Page 58 of A Dangerous Kind of Love

She rolls her eyes.

“Not enough?” I smile at her.

“No, not enough.”

“Come here,” I murmur. “Sit back against me, and I’ll tell you everything you want to know about Michael Amato.”

She narrows her eyes at me, considering, but her curiosity gives in. She turns and slides back between my legs, settling against me. I bring my arms around her waist, holding her there as she leans into my chest. Her shoulders drop, and her body softens. She lets herself relax into me.

“I was born in Sicily,” I start.

She turns her head to look at me, but I lift my hand and gently guide her back to face forward.

“My parents were living here, but my mom went back to visit her family for the summer. She went into labor a few weeks early, and there I was.”

“So your mom’s from Sicily?” she asks, settling more comfortably against me.

“Mmm-hmm. My dad’s family is too, but he was born here. My mom was born there. He met her when he was visiting family.”

“And they got married?” she asks.

“When they were seventeen.”

She lets out a quiet breath. “That’s so young.”

Her hands find mine, resting there.

“They had me at nineteen.”

“Wow,” she murmurs. “My mom was thirty-six when she had me.”

“Yeah?” I murmur.

“Yeah. Your parents were kids.”

“Maybe,” I breathe. “But I don’t think they ever got to be.” I pause. “My dad didn’t, especially. He was in the family business by sixteen, running it by twenty.”

She shakes her head. “That’s insane.”

“I took it over at twenty-two.”

She pulls away from me, enough to turn, her eyes wide. “You were twenty-two when you took over a billion-dollar corporation?”

Her blue eyes lock on mine, and she looks so fucking beautiful it almost knocks the air out of me.

I could tell her everything. I could tell her I didn’t just take over a company—I took over a city. That by twenty-five, people knew not only my name, they feared it. I could tell her I own half of Los Angeles. The streets. The ports. The men who enforce the law and the ones who pretend to.

I could tell her about the LAPD, the judges, the people who smile in public and answer to me in private. I could tell her who I am, but I don’t.

“Yeah. My grandmother got sick, and my parents moved back to Sicily to take care of her.” I pause, my thumb brushing over her hand. “My dad sat me down and said, Michael, it’s now or never. You take it over, or I give it to someone else.”

“So you just did it?”

“Yeah.”

She studies me for a second.

“You’re incredible,” she breathes out.