“I don’t like cake.” I reply coldly. I don’t really want to be an asshole. But I’m being honest. Sweets aren’t my forte.
“I can make tons of different desserts, Sebastian. My sister Aria went to culinary school back in Miami. She let me help her every time she was perfecting a recipe. I promise I won’t kill you. Not by accident, at least.” She gives me a devious smile, and I feel a chink in my armor.
“I like…” I pause, feeling exposed. I don’t give anyone personal details about myself. It feels too vulnerable, like I’m opening myself up to be too known, too seen. I hate it.
“Tell me. I promise I won’t use it to plot world domination.” Her smile is wide and beautiful, her tan skin practically glows with excitement that she could learn even an insignificant detail about me that no one else truly knows.
“Tiramisu. I like tiramisu.” I grumble.
The grin creeping across her face is criminal. I can see almost every one of her pearly white teeth as she bounces in her seat on the couch.
“Stop,” I say dryly, looking away from her. I don’t want to admit how fucking cute she looks right now.
“You mean to tell me, out of every single dessert on the planet you could possibly love, you loveCOFFEE CAKE?!” she shouts the last part, and I can’t help but bark out a laugh.
“Not the same thing!” I reply, jabbing a finger through the air in her direction. “Coffee cake is a cake. Tiramisu is a religious experience.”
“Oh, my apologies. I’m so sorry to offend you, m’lord.” She bows, making a huge show of being dramatic. I don’t want to find her funny, but I do.
“You should be sorry. You can make it up to me though. With tiramisu.” I smirk, and she claps her hands, giddy with excitement.
“With my over-roasted espresso? Done and done.” She winks back at me, scurrying away to the kitchen.
“You know, if you start that now, it won’t be ready until midnight?” I tell her, and she nods.
“I’m aware. Past your bedtime, gramps?” She quirks a brow, and my face falls, all humor gone from my expression.
“I’m nowhere near old enough to be anyone’s grandfather.” I tell her, and she shrugs.
“Actually, in theory, if you had a kid when you were twenty, she would be twenty right now. And she could have a kid of her own. So logically, you could be a grandpa very easily.” she says as she lines bowls up on the kitchen counter.
My stomach twists, a sick feeling building there. I don’t need any more reminders about the vast difference in age between Vanessa and I.
“That’s enough of that talk, thanks. I’ll be back.” I tell her, standing and walking out the front door, leaving her looking dumbfounded as the door closes behind me.
I need to put some fucking space between us. This woman clouds my mind every time she’s near me. I can’t think about the fact that she’s sixteen years younger than me or only hanging around me because she needs something from me. I can’t think about anything but those full lips, her luminous tan skin, and gorgeous caramel eyes. I can’t fucking focus on the reason I’m here in Grovewood to begin with. Because my empire is standing on shaky ground at best. Doing something as stupid as entertaining my feelings for a quick fuck is the stupidest decision I could ever make.
Walking through the town square, I breathe in the cool night air. It’s November, the chill moving in earlier and earlier in the evenings and throughout the days. I miss the Mediterranean climate. I want to go home. Italy is calling my name louder than it ever has before. In my line of work, I’ve traveled constantly, never spending so much time at home that it truly felt like enough. Miami satiates my need for activity, for constant motion. Spain fulfills my desire for family, my mother’s roots running deep there and the culture always welcoming me with open arms. But Italy holds my heart. What little of it still exists.
Looking around this city, the small southern American charm saturating every inch of every street, my bones ache for home. I want to drive with the top down through hundred-year-old vineyards for miles until no one can find me. I want to eat pasta made by women who keep recipes like secrets they're willing to die for. I want to listen to old men argue as they pull swordfish into their gozzi and steady myself on the uneven cobblestones of my homeland. My world may be the dark underbelly of Italy, but I still make time for all the things that make the country truly beautiful. Being so far away is stifling.
My phone vibrates for the hundredth time today in my pocket, and I answer without hesitation.
“What is it this time, Teo?” I sigh, feeling heavier than I have all day.
“You need to come home.” He replies, his tone clipped and serious.
“Funny, I was just thinking the same thing.” I scoff.
“Luca hit two of our distribution warehouses. Of course, there were minimal supplies being kept there because we had knowledge these attacks were coming. But he knows. He knows there's a traitor in his operation, and he’s going off the rails, Bash. He’s threatening people’s lives. The elders are talking. There’s too much upset going on, they need to see your face.” Matteo sounds worn out. I hate the toll this is taking on him.
“I can’t keep hiding like this. It looks too weak. This isn’t the way I’ve ever ruled before, it’s not the leader I’ve ever been.” Breathing in the cool night air, I resign myself to what I have to do. There are no other options for me.
“I have to admit, I’m scared for you. But you’re right. You have to show your face, or he’s going to run rampant over this family. Fortuna Nera isn’t his playground, and you have to show him.” Matteo covers the speaker, speaking in hurried Italian to someone in the background.
“I’ll be home before the end of the week. Tell no one, I will make my own plans.” I tell him, leaving no room for discussion.
“I look forward to seeing you. Oh, and happy birthday, Bash. It’s a big one, old man. Don’t spend it holed up in that apartment alone.” He quips, and I end the call without another word.
