24. I Should Have Made More Rules #3
Something flashed across her eyes. Her smile dropped, and she tilted her hip, changing her attitude completely. “Just say what you really think. You don’t like them.”
“I don’t see the point in so many of them, especially when it’s already hotter than the Sahara in here.”
“I’m not a corpse, Santino. Did you want me to freeze to death?”
“It’s twenty-three degrees outside.” I pointed towards the window and then saw it. My head nearly exploded. “If you’re so cold, why is that window open?”
“I got warm working out.”
“Then turn off the bloody heating and blow out the candles, woman. Common sense, no?”
Her blue eyes narrowed into a lethal glare. “Are you calling me stupid?”
“I’m just pointing out a very obvious fact.”
“Well, here’s another very obvious fact. You’re an asshole.”
She snatched up the mat, rolled it frantically, and stuffed it under her arm before shoving past me and down the hallway. I watched her ass wiggle away before she slammed the bedroom door shut with a bang. I cracked my neck. Patience. Find fucking patience.
Deciding to give her a minute to remember, I was supposed to be the only lunatic in this relationship, I walked over to my drinks cabinet in the dining room and poured myself a whiskey. I lifted the glass, paused, then frowned. Was there glitter in my drink?
I tilted it, watching it shimmer, and sniffed.
Not whiskey. Highly suspicious. Was she trying to poison me?
I took a sip anyway and nearly spat it across the room.
It tasted as if the tooth fairy had pissed in my glass and added a few grams of sugar to make all my teeth rot quicker.
She'd swapped my hand-picked, carefully aged whiskey for some cheap, girly cocktail. I took another sip, scrunching my nose. Actually… it wasn’t horrible.
Merda, was this the beginning of the end? Married life turned hard men into cocktail-drinking, candle-buying, cushion-philosophising dickheads. I should've made more rules. What the fuck was I thinking, giving her only two?
I headed out onto the terrace for some fresh air from the sweltering heat. My phone started ringing, and I smirked at the caller ID.
“Il suocero,” I answered, unable to resist winding Piero up with the greeting for father-in-law. “What do I owe this pleasure?”
“We need to meet. Somewhere public.”
“Business or pleasure?”
“Both,” he growled.
“What time?”
“Tomorrow. Eight PM. Trattoria San Vero.”
“My wife and I will be there,” I answered with a smile.
There was a pause before he lowered his voice. “Buccini. If you hurt my daughter in any way…”
I stilled at his tone. My jaw tightened, and I pushed my shoulders back.
“I won’t. You have my word.”
He scoffed. “Your word means nothing to me, but she does. If you have a heart at all, please don’t hurt her.”
“My word may mean nothing to you, Caruso, but I never say anything I don’t mean. She’s safe.”
“Tomorrow. Eight.”
I hung up and took another sip of the liquid candy. Perfect timing. Piero had just offered me a public alibi while my men raided D'Ardenzi’s shipments. Grazie, suocero.
The smell of something burning and the sound of swearing made me turn around and head back into my apartment.
Aria was standing in the kitchen, holding a charred piece of toast with melted cheese on top between her fingers, while smoke billowed from the oven.
The fire alarm kicked in, sending a horrendous, shrill wail through the place as I stormed towards the disaster zone.
This woman was turning into a liability.
“What are you doing?” I growled, turning the oven off the wrong setting she’d left it on.
“There is something wrong with your oven!”
“There is nothing wrong with my oven. You just had it on the wrong setting for…” I peered at the monstrosity she had dumped in the bin with disgust. “Were you making cheese on toast for dinner?”
“I’m hungry, and I don't know my way around this kitchen!” she shouted over the alarm. “I’m telling you, that oven is too sensitive!” She slammed her hands over her ears and winced. “Can you turn that thing off?”
I groaned, grabbed the back of a dining chair, and twisted it around so I could stand on it. I pressed all the buttons, but the alarm wouldn’t stop, so I ripped it off the ceiling.
Aria gasped, horrified. “What if there’s an actual fire?”
“You mean because of all the candles you bought, or because you plan to burn more student food?”
But she didn’t give me a snarky retort. I frowned as her face turned white and she kept staring at the broken alarm in my hand.
“Fix it,” she whispered, her eyes wide with fear. “Please fix it.”
I stepped off the chair and walked towards her, but she moved back from me, spun away, and raced back towards the bedroom.
I threw the alarm onto the kitchen countertop and braced my hands against the marble, shaking my head.
When she was in a room with me for more than a few minutes, she was trying to provoke me into losing my mind, or she couldn't get away from me fast enough.
She was in battle mode, fighting behind imaginary walls, mood swings, and silly games.
Then it hit me. It was all an act.
I smiled, seeing how positive this really was. She was freaking out because she was scared she might actually fall for me. All I had to do was break through that fear and make her see what we could be.
And I already knew at least one of her weaknesses to force her to stop overthinking. My body.
This battle required the ultimate weapon. It was time to bring out my slutty grey sweatpants.