Page 37 of Bitter Poetry

I plaster on my most charming smile. “Boss’s orders.”

“You’re not even old enough to drive,” she says.

“I am aware of my age,” I say. “Davide is driving. I’m going to watch you… Make sure you don’t do anything wild.”

“Wild?” she chokes out, her face coloring.

Maybe she’s thinking about Dante going down on her.

“Like sweet, young pussy.”

Yeah, now I’m thinking about it too.

“Fine.” She snatches her purse from the table and the jacket from over the back of the chair. “Jessica, go collect your things.”

Her sister bolts out the door.

Carmela rounds on me the moment the door shuts. “What game are you playing?” she demands.

“Game?” I offer my best, fake-innocent expression. “Trust me. Carmela-watching was not my decision, babe.”

“Don’t call me that,” she mutters, fidgeting with the purse and jacket over her left arm.

All flustered.

Well, that was not the reaction I was expecting. I grin. I don’t know where the endearment came from. It just sort of popped out. Now I know it gets a rise, I’m sure as fuck going to be using it all the time. “I’m just a thug in the making. Limited vocabulary and all that. Please accept my apologies, Mrs. Gallo.”

Her eyes slam into mine—wounded. Her hand connects with my cheek. It sounds loud. It stings. It turns me the fuck on. I stroke my fingers over the place where the blow landed, savoring it.

She cradles her hand to her heaving chest. She put everything into it, and I’m guessing it hurt.

I want to uncurl her little fist and kiss it all better just to fuck with her some more.

“I’m not his wife,” she hisses.

“Yet,” I point out, still fighting the urge to soothe her sore palm.

“Yet,” she concedes, her eyes are a little wild, and I fucking love this look on her. “And I was mistaken when I called you a thug. You have many faces. You just choose to play that particular role sometimes.”

She’s not wrong.

“Something tells me in the days and weeks to come that you’re going to need something to rage at, someone to slap,punch, whatever.” I take a step closer, a contented sigh escaping me as I gather her hand and carefully uncurl her fingers. Touching her feels nice. Maybe wanting to hold her hand wasn’t only about fucking with her. “I’m here for you.”

She swallows and shakes her head like she can’t process the offer I just made. But she doesn’t take her hand back, and her eyes are on mine, guarded. “Dante?”

Yeah, she would ask about him. I’m just the brother she slaps.

“Left this morning,” I say, the bitterness returning, reminding me that this woman fucked up his life. “He was encouraged to take a position as capo. Don’t expect to see him again before the wedding.”

Confusion gathers in her expressive eyes. She tries to remove her hand from mine, but I like how it feels, all soft and tiny within mine, and tighten my hold.

“Why did you do that?” Her nostrils flare as she tugs on her hand. “Why did you send me to him?”

“Because I know he wants you. Because he doesn’t see the way you look at him when you think no one is watching. Because his mere name lights you up… But also because I’m a dick.”

She looks like she wants to slap me again. I’m good with that, so I release her hand and step back far enough to give her space to swing.

“You’re such a pig,” she snarls and stomps out of the room.