Darkest Kiss (Romance Fairytale Retellings #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Rian

Two weeks before a green-eyed stranger bought me at auction, I was closing up my parents' bookshop and pretending my life was fine.

“Hmm.” The older man peers up at the bookshelf. What book he’s looking for, I can’t say. But he lifts his cell phone to light the titles.

Fair. This shop has always been dim and drafty.

I duck out of the tight space between the cash register and another set of bookshelves.

My store has a surprising number of them, all crammed in next to each other with just enough space between them for a large person to fit.

Like the smell of old books, the odd placement of the shelves is part of the charm of the place.

My parents arranged the shelves like this and I keep them exactly the same, in their honor. Maybe slightly dustier than when they ran it, though.

“Can I help you find anything else, Dr. Amunson?”

“Ah, no.” The man turns to me with a genial smile. “I’m just prolonging my visit. This is the last stop before I go back home.”

“I see.” I fold my hands behind my back. “Take your time.”

He waves his wand. “No, no. I know it’s almost closing time. Here.”

He hands me his purchase, an older book with genuine black leather bindings. GREAT LIVES OF NORTHEASTERN SEA BIRDS. I ring it up without comment, though I’m wondering how good a dated book on wildlife could possibly be. After bagging it, I hand it over.

"Thanks for coming in." I smile at him. "I'll see you next week, Dr. Amunson."

"Thank you, Noemi. I'm hoping that the book I ordered on the lives of arctic foxes is here by then." He pushes his glasses up his nose and takes the book he purchased.

"Let's hope." I walk him out the front door of the tiny bookshop, locking up after him.

Dr. Amunson always comes in right before the shop closes.

Normally, I wouldn't mind. He's a true book lover and a reliable customer to boot.

Plus, his endless fascination with deeply researching animals one book at a time helps keep Poor Yorick Books open.

But today, his lateness is going to make me late, something I try to avoid at all costs. I like to be punctual.

It keeps my anxiety at a minimum.

Hurrying through my closing duties, I gather my jacket and purse and step outside.

The moment I do, I'm nearly barreled down by a middle-aged man in a very expensive suit.

He's about my height, not fat but thickened in the middle so his gut strains his white shirt.

He shoots me a venomous look as he passes.

Leo Vitelli is one of the Vitelli men that have taken over the offices above my shop. My Uncle Marc once told me that he's important. To stay out of his way and keep my eyes on my own business.

That's a funny way of saying that Leo is in the mafia.

"Will you watch where you're going?" he snaps.

"Sorry," I say. "So sorry, Mr. Vitelli."

Leo sniffs, dismissing me, and heads around the corner. Going, presumably, to the office. I don't know what he does up there, but I often hear raised voices and see people coming and going from the office all day.

Pulling a face at Leo's retreating form, I head down the street the other way.

I check the time on my phone. Nonna's, the little Italian place where I'm meeting my aunt and uncle for dinner, is only a few blocks away.

The food isn't exactly imaginative — baked ziti, chicken parmesan, fettucine with any kind of breaded meat you could ask for.

But the salads and bread are freshly made.

So I don't mind that my family has chosen Nonna's as our meeting place since I moved out last year.

I break into a jog, trying to be mindful of the fact that I'm wearing a black dress and ballet flats. I dressed up just a hair for tonight's dinner.

I thought that moving out from my aunt's would mean more freedom and that maybe I would make a few friends.

But so far, my only friends are customers like Dr. Amunson, people I see once a week at most, come to check up on their book requests.

I guess it's my own fault; my panic disorder and the anxiety surrounding it make things difficult. When I start to contemplate doing any activity that will make me friends, I’m always getting stuck in the planning stages.

Putting myself out there seems insurmountable.

After jogging three blocks, I'm a little winded.

I really should try to start going to Jazzercise classes at the YMCA again.

I pause when I see Nonna's across the street.

It's in a two-story brick building with a very crooked fire escape barely holding on above the restaurant's sign.

I glance left and right a couple of times.

It seems clear, but after my parents were mowed down by a hit-and-run driver a few years ago, I'm extremely cautious.

As I wait a few beats, I see him.

My follower.

I've never gotten a good look at him because he stays in the shadows. But I've seen him once or twice a week for the last few months.

He's tall, from what I've glimpsed, and he seems to have an unruly shock of bright blond hair. I'm not even sure that he's handsome or even close to my age.

