Chapter 6
Gina
I’ve only gotten four hours of sleep, but after lying here for the past hour, I finally give up and throw back the comforter. Padding to the ensuite, I wipe the sleep from my eyes.
When I look in the mirror, I grimace. Dark circles are under my eyes, and I look pale and drawn. My cheek is still slightly red from my father’s slap.
Unease fills me as I think about last night. It wasn’t just that my father hit me; it was his entire demeanor. More than once, I caught him looking at me with a calculated look. And more than once, I felt like I was on display during the meal and whenever he and Emanuele spoke quietly.
Or maybe it’s just my sleep-deprived state making me paranoid.
I strip off my pajamas, then drag my tired body to the shower. Once the water is heated, I crawl in and stand under the spray, hoping it washes my paranoia and dread away.
I really don’t want to tour the city with Vincenzo today. At all.
If it were Tommaso, that would be a very different story…
“Don’t even go there,” I warn myself. “You’re a nobody in his world.”
When I’m finished showering, I dry off, braid my hair, and then go to find something to wear. I ignore the fancy clothes and choose something more comfortable. The early morning July sunshine looks warm, so I slip on a pair of jean shorts and a white shirt.
I study myself in the mirror, knowing that my parents will disapprove of my choice.
I shouldn’t quietly rebel against their snobbish attitudes, though, since one of the reasons I came here was to discuss my plan to travel and work abroad.
But something tells me that even if I pleased them by being the perfect, poised princess they paid to have me trained as, my request to travel would still be denied.
A shiver runs through me as I glance around the room, feeling like it was a big mistake to come here to see my parents.
Shaking my head at myself and my paranoia, which has to be caused by lack of sleep, I slip on my canvas shoes and leave my room.
The house is quiet since it’s not even six in the morning. Mom loves her sleep, so she won’t get up until at least ten. My father might be stirring soon, so I hurry down to the main floor of the overly decorated house with all its expensive art and head straight for the door to go for a walk.
I had only seen the staff serving last night; however, it’s not uncommon for staff to live off-site in their own homes.
I’m still coming to terms with thinking of my parents as rich. I mean, I guess they are, since they could afford to send me to the private school, plus this house and all its excess. However, it’s just…weird.
Nostalgic longing rises in me again, wishing for the family I had before my father’s stroke.
Shaking my melancholy away, I exit the house and quietly shut the door.
As I look at the front gates, I remember the guards, and my apprehension rises, wondering again why my father has armed guards.
I know they all weren’t my father’s men last night, and several were here because of Emanuele and Vincenzo, but still, my questions and unease remain.
I walk down the stairs, careful not to slip on the smooth marble, then go down the gravel driveway. As I get closer, I see only one guard—but one is enough to stop me from leaving if he wants to. I contemplate my strategy in case he tries to prevent me from leaving.
“Morning,” I say pleasantly with a big smile. “I’m going for a walk and need you to open the gate.”
I use assertive words rather than asking permission. The guard is the one who had replaced Davide when he had walked me to the house. His dark sunglasses hide his eyes as he looks at me; however, I can already sense his refusal before he speaks.
“You can’t go out on your own, Miss Caruso.”
I shield my eyes against the glare of the sun. It’s bright out, but not nearly as warm as I thought it would be. “I’m just going for a walk.” I point at the residential street, lined with other houses much like this one. “It’s perfectly safe.”
It’s not, even I know that. Not when your father is involved in the mafia, even if he’s not high up.
“I’m afraid I can’t let you,” the guard insists with a hardness that tells me I’m not sweet-talking my way into convincing him.
Tears of frustration burn, threatening to fill my eyes. I’m not usually a crier, but with my lack of sleep and melancholy, I’m more emotional.
“She’s with me, Leandro,” a deep voice says.
I whip around to where the voice came from.
Tommaso.
Christ, he looks amazing for six in the morning.
He stands outside of the gates. Where the hell did he come from?
“Of course, Don,” Leandro agrees immediately, reminding me that all the men around my father work for this man. He’s the one in charge.
Something swirls in my stomach as I look at Tommaso, and I shift uncomfortably at the tingle in my core. Even though I’ve never experienced it before, I know this is attraction and lust I’m feeling. For the first time, my body is awake and aware of the opposite sex.
Wants the opposite sex.
But not just anyone. Him. Tommaso Santoro.
The man could have anyone, so why would he want you? my inner critic warns.
Still, the way Tommaso is looking at me—like he wants to eat me for breakfast—tells me he does, in fact, want me.
He schools his expression before turning back to Leandro and motions for him to open the gate. Leandro jumps into action without hesitation or question.
I step through without looking back, not wanting to risk this newfound freedom. Tommaso smiles as he stares down at me.
God, he’s tall. And broad.
“Good morning, piccolo sole.”
Little sun.
His speaking Italian reminds me of what I noticed last night; that his accent, like Silvio’s, is quite faint. Marco’s was slightly heavier but not as heavy as Vincenzo and Emanuele’s, or my father’s.
