Chapter Sixteen
Hazel
Was it the smartest decision of my life to get in the car with a mafia capo and let him drive me to his house?
Maybe not.
But after the day I’d had, I figured it couldn’t really get much worse.
Besides, Dante was true to his word; he let me keep the gun.
It sat there in my lap on the ride, heavier than I imagined it would be.
I wouldn’t be able to use it.
But I felt like it said something that Dante was willing to let me have a weapon I could potentially use against him.
As we made our way down the highway, I found myself wondering what kind of home Dante had. I knew from his mother that he had a house with lots of room for children. I knew from Dante himself that he’d been redecorating. But I had no idea what house style to expect.
We pulled down a dreamy tree-lined street that felt far removed from the bustling main drags of Navesink Bank.
We drove halfway down and slowed in front of a gorgeous three-level white colonial with black shutters, a front porch, a balcony, a brick front path, and some well-shaped shrubs.
His mom was right; it was the perfect house for a family. She was also right about his gardens needing a little warmth and color.
“Wow.”
“I got really lucky with this one,” he said as we pulled into the newly paved driveway. “There was a four-way bidding war on it.”
Granted, I only knew about the rental prices in the area, but even those prices were astronomical. I couldn’t imagine how much it cost to buy a small starter home, let alone a sprawling old colonial.
“Coming?” he asked, making me realize he’d already cut the engine and come around to open my door while I’d been looking into his lush backyard.
None of the properties in Navesink Bank were huge, but it was a decent plot with a lot of old trees and shrubs that made it feel like a private oasis.
“Yeah,” I agreed, carefully grabbing the gun and then following Dante up the front path.
Inside, I was met by an open, creamy white interior with warm brown wood floors, a console table, and doorways to either side, along with a center staircase.
To the right was a study with nothing inside, save for the drop cloths on the floor and several gallons of paint and supplies sitting on a table.
To the left was a fully finished dining room featuring a gorgeous table with seating for twelve. Which I wasn’t sure would even accommodate his immediate family.
“The kitchen probably has the best light,” he said, leading me through the dining room and into the exact kitchen he’d described to me: warm woods, brick, creamy whites, pops of green, and copper pots.
“I didn’t realize it was done.”
“It needs a backsplash still but it’s almost there.”
He led me over to a small built-in corner kitchen table. He took the gun and set it on the table for me, then watched me lower down.
“Give me a few minutes to grab the supplies. What do you want to drink?”
“Something that might help numb the pain.”
“I can do that,” he agreed.
I watched him leave before gawking at his kitchen, admiring the sprawling island, the commercial-grade range, and the massive refrigerator.
“Where are your appliances?” I asked when I caught him watching me look around.
“Appliance garage,” he said, dropping off the supplies by me, then walking over toward what looked like a floor-to-ceiling built-in, but he pulled up a door to reveal a hiding space for all of his small appliances. “I hate a cluttered counter.”
“It’s great. You really made the best kitchen.”
“Thanks. I haven’t had a chance to cook in it yet, but I’m looking forward to it. All right. I got you cranberry vodka mixed with some cran-grape. Figure that would be the least offensive way to drink enough of it to give you some pain relief.”
I didn’t know what to think about the fact that it was the exact right drink for me.
I drank down nearly half of it, feeling the heat spread through me as Dante got a basin full of warm, soapy water.
Then he was in front of me, carefully cleaning my face before dropping my hands into the basin, one at a time.
After the dirt was gone, Dante set up a standing, lighted magnifier, slid my hand under it, and reached for his tweezers.
“Might be better if you don’t watch,” he suggested before he bent over the magnifier.
I drained the last of my drink, then slid my eyes closed, trying to drift away from the sensation of the tweezers nipping into my skin, sometimes digging around to find the shards of glass he was trying to extract.
The problem was that I’d been awake the whole night before, and the alcohol was only making me more tired.
The world felt like it was spinning as I stared at the backs of my eyelids.
“You okay?” Dante asked, his voice soft.
“Tired,” I admitted, cracking my eyes open to find him adding some antibiotic cream to a fresh piece of gauze.
“Had a long night. Mentally and physically.”
“Yeah.”
“How about I get you something to eat, then you can take a nap?”
Should I be taking a nap in the house belonging to a ranking member of an organized crime family? No. But the idea of being home alone after being attacked filled me with dread.
What if they found out who I was? If they found my address? If they came back for me?
A shiver racked my system. The movement had Dante’s brows pinching. He set down the kit he was reassembling to reach out and press his wrist to my forehead.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. I think it’s just… a lot.”
“It is a lot. And I can’t make you stay here, but I hope you will. You’re safe here. You can sleep without worry. If you want to go home, I can—”
“I’ll stay,” I cut him off, not wanting to hear the other option he gave me, because I would feel compelled to go with that.
“Good. I’m glad to hear that. Now, let me get you fed so you can get some rest. I hope you’re in the mood for pasta. My mom sent over like six different pasta dishes.”
“I’m always in the mood for pasta.” After having it so tightly controlled in my household growing up, I developed a borderline unhealthy obsession with it in adulthood.
“Perfect. Do you want another drink?”
“I can get—”
“Sit your ass back down,” he demanded, his boyish smirk softening the demand. “You have any idea how hard my mother would smack me if she knew I let a woman get her own drink in my house?”
“Well, we wouldn’t want to upset Giulia,” I agreed, sitting back down gratefully, because as soon as I forced my legs to try to hold me, they burned and objected to it.
“Exactly. You have no idea how many times I’ve been whacked with a wooden spoon in the past. Pretty sure I’ve got a permanent indent in my back from it.
” He moved around the kitchen as he spoke, draping his jacket over a stool, rolling up his sleeves, then plating and reheating the food.
