Chapter 2
Lucia
Have you ever looked at a man and thought, I’d like to cook for this guy for the rest of my life? No? Well, I have. It’s the first thing that entered my mind the second I laid eyes on Romeo De Luca, my brother-in-law’s underboss. It was closely followed by a silent ‘Hot Damn’.
Right now, though, I’m contemplating stabbing him with a fork.
I’m not sure what went wrong between us, but we’ve somehow gone from friends to borderline enemies.
From the very beginning, I knew my age was a factor for him—he told me as much—but when he killed one of Papa’s most feared guards for hurting me, I took that as a sign.
The grand gesture I’d been waiting for.
The kind of thing I read about in my romance novels. A dramatic act by the hero that proves the depth of his feelings for the heroine. It’s the emotional climax that shows he’s willing to risk everything for the one he loves.
It was my little glimmer of hope that maybe he saw me as more than just jail bait. That deep down, under all his brooding, he actually had feelings for me.
He even sat by my bedside at the hospital and held my hand while the doctor poked and prodded me within an inch of my life.
The murderous glare the medical staff received every time I flinched in pain had me worrying that more blood was going to be shed that day.
When it came to me, though, Romeo was nothing but protective, caring, and attentive. It made my stupid heart soar, but things between us seemed to have gone downhill from there.
I get it, I do. Thirteen years is a significant age gap, but I’m nineteen now—an adult—and for me, age is just a number. There are eleven years between my sister and her husband, and they have made their marriage work.
I blow out a frustrated breath as I cross the main room.
Like the rest of the house, I find his kitchen immaculate and very modern.
From the outside, his home is nothing special, just a small, old brick-veneer house, but inside, it’s so lovely and surprisingly …
neat. For a man who lives alone, that part shocked me.
He might have a maid, or maybe his mother comes over to clean for him. I refuse to consider the possibility of a girlfriend. The idea of someone else loving him makes me feel physically ill.
He’s mine!
Well, in my head, he is.
I open the fridge, bending slightly to peer inside, and find it pretty sparse. A lone, large, uncooked steak sits on a plate, covered in plastic wrap. There’s a carton of milk, a couple of eggs, some tomato sauce, and half a dozen bottles of beer. That’s it. No fruit, no vegetables.
The cupboards aren’t much better. Aside from some salt, pepper, a bottle of olive oil, coffee beans, and a shitload of canned dog food, there’s not much else.
I go back to the fridge, grab the steak and a beer, crack the top, and take a long chug as I search for a frying pan.
The bitter taste of the liquid sliding down my throat makes me screw up my face in disgust. Australian beer might be the best I’ve ever had, but it’s still not my drink of choice. I’m more of a hard liquor kind of girl.
As if on cue, once I’ve seared one side of the meat and flipped it over, Romeo enters the kitchen. I swear I sensed him before I saw him.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he growls.
“Cooking Ki-Ki some lunch since he hasn’t eaten today.”
“There’s dog food in the cupboard.”
“I noticed,” I grumble with a slight grimace. “Ki-Ki won’t be eating that merda disgustosa (Disgusting shit) on my watch.”
“It’s not shit, it’s dog food,” he snaps. “And his name is Killer.”
“Would you eat it?” I ask as I reach for my beer and take another swig.
“No!” he growls. “Because I’m not a fucking dog. And give me that,” he adds, snatching the beer out of my hand. “Do you always walk into people’s houses and help yourself to their things?”
I part my lips, a snarky comeback already on the tip of my tongue, but my words catch in my throat. I’m stopped short when he lifts the bottle I just drank from and brings it to his mouth. I can’t look away as his lips close around the rim, his Adam’s apple shifting with each swallow.
This man is such a conundrum. One minute, he’s yanking me off his bed as if I’ve somehow tainted it, and the next, he’s casually drinking from the same bottle I just had my lips on. Make it make sense.
I narrow my eyes. “I believe you invited me in.”
“That still doesn’t give you the right to help yourself to whatever you want. That piece of rib-eye cost me thirty dollars.”
“The steak isn’t for me,” I argue. “I …”
The rest of my reply dies off when he tilts his face towards the ceiling and blows out a long, frustrated breath. When his grey eyes finally meet mine again, his expression is unreadable.
It feels like he just slammed a door on this conversation, and if I know what’s good for me, I won’t say another word. I’m okay with that; this wasn’t going anywhere, anyway.
I reach out and snatch the beer from his hand as I give him my back. A thrill pulses through me as I lift the bottle to my mouth, letting my lips settle on the exact spot where his had just touched. It doesn’t compare to a kiss, but this is the next best thing, I guess.
He stays looming behind me, and even though I can no longer see his face, I can feel his eyes burning into the back of my head. After a beat, he reaches around me, snatches the empty plate off the counter, and stalks towards the sink without a word.
I flip the steak one last time before turning off the heat, keeping Romeo in my peripheral vision the whole time. He bends down, grabs the dish soap, and turns on the tap, filling the basin with warm water.
It might sound insignificant to some, but I’ve never actually seen a man wash a dish before. Where I come from, that was strictly a woman’s responsibility, an unspoken rule etched into my daily life.
