Page 110 of Sins of the Orchid

A deep rumble sounded deep in his chest. “I’m not.” He kissed my forehead, making me close my eyes.

I love you!The words screamed in my soul, heart, and brain. Yet I couldn’t say them out loud. The fear of rejection held it all back.

Santi’s hand tightened on me, pulling me closer to him and my thoughts dispersed as I glanced at his face. Strong jaw. His full lips that could do so many sinful things. I dreaded losing him. It was difficult to keep my doubts and insecurities at bay. I wasn’t usually the girl filled with insecurities. He’d rejected me once. Even my own father rejected Mom in a way. She was his sidepiece. The men of the Cosa Nostra didn’t like independence in their women.

Santi hadn’t mentioned love. Yes, we had a lot of sex. Lust was not in short supply between us, but love… He said nothing about love.

Neither did you, idiot!My mind whispered. Though he assured me of our future. He planned on talking to Dad. If he wasn’t serious about us, he’d never talk to him. It was a good sign that he didn’t consider this a passing fling.

Ugh! Just stop it. I’d enjoy our time now. There was no reason to borrow trouble.

Yet, the feeling of worry didn’t fade. A sense of dread lurking somewhere in the shadows. Just like the man that wanted me dead.

It was ironic, really! Until recently I was certain, without an ounce of doubt, I’d never be part of the underworld. My goal was to finish college, kill the men that killed my mother and haunted me. Then I’d take over Regalè Fashion.

However, ever since Mr. Russo’s funeral, all my priorities had shifted, and they all revolved around Santino Russo.

Placing my hand over his chest, I focused on Santi’s even, strong breaths and clearing my mind. Slowly, as I matched my breaths to his, sleep pulled me under.

CHAPTER36

Amore

Santi’s motorbike came to a stop. He parked in the designated spot for motorcycles, and I slowly climbed off the back, then stepped onto the blacktop. This place became our favorite beach spot. It was right on the edge of the city and, more often than not, it was a fairly empty beach.

Taking my helmet off, I handed it to him. He secured it alongside his and climbed off the bike. We made our way to our spot, which was secluded, hand-in-hand. I could get used to a life like this—away from the Cosa Nostra, away from the Regalè empire. Just the two of us against the world.

Or with the world. It didn’t matter to me. As long as we were together.

A few of the locals I recognized from our earlier visits to this beach glanced our way and waved to us like they’d known us forever.

“Buon giorno,” they greeted us.

“Buon giorno,” both Santi and I responded in unison, waving back.

I could practically see us doing this for years to come, until we were both gray-haired and wrinkled. I shook my head at myself; I was too young to think that way. I had been falling for this man for years, but now, I was spiraling.

We came to the designated bathrooms and changing area. I had my swimming suit in my bag instead of wearing it since we stopped in Boccadasse, a tiny romantic village outside Genoa. Each time we visited that city, I saw it through new eyes. It constantly surprised me with the labyrinth of alleys and hidden gems, Boccadasse being one of them.

No wonder Richard Wagner, a romantic opera composer, fell in love with the city. So did I; this city and a man within it captured me completely and deeply.

Santi took me to taste gelato in the historical gelateria located by the beach. We hung out there for an hour, savoring our ice cream and watching the locals. He offered up stories of his childhood here and his grandparents that brought him here often.

“You did not do that?” I said, throwing my head back laughing.

“Unfortunately, I did,” he admitted with a smile, his dark eyes amused. “I went to the back of the ice cream shop, took the whole tub of ice cream and sat myself on the floor and ate directly out of it. One of the customers caught me and screamed like she just saw a cockroach.”

I laughed so hard that tears pricked at the corners of my eyes picturing five-year-old Santi in my head gorging on the ice cream.

After a few hours there, we found our way to the water. This beach was smaller and less secluded than our other one. We just wanted to dip our toes, then go back to our regular spot in the other town. I slipped my sandals off, held the hem of my dress, then stepped into the cool water. Playfully, I kicked water his way, wet drops getting on his shorts. He gave me a warning look, but a big smile ruined the threat.

I never wanted to leave the place. This was happiness and I wanted to grip it tightly, never letting it go.

His hands grabbed me by my waist and lifted me up into the air as I kicked my feet and giggled.

“Okay, okay. I won’t splash you anymore,” I chortled, grinning like a fool. “Take us back to our other beach, Santi.”

That beach would forever be ours, and my most favorite place to go to. This was nice but it wasn’t ours.