A blush heats my face as I can only stare up at Tommaso, trapped in the ocean of his startling crystal-blue eyes.
“Come with me?” He holds out his hand, and I can’t help but notice the scars running over it.
This man is a mafia don; he’s done ruthless things—I know this even if I don’t know any details. He’s deadly, dangerous. Absolutely lethal.
Yet, I’ve never felt safer.
Without a word, I slip my hand inside his, and willingly let him lead me wherever he chooses to.
Probably into damnation. But do I care?
Not one bit.
We cross the street to where a black Maserati is parked, and he opens the passenger door for me. I slip in and breathe in the faint scent of leather and the spice of his cologne that lingers in the air.
When he gets in and fires up the engine, I can only stare at his hands, one on the steering wheel, one on the gearshift.
What would those large, lethal hands feel like on my skin? Would they be gentle? Would they be rough and controlling?
And why is there a pulse between my legs?
I squirm in the seat, the leather is cool on my bare legs, and more goosebumps erupt.
“You’re cold.”
I can feel his gaze travel up my bare thighs, all the way up to my tight nipples that are apparent through my thin white shirt and the lacy bra I wear underneath.
When his piercing, beautiful eyes lift to mine, I’m suddenly flushed with heat. The desire and hunger in his gaze sets me on fire. I caught glimpses of it last night, but now, there’s no restraint in his look.
My breath catches in my throat when his hand lifts to cup my chin. His touch on my skin is gentle. A caress without even moving.
I swallow and lick my lips. Desperate for him to do something more.
The moment is shattered when a car honks in the distance. He smiles, his thumb moving along the line of my jaw, then he returns his hand to the gearshift.
His movements are skilled and smooth as he drives the manual car with flawless transition between the gears.
Somehow, I find my voice in the swirling fog of desire that’s taking over my body and mind. “I wanted to go for a walk.”
“We will.” His profile is beautiful and strong, powerful and confident.
“Why not here?” I press. Even though he’s Don of this territory, and I know my place—or at least, I should—I question him.
It seems to please him, though.
“I want to take you to some of my favorite spots in the city. We’ll start with grabbing an espresso and a cornetto.”
“I’d prefer a cannoncino,” I say without a second thought about voicing my preferences about the pastry that’s shaped like a horn and filled with custard cream. My etiquette teachers would be dying right now if they were here.
He grins, turning to me as we stop at a light. “Then il mio sole shall have a cannoncino.”
“Your sun?” I squeak, heat erupting all over my body as I stare at him. Then, I gather my wits about me and shake my head. “Awfully presumptuous of you, Don Santoro.”
He half-grunts, half-laughs before he starts driving again.
Not sure if it’s the jetlag fog, or if he’s frying my brain, but I ask a question I should’ve asked before I got into his car. “What were you doing at my house at six in the morning?”
“Waiting for you.”
A little thrill zips through me, making me feel all jittery inside. “Stalker?”
He laughs, and I love the sound. “I guess you could say that.”
I shift in my seat, turning more toward him. “You could’ve come to the house.”
“It’s six in the morning.” His hand grips the top of the steering wheel, and honestly, I don’t think I’ve seen anything sexier. “Plus, I didn’t want your father to know.”
You know that thrill and jittery feeling? Yeah, multiply that by a thousand.
“Why?” I manage to say while trying to control my breathing. “Are you kidnapping me?”
He could be. Maybe.
I’m just not sure that I really care.
He flashes a smile at me again. But this time, there’s something sinister about it, like a beast lives underneath his skin, and he’s a pro at hiding it from the world.
But my accelerated breathing and hammering heart aren’t from fear. It’s from the excitement and something more I don’t dare try to name.
“Do you want me to kidnap you, il mio sole?”
Yes.
“No.” I exhale, trying to rediscover a normal breathing rhythm. “Don’t you have something more important to do?”
“More important than being with you? Never.”
I’m struck speechless, because everything about that answer—his words, tone, expression, and body language—tells me he’s being entirely truthful.
“Are you insane?” I ask with a level tone, watching him, trying to discern if he really is.
He chuckles. “I’ve been called unhinged before, but never insane. But no, Gina”—he puts his hand over mine that’s resting on my thigh—“I’m not insane. In fact, this is the clearest headed I’ve ever felt.”
We fall into silence as he drives us to wherever we’re going. His hand leaves mine only to work the gearshift.
When he pulls in front of a coffee shop called Caffè Amore in a neighborhood where it and the coffee shop have seen better days, he orders me, “Wait for me to come get you.” He jumps out, hurries around the car, and opens my door.
Slipping my hand into his, he helps me out of the low car. I know he’s not just being chivalrous; his eyes scan our surroundings, and he pulls me close as if to shield my body with his.
As I walk toward the coffee shop that feels like we’re back in Italy, I’m fairly certain I’ve just fallen in love with a mafia man.
And not any mafia man. The mafia man of this city.