Page 14

Standing in front of me, darkening the doorway to my fucking kitchen, is Marco De Luca.
For a second I'm just struck by the presence that he has.
Marco isn't just a person. I swear to God he's like a force of nature. Standing in the doorway, backlit from my crap kitchen light, his dark gaze sears into me, like some kind of primal god of storms.
His hair is dark, but flecked in places with silver. I know he's not old, exactly, but pushing toward forty, a solid decade older than I am. I like that he hasn't done anything about the flecks of lightness there.
I like that he doesn't seem to care.
I know, however, that the choice is probably intentional. Because everything about Marco is intentional. Even the outfit he has on, jet black pants and an equally black button-down shirt, must have been chosen because of its complete lack of remarkable.
Or, the ability that it gives him to blend into the shadows.
His face looks like it's carved from marble. Tan skin, dark eyes beneath eyebrows that are more than a little severe, and a Roman nose all give him a very, very stern face.
However, his lips ruin the harshness of his other features. They're unfairly plump, and they remind me of every sinful fantasy that I've ever had about him.
Some of those fantasies, though, aren't just fantasies...
They're memories.
I remember his lips, and how they curved over mine. How they demanded, with words and actions, that I open for him.
How they look wrapped around my nipple. How they feel, skating over my skin.
The tender touch of them before they hit the edge of the tattoo...
Fuck.
"Marco," I say, finally standing to do something about the record that's screeching at us still. I pull the needle off of the record, the slight scratch a jarring noise that sets my nerves on edge.
I tell myself that, anyway. And that it's not the presence of Marco, crackling over my shoulder like a thundercloud.
"I see you made it back just fine," I mutter.
I'm not sure why I'm trying to provoke him. He's still just... standing there. Taking up space in the doorway to my kitchen.
Staring.
For a second, my mind goes straight to the fact that Marco De Luca isn't exactly my friend.
After all, my brother kidnapped his sister. Tried to kidnap his niece. Killed one of his aunts.
His track record with the MacAntyre clan isn't really stellar.
Something in me, though, doesn't think that he's here to hurt me.
He came back. The night before the trial.
If he didn't want to show up for it...
He wouldn't have.
"Marco. Say something," I bark.
He shifts, moving forward. For a second I think he's going to touch me, but then he brushes past me...to the stairs.
"Marco," I whisper. I'm not sure if he can hear me.