Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
KENNEDY
“Why can’t you stay?” Riley asks, her chocolate and Nutella gelato slowly dripping down the cone.
I take a leisurely lick of my amarena gelato, savoring the burst of cherries and creamy sweetness, as we enjoy an after-dinner stroll through the quaint Italian streets.
Last night, I cut my evening with Riley short to rush back for dinner with Enzo. A sumptuous spread of bruschetta, handmade pasta with a decadent cream sauce, and grilled sea bass drizzled with lemon and caper sauce I savored alone, since Enzo never showed.
So, to hell with him. I’m spending all the time in the world with Riley. Not that he would notice. Did I mention it’s been over a day since I’ve seen his arrogant ass?
I shake it off as Truffles tugs me forward, his curiosity leading the way as we amble along. It’s easy to forget I have only a few days left. Unless I can find a way out that guarantees both Riley and me stay safe .
I take a breath and ponder Riley’s question as I admire the building ahead. The town wears its history like a cherished heirloom, each building adorned with trailing vines and vibrant bougainvillea.
The air hums with the melody of an accordion drifting from a nearby café, mingling with the tantalizing scents of freshly baked bread and rich espresso.
My steps slow, echoing on the cobblestones as I think up an answer.
Why can’t I stay?
Hmm , let’s see . . .
I’m trapped into repaying Jimmy Luciano’s debt while Enzo and Andre tear me apart in a vicious tug-of-war for who can fuck me over the most.
With a resigned sigh, I decide to give her the only excuse that makes sense. Reaching into my bag, I pull out my phone and show Riley the screen.
My phone is filled with images of the girls from dance class. Their cute tutus and goofy poses make me smile as they all attempt adorable arabesques, cramming into the tiny screen. Like a band of wobbly toddler flamingos, they melt my heart every single time.
“Look at these,” I say, scrolling through the gallery. “They’ve been bombarding me with these images several times a day.” I shrug, telling her plainly, “Who could deny those faces?”
I flip through a few more, especially the pics with filters—dog ears and rainbow vomit, oversized glasses and flower crowns. Their eyes sparkle with playfulness, each photo a shot of sunshine and happiness. And innocence .
The only anchor truly dragging me back is the menacing shadow of Andre D’Angelo. If Enzo forces me to return and I run, I know what will happen. Andre will strike like a shark, tearing Riley from her life without mercy.
I’d rather die than go back to Andre or Rocco. But if anything happened to Riley, I’d never forgive myself. I promised Da I’d look after her, and I damn well will.
If Andre D’Angelo is hellbent on doing his worst to one of us, then it’s decided.
It’s me.
What happens to me doesn’t matter. Keeping Riley safe is the only thing that counts.
“Is it because of your boyfriend?” she asks out of the blue.
My steps freeze. “What boyfriend?”
“That one there.” She points at the screen, indicating the single picture someone managed to snap of Enzo. It’s from before we left, when the girls were driving him nuts, surrounding him like he’d just sprouted a horn and turned into a glittery unicorn.
I can’t help but laugh, the memory momentarily lifting the weight off my shoulders.
Then, I notice Riley, her brow arched, definitely your boyfriend written all over her face as if she’s hit the nail on the head, dead center.
I finish off my cone. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“But he’s the reason you’re here in Italy, isn’t he? And the reason you have to go back?”
Wow. Riles is seriously batting a thousand here. “No,” I say, gripping the half-truth like a vine in quicksand. Yes, I’m here because of him, but that doesn’t make him my boyfriend .
Let’s forget for a moment that he’s a ruthless mob boss and a world-renowned player. The man only wants me for a week. That alone doesn’t exactly scream boyfriend material .
She plants herself in front of me, stern-faced, pointing her cone right at my face. “Why. Can’t. You. Stay?”
A wave of sorrow crashes over me as I remember a much younger version of myself asking Da the exact same question on the last night I saw him alive.
Did he know what might happen to him, the way I do now?
Channeling our sweet Da’s words, I simply say, “Because I can’t.”
“ Booo .” She frowns, eyes narrowing as she angrily chomps down the last of her cone. Then, her brows shoot up. “Isn’t that him?”
I spin around and there he is. Stubble grown out, wavy hair disheveled, and a suit that’s seen better days. Even from across the street, he looks like he hasn’t slept in a week—a complete walking disaster.
And yet, he’s utterly gorgeous.
We watch as he slips on his sunglasses, glances at his watch, and scans the area. When his gaze shifts in our direction, Riles and I instinctively turn around.
“It is him, isn’t it?” she whispers.
“No,” I lie.
“Then why are we hiding?”
“We’re not hiding,” I say, feeling the sharp yank of the leash. Of course, Truffles wants to dart into open traffic to play with his pal Enzo.
Truffles whimpers and hops, desperate to give us away. “Not now, little traitor,” I mutter under my breath, quickly whisking him up into my arms to hide him, too.
Slowly, Riley turns around to check him out some more. “He’s cute.”
Only Riley would refer to a living, breathing god as cute . “If you say so,” I reply, silently praying he doesn’t see us.
