Chapter 12 #2
My mother was an O’Rourke before she married my dad.
She’s the three women’s cousin, and they’re the moms of the leaders in my generation.
While no one in those two generations turned their backs on Mom, there’s no fond feelings between them anymore.
Mom chose the Boston Mafia over the New York mob.
There wasn’t much hope we’d spend Christmas and Easter together.
If they’re keeping an eye out for me, it’s obligation, not love.
That makes it worse because they don’t want anything to do with me.
“I suppose we’ll be sharing you with the Diazes now. Who’ll make the caponata now?”
I groan, then laugh. “Just because I’m good at it doesn’t mean I want to make it for anyone.
It takes forever. I’ve tried cooking the eggplant, celery, and onions together, but it never comes out right.
Cooking each one separately is so time-consuming.
It’s a good thing I love all the Mancinellis, or I’d never make that stew. ”
The Sicilian dish involves a sweet and sour sauce that’s easy to fuck up.
It’s a balance to get all the flavors just right.
My food is delicious, but it’s a total time suck.
Paola’s back to teasing me, so I suppose that’s progress.
I’ll take it. She reminds me to give her five minutes after she texts me the name and number.
We end the call, and I don’t feel horrible. Just incredibly nervous.
Nervous about the baby.
Nervous about the future.
Nervous about what the Mancinellis will say.
Okay. Now I feel horrible.
I’m terrified about my family. They’re going to lose their shit. Not just because of the baby and what that means for my future but because this is going to fucking complicate things. I may not be able to complete the mission Uncle Tommaso gave me.
Sera called me right after I got off the phone with Paola, so I didn’t get a chance to call the doctor’s office.
She needed me to help out at her Brooklyn bakery because her manager got a migraine.
It’s not what I generally do, but I know how the location works.
I turn the key in the lock of the back door but freeze when I hear a sound behind me.
I pull the key free, and fist the ring, so all the keys stick out between my fingers like brass knuckles.
My purse is tucked tight against my belly like it is whenever I’m in this alley.
I’m slow as I tuck my hand into the front pocket and withdraw my knife.
I flick it open, letting go of my purse as I spin toward whoever’s creeping toward me.
I’m in a fighting stance when I realize it’s Joaquin.
“Joaco?”
“Don’t gut me, chica.”
“Don’t sneak up on me. I won’t ask questions until after I stab you.”
He approaches, and I can’t believe the goofy grin on his face. My heart’s racing, and he’s beaming at me with pride. I flip the knife closed, grab my purse from the ground, and drop it back into the bag. I release the death grip on my keys, flexing my fingers after putting them in my bag.
“I didn’t mean to scare you, Tre. But I’m glad to see you’re situationally aware and prepared to defend yourself.”
“Of course. This isn’t the first city I’ve lived in. Besides, you know there are Mancinelli men stationed around this block. You’re lucky they didn’t kill you before I could defend you.”
“I saw them. Apparently, they know I’m not a threat to you.” He cocks an eyebrow when he finishes.
“Lovely.”
I huff then return his smile as I walk toward him. I guess the secret’s out, so I step into his embrace, wrapping my arms around him. It feels good to lean against him after such a long day.
“How’re you feeling, little one?”
“Tired.”
“Sera isn’t having you on your feet too much, is she?”
“I’m not nine months, Joaco. I’m not even nine weeks.”
“But you might be exhausted these first few weeks. You weren’t feeling well yesterday.”
“Exhausted? Have you been reading online?”
“Maybe.”
He’s utterly unrepentant when I lean back to see his face.
It’s that steadfast gaze again. The one that tells me nothing can touch me or go wrong when he’s around.
The one that makes me feel invincible when he’s with me.
The one that makes me know to my bones that his protectiveness and possessiveness will always be about preserving my freedom to be me rather than isolating me.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think we were fated mates like in the shifter romances I love. It’s like some invisible rope’s wrapped around our wrists, binding us for eternity.
Why haven’t I thought of this before?
You are living in a shifter world.
Four rival families.
Four rival creatures.
Werewolves. Dragons. Vampires. Witches.
I don’t know which family is which, but it’s why we all find our fated mates—our soulmates.
It’s also why we hate each other, and we’re all violent as fuck.
“Tre?”
“Hmm? Sorry, just lost in my thoughts for a moment.”
“You look like you’re trying not to smile.”
“I’m happy to see you.”
“That’s a given. What’re you thinking?”
This smile is pure arrogance, and it makes me want to climb him like a koala up eucalyptus. He smells just as good.
“You’ll think it’s utterly ridiculous.”
“Try me.” He wraps his arm around my shoulder and steers me toward the street.
“I was thinking about how our world is like the kind in the books I read. I love these books called shifter romances. They have?—”
“Otherworldly creatures that shift between human and beast.”
“How…?”
“We all have guilty pleasures.”
“You read romances?”
He’s trying to maintain his bravado, but his shyness makes his shoulders creep toward his ears while he tucks his chin. He shrugs.
Dear Lord. He’s so embarrassed. Fuck.
“It’s cool if you do.” That sounds so fucking lame.
“Tío Enrique loves psychological thrillers. He binged Tía Elle’s entire catalog in like a week. I prefer stories that end with happily ever afters, or at least happy for now. Both are escapism. Mine’s just fantasy.”
He glances down at me, realizing how that last bit sounds. He’s blushing even more. He opens his mouth, but he’s at a loss for words now.
“I feel the same way.”
Hurt flashes in his eyes before he watches where we’re going. He regrets implying we don’t have a happy future, and he doesn’t like that I see an unhappy ending as an inevitability for us. It’s not what I meant.
“Joaco, I meant I enjoy the escapism.”
He nods, but it takes a moment before he pulls his head out of his shell. “I read somewhere that twenty percent of romance readers are men. I’m not that odd.”
I turn my head to stare up at him. “Do you have any favorites?”