Page 27 of The Mobster’s Nurse

The thought makes me want to smile, but then I see that look in his face. He wants an answer.

“I don’t have any family,” I tell him.

“Oh?” he says, not pushing. But curious.

I have some more soup. Dip my bread. Take a bite. He watches me patiently.

“It’s … not a nice story.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Ellie, if I wasn’t capable of dealing with the bad side of life, I wouldn’t be able to do my job.” He touches my hand again. “Whatever it is, you never have to hide anything from me. Anything. I promise you.”

I sigh. There’s no point delaying this. Time to rip off the proverbial Band-Aid. “My parents were mauled by a dog. A German Shepherd, poor thing.”

He tilts his head. For a moment, I think a tear is going to appear in one of those demon-red eyes of his.

“What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.

“You, angel. A dog kills your parents, and you call it a poor thing. Your heart, the kindness, the care in it, in you. It’s amazing to me.”

My cheeks flush, flattery and appreciation tangling with the darkness of the past. “It wasn’t her fault. Her owner was a piece of filth. My dad told him to get his dog under control many, many times. Then one afternoon, he just leaps the fence and runs into our garden. Jumps on Mom, and Dad tried to help her and …”

I grind my teeth, the images flashing across my mind.

“I was eleven, behind the patio door. I’d called the cops and then Dad was yelling at me to hide, but I couldn’t look away. I saw Luca. I saw all of it.”

He pushes his chair out. Walks around the table and kneels, pulling me into a hug. I push my face against his neck. Feel my tears press against his skin.

“This isn’t really dinner conversation,” I say shakily.

“You don’t have to hold this inside. Don’t have to fight it alone. I’m here.” He gently massages my shoulder. “I’m always going to be here.”

This is too fast, right? This is too much? But I cling to him as though, if I hold him fiercely enough, I’ll somehow bring my parents back.

“Is this why you wanted to become a vet?” he asks. “So that you could help animals, the way that German Shepherd needed help?”

“Yes,” I murmur. “I’d always loved animals, but that sealed it for me. I became obsessed after that.”

“That’s beautiful,” he murmurs. “It’s … heroic, even. I’m so proud of you, beautiful. You could’ve turned to hate. But you didn’t. That’s special.”

I lean back, wipe my cheeks. “Thanks, Luca. That means a lot. Really.”

He gently kisses my cheeks. He can probably taste my tears.

“Eat your food before it gets cold,” I tell him. “I didn’t mean to get all serious.”

“I’m glad you told me. It just makes me want you more.”

He kisses me again then returns to his chair.

“Everything I do seems to make you want me more,” I joke.

He raises a hand. “Guilty.” A pause. “Tell me about the first time you helped an animal.”

As we eat our starters, I tell him the story about the hamster one of the kids had in the care home. He watches me intently, listening to every detail. Just twenty-four hours ago, I never could’ve imagined so much softness in that hard face.

The waiter collects our plates, and soon, it’s time for pasta for me, steak for him.

“You could’ve asked them to cook it,” I tease.