasp that settles in my throat chokes me up, and I gape at her in horror. “You wouldn’t,” I manage to croak out.
Brown eyes flecked with gold narrow on my face. “I would,” she assures me, “and I would dance around that bonfire… naked.”
“You… you…monster.” I have no other words for the horror that she’s threatening me with. “Do you even know how rare some of those editions are?”
Michelle sits back and crosses her arms over her chest again. “Don’t care,” she snaps. “You could’ve been dead or held captive, but you obviously weren’t, and still you didn’t call me or let me know you were okay for a week—aweek, Daisy.”
I slump in my seat. I’ve never felt lower than I do right now as I stare back at Michelle’s face and see the telltale gleam of emotion in her eyes. As if she realizes just how precariously close to crying she is, Michelle turns her head and blinks rapidly. When next she looks at me, the gleam isn’t nearly as bright.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, reaching past the chai in front of me and taking her hand in both of mine. Michelle sniffs and struggles to pull it away, but I hold on tight. “Seriously,” I tell her. “I really am sorry. I know you’re right, and I promise I won’t do something like that again. Not if I can help it.”
Her hand feels cold in mine, but I stroke my thumb soothingly over the back of her knuckles—knuckles scraped raw in some places by tiny little cuts and scars from the days she spent working on her family’s farm.
“I was fucking scared.” Her voice is quiet but no less emotional.
I squeeze her hand roughly at the sound. “I know,” I say, my chest clenching.
“And I’m mad at you,” Michelle continues.
I nod as if that’s par for the course—to be fair, it usually is. Though I’ve never fucked up quite this bad. In my heart, I know that another reason I put off texting her is because I’m not entirely sure that meeting her is safe anymore. I joke and laugh through it all, but the fact is, my situation is shit-my-pants terrifying if I think about it too hard.
Giulio isn’t my friend. He’s my husband, and not one that I chose. He seems nice enough, and I have to admit that his insistence on taking care of me—moving me into his place, offering me credit cards to spend his crazy mob money, and giving me my own room—is nice, but I’m not stupid.
Giulio isn’t taking care of me because he likes me. He’s doing it for two reasons:
1. To keep up appearances
2. Because he can’t trust me, so he wants to keep me close and under his thumb
My hands on Michelle’s loosens when she leans forward and picks up her cup. I sit back in my seat and eye her as I contemplate downing the rest of my drink and asking if she wants to get out of here. No sooner has that thought crossed my mind,though, than Michelle pipes up, acting much more like her old self than this worried, frazzled creature who isn’t really her.
“So, tell me…” She sips slowly at her drink, giving me a look over the rim. She finishes and sets it down. “Have you and the mafia man had sex yet?”
I glare at my chai. If we’re gonna havethisconversation, vodka would have been the better choice. I pick it up anyway and take a long, slow sip as I try to give myself time to come up with an answer.
“Well?” Michelle presses.
A groan rumbles up my throat. “Chelle,” I whine, setting my cup down. “We hardly know each other. What makes you think we’ve had sex by now?”
One perfectly sculpted brow arches. “Since when have you been such a prude?”
“I’m not a prude,” I say, aghast. “I’m just…” I circle the top of my cup with a finger. “Not into the whole ‘fucking strangers’ thing.”
Michelle watches me with keen eyes, and try as I might, I can’t exactly keep my expression as neutral as I want. “You totally want to, though!” she squeals excitedly before leaning forward. “I can tell.” She points at me. “That’s your ‘I’m not getting laid, and I’m horny’ face.”
I gape at her. “I do not have a—” I shake my head. “There’s no way you can tell that by my face.”
Michelle snorts. “Have you seen him naked yet? Tell me he’s got a six pack, at least.”
I remain mulishly silent and she gasps. “Aneightpack?”
I bare my teeth at her, but from her amused expression Iknow I look less like a threatening wild cat and more like an angry kitten.Bitch.The truth is, I’ve only caught Giulio without his shirt on once when he was coming out of the bathroom, and it was like someone had taken all of my “dear diary” requests at fourteen and stacked them straight into a single man’s body. “Ripped” is an understatement. Giulio La Rosa has a body to die for—and if I’m not careful about how I proceed with my relationship as his sort-of wife, I mightactuallydie for it. Because, aside from the money and nice apartment, there are other things about my new husband that remind me of what he is.
