Chapter 8
Romeo
Dante’s words have been weighing heavily on my mind for the past few days, but I’m yet to broach the subject with Lucia. I’m not sure if I’m going to, to be honest.
One, she’s still ignoring me, and two, I’m mulling it over. Dante may have inadvertently given me the green light if I want to pursue her, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to take it. And the last thing I want to do is give her false hope.
I want this woman, and deep down, I think I always have. If I were lucky enough to get her, I’d keep her, but that’s not the issue here. So many other factors come into play, her age being my biggest hurdle. The other is that she deserves better than a man like me.
So much fucking better.
I’m not worthy of someone as precious or wholesome as Lucia Rossi. I’m not even capable of giving her what she truly deserves. She’s like a treasure a man like me could only dream of, and I refuse to pull her into my darkness.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped feeling things the way normal people do. Sometimes you sink so far into the abyss that the light feels unreachable, but if I’m being completely honest, there’s something strangely comforting about the dark.
Growing up with a mother who only seemed to care about herself taught me that love isn’t always safe. To some, it’s a weapon. I guess I got tired of bleeding, so I built walls instead. And now I don’t even know if there’s anything left on the other side.
Lucia makes me feel, and I hate that. I don’t do feelings. These walls are there for a reason … to protect me. From chaos. From heartbreak. From remembering what it’s like to need someone. But with her, the cracks are starting to show. And the worst part? I’m not sure if I even want to fix them.
There’s a part of me that is curious to see what it would be like to let someone in. To believe, even for a second, that I could be worth loving without the armour in place.
Lucia is everything I shouldn’t want. She seems to chase the thrill constantly, and I’ve had enough of those to last a lifetime. That woman is a bundle of life, whereas I’m the type of guy who’s happy to get lost in the shadows.
She’s currently in the main room, blasting some obnoxiously cheerful music that grates against every nerve in my body.
It’s like a personal attack on my bad mood with its boppy melody and nauseating sunshine, while I’m stuck here feeling broody, irritated, and so fucking confused I can hardly see straight.
Lucia either hasn’t noticed the storm brewing in me or, more likely, she has and this is her way of twisting the knife a little further.
I need to talk with her sooner rather than later, and set some damn boundaries until I can make some sense out of this clusterfuck that is currently running rampant in my head.
With that thought in mind, I push off the kitchen counter and stalk in her direction. I pause when I reach the entrance to the main room and find her dancing in front of my dog.
Her back is to me, and her arms are raised high in the air as her shoulders bob up and down in perfect sync with her hands. My eyes move further south to that tight little arse of hers, which is swinging from side to side like it’s nobody’s business.
Despite my foul mood, a small smile tugs at the corners of my lips. This woman has zero fucks to give, and there is something utterly refreshing about her. She’s equal parts adorable, irresistible, and infuriating.
Tearing my gaze away, my attention moves to Killer, only to find his tail wagging as he watches on in complete amusement.
Is that a damn smile on his face?
It certainly looks like one.
That has me cracking my neck from side to side as I try to tame the anger raging within. What has happened to my growly man-eater? I already know the answer to that question. Lucia-fucking-Rossi. She is ruining this damn dog.
A low rumble bubbles in the back of my throat as I cross the room in a huff and turn off the music.
“Hey,” she snaps, swinging around to face me. “I was listening to that.”
“And now you’re not,” I grumble.
“Turn it back on.”
“No.”
“What’s your problem?”
You!
“Who dances in the middle of the room for no reason? This isn’t a nightclub or some fucking little kids’ disco party. It’s weird, and frankly, I don’t like it.”
“Me, obviously. And for your information, I wasn’t dancing, and I had a reason.”
“It looked like dancing to me.”
She plants her hands on those small hips of hers, narrowing her eyes until they resemble slits. “It wasn’t dancing,” she says flatly. “I was shimmying. Big difference.”
“Dancing and shimmying are the same fucking thing, Lucia.”
“Shimmying isn’t even in the same league as dancing. It’s just one little move. You can’t wiggle your shoulders and call it dancing. They’re like distant cousins at best.”
My eyebrows rise at her analogy. “Distant cousins?”
She lifts one shoulder and turns her face to the side, avoiding my gaze, and fuck me if I don’t love her profile just as much as the full-frontal version.
Her flawless skin, that small symmetrical nose … those full fucking lips that I’m aching to kiss. She’s like sweetness and sin wrapped in a teeny tiny parcel of perfection.
