Page 1 of Single Mom's Mafia Daddies

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LILA

June—Seven Years Ago

My parents raised me to understand that the world wasn’t fair.

I also knew that unfairness had nothing to do with my success or failure in life. Mom and Dad sacrificed everything—even after Dad’s restaurant burned down—to send me to college.“You’ll be the first in our family to graduate college and make something of yourself.”That was what Dad always told me. I’d make the world my bitch and smile in her face every step of the way.

Slinging my messenger bag over my shoulder, I entered my first class of the day at West View College, literature, and came to a staggering stop.

When I read the bleak syllabus last night, I never expected to walk into the room and find an Adonis writing on the white board in beautiful, flowing cursive.

“Find a seat. Professor Michaels will arrive soon.” He didn’t spare me a glance. Not even a flicker. Long fingers held the blue marker in a loose grip. Muscles shivered and danced beneath a white button-up shirt, a lean torso leading to a tapered waist.

I tried to gauge his height, but the lecture hall's series of rising steps skewed my perspective.

Students filed in behind me, along with Professor Michaels. The gathering crowd pushed me toward the seats, and I reluctantly took one as I watched the Adonis take a solitary position at the side of the board.

Professor Michaels began the class with an in-depth discussion of Shakespeare. Classic literature. I ducked my head and sneered when a girl behind me brought up the list of books we were expected to read.

“This is a literature class.” Professor Michaels leaned a hip against his desk. “I’m afraid you’ll need to learn how to focus for more than thirty seconds and read the works yourself. No footnote or movie will give you the answers to your midterm or final papers.” He checked his watch. “That’s all for today. If you have any questions, contact my assistant.” He motioned at the man who’d not moved from the white board but remained as still and somber as a military guard. “Alessio Cavallo comes to us from Italy. You will address him as Mr. Cavallo.”

Alessio. I tested the name, rolling the syllables around in my mind and over my tongue. They had an exotic feel, a smooth texture that I longed to explore. Being young and having the advantage of enjoying life with a summer fling was one of the assumed rites of passage that came with college. Who better to spend that time with than a man of Alessio’s caliber?

I stood and gathered up my materials. A few girls scampered down the steps and formed a line in front of Mr. Cavallo. I snorted a laugh and rolled my eyes at their obvious displays of interest that he’d have no choice but to ignore, especially when the entire class watched with a sort of rabid interest.

A man like Alessio required a more subtle approach.

His voice rang out with the silky smoothness of velvet. My skin prickled at the sound and a rush of heat swam throughmy veins. Yes, Idefinitelyneeded to discover how to gain his attention.

A week later, my crush on Alessio Cavello had not abated. If anything, it had grown to such proportions that I intentionally instigated challenging discussions in class in hope of drawing him into the conversation. He couldn’t resist arguing the finer points of poetry, and I thrived on the bits of attention thrown my way.

“What you’re really saying is that Robert Frost was lazy.” I leaned forward in my seat.

Alessio shook his head and crossed his arms. “I’m saying every reader brings their own perspectives, biases, and prejudices into their reading. What you see in Frost, others will not. That is part of what makes poetry, and literature in general, a joy to read.”

We’d circled around this topic before, but Professor Michaels always stopped us before we delved into the finer points. He’d been called from class earlier and turned the remainder of the lecture over to Alessio.

One side of Alessio’s mouth rose in a cocky grin. “Anything else, Miss Carmichael?”

Oh, there were many more things I wanted to discuss, but not here and now. I grinned back at him, daring him to see the attraction punching through me.

“That’s it for today.” Alessio made his way toward the white board as the class exited through the side door.

Sunlight filtered in through the windows on my left, catching the highlights in Alessio’s hair and drawing me down the steps and up to his side. My pulse skipped and thrummed at my close proximity to the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. I kept my expression under control when he finally turned to face me.

“Yes?” Confusion tinted his tone, but the look in his eyes gave me strength.

The pull of attraction zipped through me, and I saw the reflection of it in his golden irises. “You made a comment on my last paper. I wondered if you could explain it.” I pulled the pages from my bag. Professor Michaels insisted on paper essays, and I’d found I enjoyed the simplicity of putting pen to paper, even if typed pages were easier to produce.

“Ah, you must mean my note about the irrelevance of personal experience.” He released a full-blown smile that tore the breath from my lungs.

“Well, you didjustsay that everyone brings their own perspective into their work.” I fanned out the pages. “That’s what I was doing.”

“Yes, but you made the point in your paper to explain that you have never been to Italy and therefore cannot expound on the glory of the area the book discussed.” He brushed his hands together and fluttered his fingers toward me. “That is like saying you cannot explain the taste of black coffee because you have only ever ordered fancy lattes.”

“That’s not the same,” I argued.