Page 25

"Good girls listen, don't they?"

I can barely breathe, never mind speak. Not when he's this close, but none of his questions are ever rhetorical. He wants me to answer him.

I nod.

"And I said slow down, did I not?"

Again, with wanting me to admit it when we both know the answer.

"Yes," I whisper.

Sam pulls back. It’s abrupt, and the loss of his palm on my cheek makes me feel cold. He snatches the wine bottle off the table and stands, knocking on the door to the kitchen.

"No more wine," he announces, and the same girl reappears, taking the bottle from his hands and scurrying back into the kitchen.

I sink into my seat, feeling like a child who's been chastised and had their toy taken away. It's wrong that he's somehow able to make my body long for his touch while simultaneously humiliating me with his controlling nature.

I want to do nothing more than run upstairs and hide under the obnoxiously fluffy duvet.

Sam takes the seat next to me as the same woman reappears, this time with two salads on glass plates in her hands. Wordlessly, she sets them down on the gold chargers that mark our place settings.

"How many people work here?" I blurt out, desperate to change the subject.

Sam chuckles. "A few. Why?"

"How rich are you?" I snap my mouth shut after the question pops out. I can practically hear my mother’s voice in theback of my head, telling me it's impolite to talk about money. That’s on the list of things you should never discuss in public: money, politics, and religion. For a long time, I thought that list was to keep me from offending anyone or having awkward conversations. Now, I think people spout off that list so no one compares notes or injustices.

The corner of Sam's lips tic in the slightest smile. I don't think he's going to scold me the way my mother would. I think he's amused.

"Rich," he answers simply.

"Obviously." I wave my hand, gesturing to the opulent house we're currently in. Sam laughs softly.

He hasn't flat out told me what he does for a living, but the knowledge lingers between us.

Mafia… Criminal. Gangster.Killer.

The last one reminds me that I should be afraid of the man I'm sharing a table with. I did see him kill someone, after all.

The memory of that night flashes through my mind—the sound of the gunshot, the way the man's body crumpled to the ground.

Another question’s on the tip of my tongue, and before I can debate asking it, it pops out. "Who was he?"

Sam's eyebrow lifts. "Who?"

"That man…"

Sam's jaw tightens, the muscles flexing beneath his skin. His eyes darken, losing that playful glint from moments ago. "My uncle."

"Why would you-"

Sam's hand slams down on the table, making the silverware jump. My cheeks heat. This was stupid. I shouldn't have asked.

"That's enough questions." His voice is like ice, sending a chill down my spine. Gone is the man who touched my faceso gently moments ago. In his place sits someone dangerous, someone who makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

I stare down at my salad, pushing a cherry tomato around with my fork. The silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable. I shouldn't have pushed. The warning my grandfather gave me rings in my ears —the Costellos are dangerous. I'd let myself forget that for a moment, caught up in Sam's charm and gentle touches.

But this man, the one sitting next to me with tension radiating off him in waves, this is the real Sam Costello. The one who puts bullets in people's heads. Even his own family.