“In her defense, we were pain-in-the-ass kids.”
“How so?”
“We thought boundaries were for pushing. Repeatedly. The second we got off punishment, we were out there fucking up again. I trampled through one of her garden beds once to grab a ball. Man, I saw stars when she rapped me with that thing on the arm after I tracked the mud through her just-mopped kitchen.”
“I might have whacked you with a spoon too,” I said, watching the way his strong back made his shirt stretch as he moved around, gathering dinner supplies.
“I know, right?” he agreed, coming over with a fresh drink and cleaning up the table in front of me.
“Is that all the glass?” I asked, eyeing a piece of gauze with little dirt and blood-stained shards. There had to be nearly two dozen of them.
“Yeah. It was pretty gnarly. But I’m sure I got them all.”
“Wow. You have good eyes,” I said, taking a sip of my drink.
Little by little, the table in front of me filled with a glass of water, a quick side salad he threw together (but featuring cucumber, tomatoes, onions, and olives), and a plate heaped with penne vodka.
“What?” Dante asked, sitting down across from me in the booth section of the table.
“I’ve had two drinks and am eating a giant plate of pasta… all before nine in the morning.”
“Some days are like that,” he said with a shrug as he picked up his fork. “Besides, in a lot of cultures, breakfast is the same as lunch or dinner, not a whole category unto itself.”
We ate then, mostly talking about his family, cooking, his remaining plans for the rest of the house and yard.
By the time my stomach felt full to bursting, my head was spinning a bit from the liquor, and my eyes were so heavy I was worried I might face-plant on the kitchen table as Dante quickly cleaned up.
“Think you can do the steps?” he asked, grabbing me by the elbow to help me stand.
“Yeah,” I lied, hobbling along with him toward the center staircase.
“Liar,” he accused with a twinkle in his eye before he ducked down and scooped me up.
A delighted little squeal escaped me at the feeling of the ground falling away as he effortlessly held me against his wide chest as he started up the steps.
“What?” he asked, catching me watching his face.
“Looking for any signs of wincing or taxation.”
“Babe, I bench twice your weight. For fun.”
As if to prove his point, he dipped me low then picked me up again. Once, twice. Not a single tensed muscle.
“Alright. I haven’t actually gotten to decorating the extra bedrooms yet,” he told me. “So you’re going to borrow mine for the time being.”
He led me into his room as he said it.
I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but it wasn’t the bright, airy space full of warm woods, creamy white wood walls, a cozy rug under the bed, and art over the headboard.
“This is nice.”
“Yeah? My brothers give me shit about it. Think it’s girly. I like it. Not everything’s gotta be dark and depressing to be masculine.”
“And you hope to have a woman in here permanently one day, right?”
His gaze cut to mine, and I swear my chest swooped.
“Right,” he agreed, his voice a little lower, softer.
“No! Don’t put me on the bed,” I objected when he almost lowered me down onto the off-white linen comforter. “I’m filthy,” I added.
“I can loan you a shirt to wear,” he offered, lowering me down onto my feet, his hands spanning my hips for a moment to make sure I was steady before he moved over toward his walk-in closet.
I toed out of my dirty shoes.
When he handed me the shirt and moved to leave and I tried to lift my arms to remove my top, though, a surprised cry escaped me.
Dante turned back, concern creasing his brow.
“You okay?”
“My shoulders,” I admitted. “I don’t think I can take this shirt off.”
He glanced at it, then up to my face. “Do you have any emotional attachment to the shirt?”
“No? It’s just a shirt.”
“Good,” he said, going over to the nightstand and coming back with a pair of scissors.
Moving in front of me, he started slicing the material down from the collar to the edge of each sleeve.
It didn’t take more than that.
The material floated down off of me to pool at my feet, leaving me standing there in a plain black t-shirt bra that was practically as boring as a bathing suit.
Still, I noticed the way Dante’s nostrils flared, how his eyes went heavy-lidded. It seemed to take actual effort for his gaze to make it back up from my chest.
“No wonder you couldn’t lift your arms.” His hand pressed gently into my shoulder. Even the barely-there pressure made me hiss. “These bruises are going to be impressive by tomorrow,” he said, moving behind me to check them out on the back. “Alright. Change of plan.”
He made his way back to his closet and returned with a long zip-front hoodie. “Button and zip-ups for a few days, I think.” He helped me slide my arms in, then slowly zipped the front. While I tried like hell not to whimper at the brush of his knuckles up my belly as he moved the zipper into place.
Finished with that, he reached up under the shirt to snag the waistband of my pants, drawing them down until they slid to the floor and I could step out.
“Can I get you anything else?” he asked, pulling back the covers on the bed and fluffing the pillows.
“I think I just need to sleep.”
“Yeah. I wish I could say you’ll feel better after, but realistically, you’ll probably feel worse for a day or so. But if you’re asleep, you won’t notice.”
“Good plan,” I agreed, carefully climbing onto the bed, then smiling up at Dante as he actually tucked me in.
I didn’t remember the last time someone tucked me in. It was unexpectedly charming.
After that, he walked over, closing the drapes, then brought me the remote for the TV on the wall across from the bed. “In case you can’t sleep in the quiet. Get some rest, babe. I’ll be right downstairs if you need me.”
With that, he turned off the light, closed the door, and left me alone.
Thank God, too. Because his bed smelled like him and a helpless little moan escaped me as I turned my head on the pillow.
I was bone-deep tired, overfull, in pain, and mildly drunk; I should not have been able to feel turned on on top of all that.
There was no reasoning with desire, though. My pulse thrummed. My skin burned. A pressure built in my core.
With a grumble, I reached for the remote, turning on the TV and looking around until I found a boring documentary about the building of the railroads, the droning voice of the narrator managing to make me pass out within moments.