But he makes my pulse pick up.

Is he spying on me? Why doesn't he introduce himself?

Maybe he's got anxiety too.

Ducking my head, I focus on the street. When I'm absolutely sure that there are no cars coming, I cross. My follower hangs back, down the block.

He never comes closer than this.

I push in the glass door of Nonna's. Instantly I'm surrounded by warmth and noise.

Twelve booths packed in on top of each other, filled with patrons.

As the server and busboy dart around the room, silverware scrapes and dishes clatter.

I don't wait to be recognized by the waitress, Sherrie. She knows me by name.

Instead, I head to the second-best table in the place, always held for our family on the third Thursday of the month. It's one of two circular booths at the back of the room.

As I scoot into the empty booth, I glimpse the other Vitelli brother. Andreas. He's older, has lost most of his hair, and is a bit shorter than Leo. But the eyes are the same. Cold, dead, assessing. He sweeps his gaze over me and I keep moving before I have to meet it.

Something in my gut tells me that I want nothing to do with him. I certainly don't want to draw his attention in any way.

"Noemi!" Sherrie says. "Thought you weren't going to show, hon. You're always fifteen minutes early!"

I flush. "Sorry. The bookstore," I explain vaguely. "You know how it is."

"Sure. You want your usual order?"

Over her shoulder, I see the door open and my aunt and uncle enter. "Give me a few, please?"

"You got it." Sherrie sets down a pile of menus and hurries off.

I steel myself for the onslaught of Aunt Kathleen and Uncle Marc.

Kathleen was my mother's sister and looks very like me.

Long dark hair, pretty light brown eyes, and a petite frame.

She always wears low-cut dresses that emphasize her cleavage and platform heels to make her appear taller.

My uncle Marc is all surface. Capped teeth, salon hair, a suit tailored close enough to hide that he skips the gym.

He looks like a man you'd trust to hold your coat and not your secrets.

They swan in, Kathleen scooting into the booth first, Marc on the outside.

"Noemi." My aunt doesn't hug me. She looks me up and down. "How are you?"

I open my mouth to answer, but she is already talking again. "You know, my friend has a son who is a neurotic. Justin, I think? He's so incredibly shy that his mother is afraid he'll be alone forever. I think we should introduce you."

"I.. um... maybe?" I answer. I look at Marc for help. He's my ally anytime Kathleen gets the urge to set me up with someone.

Historically, Kathleen hasn't been very picky about sending me out on blind dates with mouth-breathers, mama's-boys, and aspiring podcasters. It's been an unending parade of men with flat personalities. I'm not boring. I'm just shy.

There is very much a difference.

Marc clears his throat. "Enough about Linda's boy.

Nobody came here to talk about somebody's shut-in son.

" I could kiss my uncle. "I've got bigger things on my plate.

" He shoots his cuffs, which is the tell that he's about to hold court on the subject of himself.

"The campaign's coming together. We lock in the donors this spring, get the fundraising solid, and the mayor's office stops being a someday. "

“That’s great, Uncle Marc,” I say. He’s always been ambitious and I prefer a happy uncle to an unhappy one. “It sounds really promising.”

“Yeah, right.” Kathleen snorts into her drink. "Donors."

"You have something to add?" He arches a brow.

"Nobody else gets to pay for your campaign, sweetheart. You know how this works." She gives him a catty little smile. "The Vitellis don't like to share a politician with anyone else."

A look crosses Marc's face that would curdle milk. He says nothing, because Sherrie picks that exact moment to come back with her pad out, but the silence makes my breath catch.

The Vitellis again. First Marc announced they were going to take over the offices above the bookstore. Now they’re his only campaign donors? That’s super sketchy.

"We'll take the Barolo," Kathleen is telling Sherrie. "The reserve, not the pour by the glass. Veal for the table, the branzino, whatever's freshest." She orders for me without asking what I want. It’s not because she knows me well.

It’s because she knows I won’t push back.

Marc watches Sherrie walk off, then glances over his shoulder to the other booth. Andreas Vitelli sits in the booth, with his men clustered around him, chewing on an unlit cigar. The second Andreas notices my uncle’s attention, my uncle turns back fast.

Interesting. Marc is friendly with Leo Vitelli. I guess that’s not the case here.

Marc clears his throat. “How’s the book business?”