He touched my chin.
I close my eyes.
His fingers were warm. Calloused. Gentle in a way I didn't expect from hands that have done the things his hands have done.
And he was going to kiss me.
I wasn't imagining it. I know what a man looks like when he's about to kiss someone. The way his eyes dropped to my mouth. The way he leaned in. The way the air between us went thick and electric.
He was going to kiss me.
And I stepped back.
Because I'm smart. Because I'm careful. Because letting Dante Castellani kiss me in my hallway while a cartel hunts for him is the worst idea in the history of bad ideas.
I hate him.
I open my eyes. Stare at myself in the mirror.
"You hate him," I say out loud. Testing the words. Seeing if they feel true.
They don't.
I hate what he represents.
But do I hatehim?
My reflection offers no answers.
I think about his face when he talked about the Sartori marriages. The way he described love like something thathappens to other people. Like he was reading from a book about a foreign country he'd never visit.
I think about the way he saidyou're the only person I wanted to see.
I think about his hands. Those scarred knuckles. The way they looked wrapped around the water glass. The way they felt against my skin.
"Stop it." I point at myself again. More forcefully this time. "Stop. Thinking. About. His. Hands."
My hand cramps. I shake it out. Flex the fingers. The nerve damage reminds me why I'm here. Why I left Chicago. Why getting involved with anyone connected to the Sartori family is a terrible, horrible, no-good idea.
Dante is dangerous.
Dante is wounded.
Dante is currently lying on my couch with his feet hanging off the end because he gave up my bed so I could sleep.
I splash cold water on my face. Pat it dry with a towel. Avoid looking at my reflection because I don't want to see what's written there.
He's good-looking. I can admit that. Objectively. Clinically. The way you might acknowledge that a painting is beautiful or a sunset is pretty.
Also: shot. Bleeding. Connected to organized crime. Responsible for dragging me back into a nightmare I thought I'd escaped.
Bad idea. Very bad idea. The worst idea.
I need to focus on the practical things.
I should make him go back to the bedroom.
I should insist.