I was raised to believe that serving a man was my duty. Papa made sure Arabella and I never forgot that.
With that memory echoing in my mind, I step towards the sink, because apparently, old habits die hard.
“I can take care of that,” I offer softly.
The idea of playing housemaid to a man is something I’ve pushed back against my entire life, but for him, I’d do it without hesitation.
“I’m perfectly capable of washing a dish, Lucia,” he replies without sparing me a glance. “I’ve been taking care of myself for as long as I can remember.”
That admission catches me off guard. It may answer my earlier question of why his house is so clean, but it also breaks something deep inside me. I’d give just about anything to shoulder that role, to be the one who takes care of this man. It would feel less like a duty and more like a privilege.
I stay quiet, unsure how to respond. He glances at me briefly over his shoulder, his eyes edged with something sharp. I quickly school my expression. He wouldn’t want pity, especially from me.
“I’m sorry about the steak,” I murmur. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
He doesn’t answer right away. He just continues to scrub the plate with a quiet intensity. I notice the tension in his shoulders, his tight jaw, and how he grips the sponge with such ferocity that his knuckles turn white.
“I know,” he says quietly. “It’s just been a long fucking day.”
There’s a heaviness I can’t seem to shake as I stand in the kitchen of the safe house and get a start on dinner. I don’t want to be here. I want to be with my sister and my baby niece.
It’s only been a few hours, and I already feel antsy and claustrophobic, like I’m no longer free. It’s reminiscent of being trapped back in Italy under Papa’s iron rule. Like I’ve been moved from one gilded cage to another.
At first, the idea of being holed up here alone with Romeo gave me a thrill … the chance I’d been longing for. But now, I think our time together isn’t going to be anything close to what I imagined in my head. Quite the opposite, he hasn’t said a single word to me since we left his house.
When we arrived, Romeo unpacked all our supplies from the car, took his dog for a walk, and then locked himself away in his bedroom on his return. It’s like he can’t even stand to be around me anymore.
He only emerged briefly to head straight for the shared bathroom. When the shower turned on a minute later, I came in here to distract myself from thinking about that ripped, tattooed body of his, naked and glistening under the spray of the water.
I let out a slow breath as I open the oven and carefully slide in the tray containing the cheesy garlic pizza I just made. I need to pull myself together. This one-sided relationship has left me feeling drained. It’s wearing me down.
It’s time I faced the truth. This man doesn’t feel the same way about me, and probably never will. I’ve been settling for crumbs, convincing myself they’re enough, but the reality is, they’re not.
I feel like I’ve been restricted from being the person I want to be my entire life, so this rejection is just another blow. Maybe I should let that dick Giuseppe claim me and be done with it. At least then I’d stop pretending I have a choice.
I drop the pasta into the boiling water.
The steam rises to sting my face before I move over to stir the sauce.
That’s when I smell him. I glance over my shoulder briefly as he enters the kitchen, and the scent of freshly showered Romeo fills the air.
It’s like a citrusy spice with a hint of something darker … something dangerous.
An underboss has no business smelling that intoxicating.
“Something smells good,” he says, his voice smooth, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s a stark contrast to how he spoke with me earlier.
Yeah, you.
I lift a shoulder, still facing the stove. “I’m getting dinner started.”
“I hope you cook as well as your sister.”
My eyes narrow as my head snaps around so fast I almost give myself whiplash.
The look I give him could cut glass as I open my mouth, ready to give him some lip, but the second my eyes drag from his damp hair, over his gorgeous face, then land on his unbuttoned black dress shirt, giving me a teasing view of his sculptured abs and tattooed, chiselled chest, my words catch in my throat.
Goddamn it.
It’s impossible to concentrate when he looks like sin dressed in expensive fabric and soaked in temptation.
He belongs on a runway in Milan, not in this kitchen.
Every muscle is carved like it was made to be worshipped, and every inked line whispers secrets I’ll never know the answers to.
And the worst part? He knows exactly the effect he has on me.
My mouth opens again, but only a breath comes out. I force my eyes back to the sauce, willing myself to focus, to remember who the hell I am, but even the smell of garlic and basil can’t drown out the heat pulsing in my veins.
He leans casually against the counter like he has all the time in the world. As if he’s not a walking, talking distraction from every ounce of common sense I’ve ever had.
“Cat got your tongue, Luc?” he asks, nudging my arm as a smug smirk tugs at his lips.
That move only heightens my annoyance, so I continue to ignore him. He’s been treating me like a leper and an inconvenience all day, and now he wants to be jovial?
It’s a little late for that.
He waits a beat, but when he gets no reply from me, he pushes off the counter with a shrug. “Wanna beer?”
I glance at him over my shoulder as I ask, “Oh, I’m allowed to have one now, am I?”
“You were always allowed to have one, Lucia,” he answers, mirth dancing in those silvery-grey eyes of his. “I just would have appreciated it if you had asked first. People have been taking liberties with me my whole life; I didn’t expect you to be one of them.”
“Who?” I ask as a flicker of irritation sparks at the thought of anyone taking advantage of him.
“My mother, for one.”
That catches me off guard. Perhaps I’ll get the chance to peel back a few of his layers while we’re stuck in lockdown together.
One can only hope.