Page 5

CHAPTER 5

L ea

I’m wearing sassy red, but I can’t seem to find any sassiness to go with it.

I tried to ask more about Massimo’s wife to help Sarah out with her podcast, but all I did was bring the pain back to Massimo’s eyes. He didn’t kill his wife. I’m sure of that. But he’s still in the Mafia. He’s still a criminal.

“Would you excuse me?” I ask, sliding my chair back. “I-I need to use the restroom.”

Massimo nods and stands up, but I’m out of my chair before he has a chance to help. I hurry to the restroom, close the door, and take several deep breaths.

“Keep it together. Once we eat, the date will be over.” I lean against the wall for a moment, then walk over to the sink and turn it on. “I’m an expert at screwing up first dates, so this should be easy.”

I run some water on my hands and rub the back of my neck. The temperature in this outdoor restaurant is perfect, just like the rest of the island, but I’ve had several hot flashes since I sat down across from Massimo. Partially because I’m scared—partially because the attraction still lingers, even if common sense is winning that war.

The door opens and Monica walks in. I fumble with my purse and pull out my lipstick so that it looks like I have a reason to be in the restroom. Monica disappears into the stall. I stare at my reflection like I’m in a trance while my thoughts spin in every direction. When the stall opens, I snap out of it and start touching up my lipstick. Monica walks up beside me and turns on the water, then squeezes some soap into her hands.

“You okay?” she asks, giving me a side-eyed glance.

“Y-yeah,” I lie.

“You don’t look okay,” she remarks, washing her hands and turning the water off. “You look scared to death.”

Oh, god. Is it really that obvious?

“I got sick on the boat and I’m still feeling it,” I lie again. “I probably should have canceled this date.”

“He would have been disappointed,” Monica says. “My boss has known him a long time. He said it’s the first time he’s seen Massimo smile when talking about a woman in years. You must have made a hell of an impression on him.”

I force a smile that leaves my face the moment Monica turns away and walks out of the restroom. Somehow, that makes me feel even worse. But I have to stick with my plan, or whatever is left of it. I’m not going to run him off with sassiness because I can barely force myself to answer his questions. Staying closed off seems to be working. I don’t think he’s enjoying himself any more than I am.

I turn to leave the restroom and my phone buzzes in my purse. I pull it out to see I have a message from Sarah.

Sarah: Still alive?

Lea: Yes, it’s going horribly. I don’t think I’m going to get anything useful out of him.

Sarah: Why not?

Lea: He just wants to talk about me. I asked about his wife, but he didn’t say much.

Sarah: That’s what follow-up questions are for!

Lea: He didn’t kill his wife. I can tell. If you were here, you’d be able to tell, too.

Sarah: Did he say that?

Lea: I didn’t ask him that! Obviously! But I can tell.

Sarah: Try to get something useful! Please! You’ve listened to my podcasts before. Ask questions like I ask them.

Lea; I’ll try. I’m in the restroom right now. I need to get back to the table before he comes looking for me.

Sarah: I believe in you!

I sigh and shake my head as I put my phone away. I’m so conflicted. All I need to do is keep this miserable date going long enough to eat some of my dinner. Then I can say my stomach is bothering me, get back to my bungalow, and forget all about Massimo Morandi. I’ve done nothing that would encourage him to ask for a second date. The exact opposite, actually. He’ll probably be glad when this is over, too.

I take a deep breath, check the mirror, and adjust a few stray curls before leaving the restroom. Massimo’s icy blue gaze meets mine as I walk toward the table and he flashes a half-smile as he gets up and pulls out my chair.

“Welcome back, bambina ,” he says. “Are you feeling any better?”

“No, not really,” I admit, even though it isn’t for the reasons I’ve said.

“Maybe some food will help,” he says, motioning behind me and I glance over my shoulder to see Monica approaching with our plates.

“Yeah, maybe.” I nod in agreement.

