Chapter 4 #2
There’s exasperation in Carmine’s tone, but no one believes he’ll say no to his wife.
He puts his foot down about many things, especially when they pertain to her safety.
But generally, he indulges her. He’s by no means pussy-whipped.
He’s far too dominant for that. He just enjoys making Sera happy.
He readily admits her smile brings his soul deep joy.
The hulking Mafioso steps aside as he drops a kiss on his wife’s cheek and wraps his arm around her waist. Toria and Alejandro step inside, still blocking the third member of their family.
It’s a gut punch that doesn’t come as a surprise when Joaquin steps across the threshold.
I deduced it was him, but the look of shock on his face tells me he didn’t see me waiting and had no idea I was joining them.
I dash my gaze to where Toria and Sera stand hugging beside me. They pretend to be focused on each other, but I know they’re avoiding me facing off against both of them. Before I can say anything to them together, Toria pulls me into a hug.
“Don’t kill the messenger.”
She whispers to me as I grit my teeth. There are far worse fates for messengers in our world when the recipient doesn’t like what they hear or see.
I peer over her shoulder and notice Alejandro is likely saying something similar to Joaquin, whose expression is bland. But I sense he’s as annoyed as I am.
Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match.
This isn’t some seventies musical. No one’s fiddling on the roof, but Joaquin makes me think of Nero fiddling while Rome burned.
He can’t retaliate directly against Sera, so he’ll get back at Carmine.
Then he’ll stand back and watch. I’m certain he’ll have plenty of words for his cousin. I certainly will with Toria and Sera.
I shoot them a warning expression that conveys my sense of betrayal. At least Sera knew I wasn’t planning to see Joaquin again. That’s probably why she set this up.
“Tre.”
Joaquin’s voice is soft as he comes to stand before me. He started calling me that at some point during the night we spent together. I like it far too much.
“Joaco.”
Merda! Shit!
I didn’t plan to say that aloud. Since he’s monopolized my attention so much, my mind gave him a nickname too. That’s how I now think of him most of the time. I know it’s the most common diminutive, so I’m certain he’s heard it before. But it’s the only one I know.
A muscle ticks in his jaw, but that’s the only response I get to calling him anything besides his full name.
We extend our hands, both staring at them for a moment before clasping them.
I never imagined the cliché electric pulse shooting up one’s arm that’s in so many romance novels could really be true.
Maybe it’s more of a shiver, but something is making me feel abnormal.
“It’s nice to see you again, Tre. Had any good cupcakes lately?”
I flinch.
I can’t help it. I hadn’t expected him to lead with that, and my uncontrolled response got the better of me.
Is he asking if I’ve had any other random one-night stands?
Is that what he thinks of me? That I’m a hit-it-and-quit-it kinda girl.
I can’t blame him if he does, but I can’t believe that’s the first thing he brings up.
“No.”
I’d offered the cupcakes because I thought they’d be something fun and different.
They wouldn’t commit him to spending as much time with me as breakfast in case he wasn’t into sticking around that long.
I’d hoped he’d counter with a breakfast offer.
Instead, he seemed insulted and snatched up his clothes.
I didn’t know what to do after that. I didn’t know if I should backtrack or if that’d make me look desperate and clingy.
By the time I decided I should speak up, he was about to walk out the door. Then I felt insulted that he did nothing to spend more time with me. Why did he expect me to have the balls between the pair of us?
I know he’d been the quiet one between the two of us, but it’s not like he’d been silent the entire night.
I knew he could speak up. He certainly knew how to make his demands known.
More fool was I for thinking he was into me while we were at the reception.
Turns out he was the hit-it-and-quit-it one.
When I didn’t jump straight back into bed after going to the bathroom—I even brushed my hair, wiped off my smudged eye makeup, and swished a bit of mouthwash—he decided he was done with me.
The more I think about that, the more hurt and annoyed I grow.
“Shame, Tre. I hear Sera’s red velvet is the best in the tri-state area, maybe even the entire East Coast.”
