Page 11 of Tall, Dark, and Grumpy

Miss Cassie Meadows.

I stare at the message.

Amore mio dolce

Hi

My phone doesn’t sound for anyone. Not my brothers, Sev and Rafe, not anyone from Milan where I’ve lived most of my adult life. No one interrupts me.

Except for Miss Meadows.

I turned on alerts for her, because I have to know whenever she contacts me. Whenever she’s thinking of me, I want to relish that, even if it’s only because she’s responding to messages about work.

She’s never initiated a conversation.

Until now.

One word, on a Friday night she insisted on having off and I agreed against my every instinct. I grip my phone as though it might run away. I somehow fear if I stop looking at her one precious word, it will disappear.

“What is it?” Sev asks from the other white leather sofa. We’ve spent the evening together discussing London mafia politics, and he’s been trying to convince me to join the London Mafia Syndicate. I invited him over at the last minute, and he’s been a good sport about my bad mood.

I ignore him, and try to figure out what to reply.

“Are you even listening to me?”

“No,” I reply, and type out a reply on my phone.

Vito

Hello.

For a second, that’s all I can think to say. She says hi, I respond. I will be at the end of the phone anytime she needs. The typing dots appear, then stop. Then start again.

She’s talking to me outside of work. Why?

“Fuck’s sake, Vito,” Sev grumbles, half annoyed, half amused, which is his natural state. All of the Blackwood brothers’, to be honest. “You’ve been away for twenty years and now you’re back, and we’ve hardly seen you in a month. You invite me over for the evening, barely talk, and now you’re on your phone.”

“Vaffanculo.”

“You can swear at me, but you know I’m right.” Sev shrugs.

And the infuriating thing is, that’s probably true.

Amore mio dolce

Soz

I mean, sorry.

No, I don’t. You always message me in the evenings. Not sorry.

Vito

Is everything alright, Miss Meadows?

“Who are you messaging so secretively?” Sev swirls whisky in his glass. Disgusting smoky paint stripper. Wine or beer are so much better.

“It’s just work.” And I’m not sure whether that’s a lie. But I know I wish it were.