One step closer to getting out of here. One step closer to forgetting all about those piercing eyes. One step closer to forgetting how incredibly attractive the man sitting across the table from me is.

“Thank you,” Massimo says to Monica as she puts our plates down in front of us.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” Monica asks.

“No, I think we’re fine.” Massimo glances at me and I nod in agreement.

“Yes, it looks delicious. Thank you,” I say.

My stomach rumbles when I inhale the aroma of chicken, pasta, and white sauce. I haven’t eaten since this morning and I’m starving now that the nausea has passed. But my stomach issues are my way out of here, so I can’t devour everything on my plate like I want to. Instead, I carefully carve off some chicken, twist some pasta around it, and take a timid bite. The taste is incredible and I can’t stifle the satisfied sigh that passes across my lips.

“It’s good, right?” Massimo asks, taking a bite of his food.

“Yes, it’s amazing,” I admit.

“Good! Want to try a bite of mine?” he offers, gesturing to his plate.

My hunger seems to have taken over now that I’ve had a bite of food. I nod apprehensively and take the bite Massimo nudges onto my plate. It’s even better than my chicken and pasta—way better.

“Wow,” I remark. “Yeah, that’s good.”

Massimo smiles. It looks so genuine, but foreign, like I’m putting a smile on the face of a man who hasn’t smiled in years. Isn’t that what Monica said? I glance at his hands as he takes a bite of his food. I immediately imagine them on my skin—touching places that have never been touched by anyone. I shake it off as soon as I feel some redness in my cheeks again.

“Tell me something interesting about yourself, Lea,” Massimo says. “Favorite color. Favorite book. Fondest memory. Anything. I want to know more about you.”

He’s still pushing, even though I’m trying to retreat into my shell. I can’t sit here in silence. That’ll be more uncomfortable than talking. I take a deep breath. If I’m going to share things about myself, then he has to do the same. I don’t want the details—well, not the horrible ones. But something… anything Sarah could use on her podcast.

“My favorite color is plum. My grandmother said it’s a perfect contrast for my eyes, so she’d buy everything she saw in plum,” I answer truthfully, unable to avoid a smile as I think about her.

“There’s that gorgeous smile I saw earlier,” Massimo comments. “You’ve been depriving me of it.”

I swallow hard and the smile leaves my face immediately. “My stomach… Okay, your turn.”

“Favorite color?” His blue gaze flicks between my eyes and my dress. “Right now I’m torn between emerald green and ruby red.”

I bite my tongue and grimace. I walked right into that one. Gave him an opening to compliment me. Even worse, I liked his answer. I shouldn’t, but it causes heat to radiate from my core and make everything that was previously nauseous tingle. I shove a couple of bigger bites of food into my mouth, followed by a generous sip of wine.

“A-as for books, I don’t really have a favorite,” I admit.

“Me either,” he replies, reaching for his wine. “I guess we have that in common.”

“You read?” I question, finding it hard to imagine him sitting in a corner with a Kindle or a novel.

“Sometimes,” he says, nodding and sipping his wine. “It’s been a while—my wife used to recommend books she thought I’d like.”

His wife. He brought her up this time. I take a deep breath. I may not get another opportunity to ask about her. But it could bring the pain back. Mentioning her didn’t do it like it did earlier.

“D-do you mind me asking what happened to her?” I suck air through my teeth as soon as the question leaves my lips.

“She was murdered,” he growls, pain radiating in his eyes for a moment, then it gets replaced by something dark—something almost sinister. “The cops thought I did it at first. Fucking assholes. Like I would…” He squeezes his eyes shut, exhales a long sigh, and gulps every drop of wine in his glass.

“I-I’m so sorry,” I stammer, trying to find the courage to keep pushing, despite his reaction. “M-murdered? Did they ever find out who did it?”

“The cops? No.” His gaze turns into a distant stare, like he’s lost in a memory. “The cops didn’t do a damn thing except make my life hell until they realized it was a dead end.”