“Who’s that woman?”
What woman?
I whip around and see a beautiful woman in a form-fitting dress and painfully high heels rush into his arms, clinging to him like the last life raft on the Titanic.
He says something I can’t make out, hands her what looks like a thick wad of cash, then unpeels her from him and swiftly ushers her into a waiting van.
Then, several more women emerge from a building, filing into the van in a steady stream. They don’t all hug him or carry on like he’s God’s gift to women, but he hands each of each an equally large wad of cash.
“Did he just hand them all money?” Riley asks, as if reading my mind.
I can’t reply. My chest feels like it’s caving in, crushing my heart. Enzo makes me dry hump his leg, disappears for a day, and now he’s here, handing a woman in a tight dress a wad of cash.
Did she beg for his dick? Did they all? Is that what’s happening here?
Anyone can do the math. And by the look on Riley’s face, she just did it too.
I’m almost relieved when my phone rings. Until I see that it’s the jerkface himself. I look up to find him suddenly seated at a café, facing away as a waiter brings him water and a menu.
“Who’s that?” Riley asks, nosy as ever.
I ignore it and click it off. “No one important.”
When it rings again, Riley grabs Truffles. “Looks like Mr. No One Important really wants to talk to you. Tell him if he breaks your heart, I’ll kick him in the nuts. Repeatedly.”
I smile because I know she really will.
Then she adds, “And I left a little something in your purse, but now that I’ve seen your boyfriend ”—she exaggerates the word—“I doubt you’ll need it.”
Huh? I start digging through the tub-o-purse I lug around because I’m in a foreign country, and you never know when you’ll need a raincoat. Or an adapter. And don’t even get me started on the crap I carry around for Truffles.
I’m damn near tempted to dump it out right here on the sidewalk. If it’s a bag of those little Italian almond cookies, I want to shove them all in my mouth right now. “What did you leave in my purse?”
She doesn’t bother replying. She simply hugs me and flashes that evil smile of hers before skipping down the street, Truffles trotting after her, as they head towards the center of town.
Before I can rummage through my purse for whatever she stuffed in it, my phone rings again. I answer, “What do you want?”
“So many things, Bella ,” he says, all growly and rough. “Starting with, I want to know if you’ll have dinner with me tonight.”
“Funny, I thought we were having dinner last night. Since you didn’t show, tonight I’ll be having dinner with Riley. ”
His tone shifts, irritation rumbling beneath the surface. “You may not believe this, Bella , but there are aspects of my business that require my immediate attention.”
Like prostitutes? I don’t say it out loud, but the thought screams through my mind.
He sighs, “And as much as I’d like to spend every minute of this trip with you, the fact is I can’t stay tonight. That’s why we’ll be having dinner promptly at six.”
Am I the only one who noticed that he switched it from a question to a statement? I swear, the man is the living embodiment of frustration. “The answer is still no,” I say firmly.
“It wasn’t a request, Bella . We have a deal. You get time with your sister, and I get whatever the fuck I want. And tonight, I want dinner.”
A small part of me is desperate to know why he’s doing this. Collecting women like soccer trophies, yet still calling me.
And why his voice sounds so tired and worn. Though, with that many women fawning over him, I can probably guess.
Instead of telling him where he can shove dinner, I bite back the impulse and give in. “Fine,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “Six o’clock.”
“Six o’clock,” he repeats then disconnects.
I should be ready to storm off and leave, but I can’t. There’s an unsettling allure in watching him when he doesn’t know I’m here. It’s like observing a magnificent, wild lion on safari, lazily surveying his domain.
I take a seat on a bench and stare like a stalker as he lights a cigar and makes several more calls.
An hour into it, a stunningly dressed woman approaches, clearly asking if the seat next to him is taken .
He presses the phone to his chest and says something to her that, judging by the look on her face, is both offensive and threatening.
Sheesh .
She bolts without a second glance, and he continues his call as if nothing happened.
With a sharp crack in the air, Enzo snaps his fingers, summoning the waiter. He hustles over, pad and pen at the ready. Enzo scribbles something quick and sharp, tossing the pen back like it’s an afterthought. It’s probably the bill.
A sleek black car glides to a halt at the curb, its timing impeccable. Enzo rises, smooth and purposeful, and strides towards the car, where the driver already holds the back door open.
It’s then that for the briefest moment, his gaze locks onto mine.
Butterflies erupt in my gut, chaotic and relentless. The longer he stands there, the more my heart stutters, sending waves of heat crashing up my neck and cheeks, trapping me in my own skin—motionless, breathless.
Then, as if it was all in my head, he slips into the car without a moment’s hesitation. The door shuts and the driver returns behind the wheel. When the car disappears around the corner, just like that, he’s gone.
Why does this sting? Did I crave his attention? Is that why I’m still planted here?
“ Scusi ,” a voice interrupts my spiraling thoughts.
I glance up to see the waiter from the restaurant, handing me a small sheet of paper along with a menu.
The note reads:
Let the nice man know what you’d like for dinner.
See you tonight.