It was a dig, for sure. But maybe not as deep as I feared.
I pray we’re saved from further small talk when Carmine announces dinner’s ready.
I like how the men in the Mancinelli and Diaz families can cook.
It’s obvious none of them were starving before they got married, so that’s at least one syndicate stereotype they don’t live up to.
None of them expect a woman barefoot and pregnant or their mothers to feed them.
However, my relief is short-lived when I realize Sera and Toria maneuver Joaquin to sit across from me.
I suppose it’s better than side by side, but it means I’ll have to look at him throughout the meal.
If I don’t, it’ll be obvious I’m ignoring him.
“Toria, what was the best part of the trip?”
The moment the words come out of my mouth, I wish I could suck them in.
They were on their fucking honeymoon. Obviously, that was the best part.
I feel the heat creep up my neck as everyone bites back their smiles—everyone except Joaquin, who couldn’t look more disinterested if he tried.
Instead, he serves himself as the bowls and platters move around the table, he and the other two men ensuring the women get the first serving of each dish.
“Being on the beach. You know I prefer being on the water more than land. It’s nice being somewhere where the water is clear.”
Venetian canals certainly don’t meet that description.
I always thought it was funny that a woman who grew up surrounded by water always wants to vacation where there’s more.
She would never pick the mountains or desert before an ocean or lake.
I didn’t grow up surrounded by water, but I’m the same.
I spent short holidays on the Cape in Massachusetts.
Longer ones were usually in Sicily or some other part of the Med.
Any escape from winter in New England was a welcome one.
My mom grew up in NYC, and she hates the winters even more than a native New Englander.
She said her Irish blood wasn’t made for the cold.
Funny since she married a man who’s a hundred percent Sicilian.
My brother and I are an interesting genetic combination.
I look more like my father, but my blonde hair comes from my maternal grandfather, and my green eyes come from my mother.
My brother, Tristano, has Mom’s flame red hair—not what you expect from someone in the Mafia—and green eyes but also looks like Dad.
Needless to say, he’s often confused for a mobster.
Adding an “o” to the end of his name to make it sound more Italian didn’t help either. The insult isn’t taken lightly.
I watch Joaquin from under my lashes as I serve myself.
I wonder if he prefers the mountains or the beach.
Colombia has both, so I suppose he could enjoy both.
Why I’m even wondering this is beyond pointless.
He’s looked at Alejandro and Carmine, but besides them, he’s barely focused on anything but his food.
It’s clear he’s annoyed about being here, and I doubt it’s just Carmine’s fault.
“I’ll show you and Sera the photos after dinner. The water was crystal clear, so we went scuba diving a few times. We even went parasailing. Those are the best photos.”
Toria’s still talking, and I know I missed half of it. I’m the one who asked, but I can’t concentrate on what’s happening around me. If anyone’s annoyed, it’s me—at myself. Why the fuck do I care whether Joaquin gives a damn about me?
Because you give way more than just a damn about him.
You give a fuck ton.
Apparently, my penchant for masochism goes beyond kinky sex. I’m driving myself crazy with self-inflicted torture.
“That would be awesome.” Thankfully, Sera steps in when I say nothing else.
“Did you guys enjoy the wedding?”
My gaze meets Joaquin’s for a heartbeat before we both look away, neither of us eager to answer Toria’s question. I wait for someone else to answer, but when it remains quiet, I shift my focus to Toria and realize she was speaking directly to me.
“It was a beautiful service. You were radiant.”
I flicker my gaze at Joaquin, and I see a muscle in his jaw tick. I tried to be tactful and avoid mentioning the reception. But he must think I was dismissing the time we spent together there.
“Sera, you outdid yourself with the cake.”
Joaquin’s fork scrapes his plate when I mention Sera’s confection. I realize too late that it reminded him of my cupcake offer. Open mouth, insert both feet.
“Thank you. You looked like you enjoyed yourself.”