He reaches for the bottle of wine and pours another glass. I should decline, but I slide my glass over so he can top me off. He’s opening up. This isn’t enthralling content, but it’s genuine. I wish I didn’t feel so bad for asking about her. It feels wrong, even if he’s in the Mafia. Even if he’s a dangerous criminal who is next in line to run his family’s empire.

“I can tell you really loved her,” I say, my heart aching as the pained expression returns to his face. “I-I don’t mind if you want to talk about her.”

He drinks more of his wine. I do the same. He pushes his plate away and rests his forearms on the table. There’s so much pain and I’m the one causing it. Well, I didn’t cause it, but I’m bringing it to the surface. Criminals can love. Criminals can hurt. He’s still a human being, underneath all that ink.

“Fuck it. I may never get a chance to talk about her again,” he sighs, his thumb rubbing the spot where his wedding band used to be. “Layla was the first woman I ever loved. Only woman I ever loved. We were so close to having everything we dreamed of… she was pregnant when…” He squeezes his eyes shut and looks away.

“Oh, my god!” My hand flies to my mouth. Sarah didn’t mention that. I really wish she had. “I…”

“Love doesn’t die just because you’re forced to say goodbye,” he mutters, his fingernail digging into the pale outline.

“No, it doesn’t,” I admit, doing my best to fight off the tears that glisten in my eyes. Before I even know what I’m doing, I reach out and put my hand on his. “It lingers after they’re gone. I’m so sorry, Massimo. We don’t have to talk about this.”

“It’s fine,” he sighs, his thumb tracing my index finger and sending a pulse through my body. “After this week is over, it won’t matter.”

“W-why?” I question apprehensively.

“Nothing,” he growls, an emotion I don’t recognize flickering in his eyes. “I didn’t take my ring off because I was finally ready to move on. Ready to meet someone new… You were something of a surprise.”

I feel like a broken record as I stammer the same question again. “W-why?”

He squeezes my hand and raises his head, trapping me in his icy blue gaze. I can’t look away. Don’t want to look away. All the emotions inside of me are in conflict. His touch is making my core tremble—no, I think my entire body is trembling except the hand he’s squeezing.

“You made me feel something.” He lets out a sharp exhale. “First time I’ve felt a damn thing since… I lost everything.”

Oh, god. He feels something? For me ? This date is going in the wrong direction. I’m supposed to make him forget about me, not make him remember me. Not make him feel something. But I can’t even pull my hand away. The tension inside me is so tight it hurts.

Thankfully, Monica’s arrival causes him to let go and I quickly tuck both of my hands in my lap.

“Did you two save room for dessert?” Monica asks, flashing us both a smile.

“I’m fine,” Massimo answers, but it doesn’t sound like he’s referencing dessert. He motions to the menu and shoots me a glance. “You want anything?”

“N-no, I think I’m ready to go,” I manage.

“Have a good evening!” Monica smiles and nods to us, then turns and leaves the table.

“No check?” I question, glancing at her.

“Not when your family owns the entire fucking resort,” he mutters, yanking his wallet out of his pants and throwing money on the table. “But she deserves a tip.”

Wait. His family owns the entire resort? Why did I pick Twelve Palms? It was the most expensive option, and there were several others that would have been perfectly fine. But no. I had to choose the Mafia resort. Is everyone here in the Mafia? I look around, feeling a twinge of fear. Nobody sticks out like a sore thumb—except Massimo. I think that’s because I already know who he is.

“Let’s go,” Massimo says, standing up and walking around to help with my chair. “I’ll walk you back to your room.”

My bungalow. That’s where I need to be right now. Not following Massimo out of a restaurant. Not feeling things bubbling inside me I don’t understand. I’ve never felt a connection to any of the guys I’ve dated. I’m sure that’s why there are never any second dates. But I feel something now. Something foreign and strange. A flutter—a tingle—a heat .

What if he’s walking me to my room because he expects me to invite him in?

Oh, god.