Chapter 10 Bambalina
Bambalina
I’ve never been a fan of Sunday mornings, largely because they tend to involve a visit to church, and there’s something disingenuous about going to church as a mafia family to confess our sins only to walk out the door and commit them all over again. But this Sunday feels different.
Papa and Antonia took off in the early hours for Boston, and Allegra planned long ago a trip to Staten Island with some of her friends from the Bridge Club.
But the sound of the TV coming from the living room tells me I’m not alone, and it’s nice.
I bend my head round the doorframe and swallow.
Nicolò is not wearing a suit.
He’s wearing a pair of gunmetal gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt that shows off every ridge of muscle on his chest and stomach.
I know this so definitively because he’s lying on the couch with one arm resting on a bent knee and the other arm curled behind his head revealing a bicep almost as structured, defined and intimidating as his face.
I spin around so my back is against the hallway wall. Pressing my palms against it, I try to catch my breath. Why does the sight of Nicolò wearing casual clothes make me so hot and bothered?
I collect myself, then rest against the doorframe as if I’ve just arrived.
His eyes are fixed on the TV so I sneak the opportunity to watch him for a moment.
Were it not for the natural lines of his jaw and muscular, solid frame, he would look like a completely different person.
His eyes are soft, his mouth relaxed, his hair…
I swallow again. His hair is messed up like he just got out of bed.
Lying on the couch is a Nicolò I’ve never seen before.
I let my gaze drift to the TV. Footage of sleek sports cars racing along sun-scorched tracks fill the screen. Cutaways of drivers I recognize from newspaper stands are interspersed with aerial views of a track nestled between the harbor and the town.
The side of my face begins to heat but I don’t dare to turn my head. Instead I remain focused on the TV. “Monaco?”
When he doesn’t answer I have no choice but to look over at him. The second our eyes lock, a damp sheen breaks out across my forehead.
The gray of his irises seems paler somehow. Maybe it’s caused by the light streaming through the windows. I normally encounter him in darkness, or someplace illuminated by cheap artificial lighting, so that would make sense.
I should be filled with relief when his gaze releases mine but my blood warms uncontrollably as he glances down at my bare legs for a brief moment.
A gentle buzz fills my ears—an awareness of silence that is somehow both comfortable and vexatious. I’m gripped by a need to fill the quiet.
“I’ve always wanted to visit Monaco. Did you know it’s only the size of Central Park?”
When his gaze flicks back to mine, it’s darker.
“I know it has more cops per capita than anywhere else on earth.”
I push my hip off the door frame but leave one hand pressed up against it. “Hmm, I guess you would know that.”
A smile pulls on his lips but doesn’t quite surface.
The air feels suddenly tight. “I was about to make coffee. Want some?”
He holds my gaze, indifferently, then just as I’m about to accept that as my answer, his lips part. “Sure.”
My heart thrums to a faster beat as I operate the machine. The sound of grinding beans and spitting froth is a welcome diversion from the tense air of the living room.
I return and place his mug on the table. It’s hard to not look at his ripped abs, because they’re right there, but not only do I not want to inflate his ego, it’s wrong to stare. Especially at one’s own stepbrother, I suspect.
In an attempt to keep my gaze diverted, I manage to trip over my own feet and land on the opposite couch. I reach for my coffee and pretend that sitting here had been my intention all along.
A low pulse hums beneath my skin and a strange tension permeates the air. My skin is dancing like a flame has been lit beneath it and I’m on edge, wondering what Nicolò is going to do now the racing has finished.
I peek at him through the steam of my coffee. “Not going to the office today?”
His gaze glides from the TV back to me. Instead of answering verbally, he gives a brief shake of his head.
Right. So, he’s just going to be here all day? Something about that suggestion makes me irritable, but not in a bad way. It makes me feel restless, unanchored. Unsure of what to do with myself.
A part of me needs to know what he has planned so I can organize my day around it.
Usually, I have the run of the house. I could walk around naked all day if I wanted to.
Something tells me Nicolò wouldn’t appreciate that.
Still, the thought of parading my bare ass in front of him makes my skin surge with heat.
“I was going to watch a movie.”
I look up in surprise, willing the sudden flush in my cheeks to evaporate.
For some reason, I never thought of the made men in my life as being the kind of people who watch movies, but I guess they’re only human.