“Maybe first cousins,” she mumbles, side-eyeing me. “But still not the same. Dancing is done with your whole body; shimmying is not.”
I want to argue with her, because that delectable arse was definitely moving, along with her hands and her shoulders, but I keep that observation to myself.
“Why were you shimmying then?” I ask sarcastically. “Was it for my dog’s entertainment?” I move towards him as I speak. “Come, boy,” I grumble, curling my fingers around his collar. “He’s a guard dog. He doesn’t have time to waste on meaningless shit like that.”
“No, it wasn’t. I … I was trying to shake my blues away,” she answers in a voice so soft I barely hear her.
Those words have me freezing mid-step.
She’s blue?
Why does that thought twist in my gut like a knife?
“Blue?”
“You know, sad, depressed …”
“Why?” I ask, glancing at her over my shoulder.
My question has her throwing her hands up in the air. “Why? Are you kidding me right now, De Luca?”
It’s the first time she’s ever referred to me by my last name, and it instantly pisses me off. I prefer it when she calls me Romeo. I love how the syllables roll off her tongue with that sexy accent of hers.
“Metaphorically, I’m stranded on a deserted island with the man of my dreams, and it’s nothing like I imagined. If I’m being honest with myself, it sucks donkey’s balls.”
“Donkey’s balls?” I ask, ignoring the fact that she just referred to me as the man of her dreams.
“Yeah, donkey’s balls.”
I shake my head as I let go of Killer’s collar and turn to face her. “I admit our circumstances aren’t ideal, Lucia, but like me, you’ll have to make the most of it.”
Personally, I think her books are distorting her reality. I am not the man she’s built me up to be in her head. She can do so much better than someone like me, and deep down, I think she knows it too.
She imagines me as this brooding hero with a heart of gold. But that’s not who I am. I grew up in a life where I was constantly let down and betrayed. That takes a toll on someone over time. I’m flesh and flaws, and there’s no plot twist where I suddenly become perfect.
“I’ve tried that,” she yells. “But it’s a little hard when you keep pushing me away.”
“I’m not the right man for you, so it’s about time you faced that fact. I never have been and I never will be.”
Her mouth gapes open as her big, brown eyes blink a few times, and I see the moment my statement finally hits its mark.
“I’m starting to believe that,” she says, tears welling in her eyes.
I tilt my head back and groan. “Fuck, don’t cry.”
I purposely leave my gaze fixed on the ceiling because those fucking tears of hers are like my kryptonite.
“Believe me when I say I wish I didn’t care about you like I do. I wish I’d never met you.”
Those cold words have my attention snapping back to her. “That’s a little harsh.”
She releases a small, breathy sigh as her shoulders deflate. “It’s true. One minute you’re shooting a guy because he hurt me, the next you’re treating me like I’m some kind of pariah. Then you’re all domestic, God-like, washing dishes and wiping down counters.”
“Domestic God-like?”
“Yes! Do you have any idea what that does to my ovaries?”
“How does my cleaning up after myself affect your ovaries?”
She tugs on her long strands of hair and cackles like she’s losing her goddamn mind. The sound is wild, unfiltered, and a little unhinged.
“Madonna, ma sei impossibile davvero (Oh my god, you’re seriously impossible)!” she shrieks, throwing her hands in the air.
When Lucia starts marching in my direction, for a split second, I feel the need to retreat, but I remain fixed to the spot. I faced men far more ruthless, so I’m definitely not scared of a pint-sized woman, no matter how angry she seems in this moment.
As soon as she stops in front of me, she pushes on my chest. “Not only do you almost make my ovaries explode, but then the next second, you’re trying to take down my clitoris as well.”
I rear back like I’ve been slapped. “Your clitoris?” My question earns me another shove.
“Yes! When you went all thug-like on Big-O and blasted her into smithereens.” She pushes me for a third time, and her feisty side is so hot. “You also shot my book! I never got to see Damien and Rosie get their happy ending.”
“Who?”
“The hero and the heroine.”
“That right there is your problem, Rossi,” I say, throwing her last name back at her as I point my finger in her face.
“Those books are fiction. Damien and whatever the fucking heroine’s name is don’t even exist. They’re made-up people who live in a make-believe world.
Anything can happen in a book, but there’s no such thing as happy endings in real life. ”
My words have her clutching her chest with an audible gasp. “Her name is Rosie! And you’re wrong.”
I ball my hands into fists. “No, I’m not,” I bellow.