Sempre (Forever Series #1)(46)

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said, lying down.

“I was resting my eyes,” he said. “You look better, by the way. Not to say you looked bad to begin with, just that you look good after your shower. Yeah, that didn’t sound right. Ignore me.”

She laughed at his tongue-tied rambling and reached out, hesitating with her hand midair. He smiled reassuringly and closed his eyes, enjoying her light touch as she explored his face. She ran her fingers down his nose and across his forehead before threading them through his hair.

When he looked at her again, her expression stunned him. She looked awestruck, her hand stilled on his cheek, her eyes glassed over with unshed tears. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

“Do you . . . ?” She stroked her thumb across his cheek, sending tingling through him. “Do you really feel that?”

“It’s like you have static under your skin.”

“What do you think it is?”

“Colpo di fulmine?” he suggested. She stared at him, and he smiled. “I guess you’re gonna want a translation.”

“Please.”

“It’s when you’re drawn to someone so forcefully that it’s like being struck by lightning.”

She stared at him. “Okay.”

“Is that an, ‘Okay, you’re an idiot, Carmine, but whatever you say,’ or is it an, ‘Okay, that shit makes sense?’”

“It makes sense,” she said. “I don’t know what to make of it. It’s all new, and I don’t know what you expect.”

“I don’t expect anything, tesoro,” he said. “I can’t lie, I’m attracted to you, but we’re only gonna do what you wanna do. We’ll be whatever you want us to be. But I just want a chance. I’m asking you for a chance.”

“A chance to what?”

A chance to what? A chance to prove himself? To be happy? To be trusted? To be loved? To love her? To finally be someone worthwhile? “Just . . . a chance. I can’t promise it’s gonna be easy, or that it’s gonna be all happiness. I’ve never done any of this before, so I don’t know what I’m doing. But I’ll try to be good to you.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing either,” she said.

“We can learn together. Just tell me what you want from me, and we’ll figure the shit out.”

She smiled, but he could sense her apprehension. “You make me happy. I, uh . . . I don’t like being here when you’re not around.”

That had to have been hard for her to admit. “I can’t predict the future, but I’ll do anything I can for you. You’re taking a chance on me. I appreciate it, and I’m not gonna take that shit for granted.”

He pressed his lips to hers softly, and she smiled when he pulled away. “Wow.” She ran her fingers gently across his lips. “Your mouth is surprisingly sweet for saying such naughty things.”

He burst into laughter. “I think you’re delirious. How about we take a nap before you tell me I smell like sunshine or something.”

“You do smell like sunshine.”

“And how does sunshine smell?”

“It smells like the outside world. Warm. Happy. Safe.” She paused. “Green.”

“Green?”

She nodded. “Definitely green.”

* * *

Tarullo’s Pizzeria was a small establishment, owned by second-generation immigrant John Tarullo. He was what they called an omu de panza, a man with a belly, and La Cosa Nostra rewarded him for it. He minded his own business and looked the other way, and in exchange for his silence they made certain he thrived. Tarullo didn’t like relying on the mob—in fact, he’d told Vincent many times he detested the organization—but if it weren’t them, it would be someone else. Someone would come around expecting something from him, and it was better that that someone at least be a familiar face.

Vincent, personally, felt protective of the pizzeria. Tarullo had been the one to find Carmine the night he’d been shot, and Vincent would forever feel indebted to the man for saving his son.

It was something Tarullo would rather forget, though.

They never had much trouble at Tarullo’s Pizzeria, since everyone knew it was under protection after what Tarullo had done for Carmine, so Vincent was shocked when he received a call to go to the place years later. The moment he stepped inside the restaurant and heard the loud, disruptive voices, his hand settled on the gun concealed in his coat.

He stood still, surveying the men at the front counter, both Caucasian with sandy hair. Vincent assessed them as they bickered, their voices slurring. He wasn’t sure why he’d been called in for such a petty situation, but when the drunken men’s focus shifted to Tarullo, he took a step forward anyway. He barely made it three feet from the door when it opened, a single word booming through the pizzeria. “Zatknis!”

Shut up. It was one of the only words Vincent knew in Russian. He’d heard it barked many times in his life from the lips of the man now standing a few feet from him.

Vincent glared at him. He was tall and built like a linebacker, his gray hair concealed under a black cap. Although he was pushing seventy, the man had the mind-set of a psychopathic twenty-year-old assassin.

“Ivan Volkov,” Vincent said. “You’re not welcome here.”