That thought makes me shiver. It’s easier to think of them as inhuman most of the time.
“Any requests?”
I blink. “For—for what?”
A single line appears across his brow and he looks a little more like the Nicolò I know.
“A movie.”
My heart skips a beat. He’s offering to watch a movie with me? Of my choice? I’m suddenly lost for words.
His eyes narrow. “Preferably not anything with Hugh Grant in it.”
I can’t help but smile. I’m still adjusting to the notion of Nicolò watching a movie, let alone a rom com. My brow arches. “Not even Heretic?”
“Haven’t heard of that one.” He draws his other arm up and tucks it beneath his head. The movement lifts his t-shirt revealing a beautiful V formation across his lower stomach. My mouth is instantly zapped of moisture.
“Go ahead.” He nods to the remote on the table. “Choose something.”
The couch I’m sitting on faces away from the TV so I stand on weak legs and go to pick up the remote. There isn’t really anywhere to sit that has a semi-decent view of the TV other than the sofa that Nicolò is sitting on.
Just sit down.
I battle with the idea. His huge body is taking up nearly the whole couch. I could perch on the edge and hope he gets the hint and moves a bit. What if he doesn’t? Do I just balance on the edge of the seat for the entire movie?
As if the awkwardness is palpable, Nicolò pulls himself up and sits on one side of the couch, his large thighs spread and one arm stretched along the back like he owns the furniture.
I take it as my cue to sit on the other side but he’s so big I can’t seem to settle in a position where I’m not touching him.
With my gaze trying to latch onto anything but him, I turn my back to the arm of the couch, bend my knees and bring my feet up onto the couch facing him.
There’s a hint of amusement in his eyes when I glance nervously in his direction before flicking through the channels.
“Scarface?” I dart my eyes to him just in time to see a nose wrinkle.
“Okay… Silence of the Lambs? He’s a serial killer…” I add, lifting a shoulder.
“Nah,” he groans. “I’m not into cannibals.”
I arch a brow. “Ah, removing body parts is fine, but eating them, not fine. Noted.”
Lines appear at the corners of his eyes but he doesn’t allow himself a grin.
“The Purge?”
With his face still angled toward me, he shoots a sideways glance at the TV screen. “Anything that doesn’t involve death?”
“Ah, you want a change from your day-to-day.”
A sharp sting heats my left ear and I spin around to see his thumb and middle finger poised. “You flicked me?”
His arm retreats but his devious glare doesn’t. The left side of my face is vibrating, and not just from the sting. I swallow back any temptation to read into it. He’s my stepbrother. I guess this is what stepbrothers do.
“Fine.” I smile sweetly. “Notting Hill it is.”
I press play and lean back against the arm of the sofa, making a real effort to focus on the opening credits, but it’s hard.
I feel like I’m in a goldfish bowl or beneath a microscope.
Every now and then, I sense his gaze slide toward me.
At first it traces the contours of my face, then moves away.
Then it might return and graze over my legs, making the hairs I haven’t shaved stand upright.
My skin is a prickling livewire, zinging so loudly in my ears I can barely focus on the movie.
I feel bad for choosing a Hugh Grant movie against Nicolò’s request, but he wasn’t exactly helping me choose an alternative.
In fairness, if he’d protested I would have continued to peruse the listings, but he bit back a smile instead.
I almost jump when he laughs at one of the lines, but then my chest dissolves into warm honey as I realize he actually likes Notting Hill, despite himself.
At one point, Nicolò gets up then returns with a bowl of popcorn.
It’s still only lunchtime but the wind and rain slashing against the windows makes it feel like much later in the day.
The more I lean over to grab handfuls, the closer to Nicolò I unwittingly get, and suddenly my toes feel warm.
“Your feet are fucking freezing.”
My vision goes blank. I quickly try to draw my feet in toward myself but he grabs then in rough, assertive hands and plants them back against his thigh.
“I have to swallow repeatedly until my breath returns. “No,” I counter. “Your leg is boiling.”
“Always had warm blood,” he answers, off-hand. Then his brows knit and he peers at me with concern. “Seriously. Are you cold?”
I haven’t felt cold up to now. I’ve felt hot all over. But now he’s mentioned it, the lack of heating and the assault of a New York Autumn outside these walls is making me shiver. “A little.”