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14

ALESSIA

M usic fills my apartment, “Cruel Summer” spilling out of the speakers with a steady beat that matches the pulse in my veins. I stand in front of the mirror in my bedroom, leaning close to apply a final swipe of deep red lipstick. It’s a bold color, the kind that makes my mouth look just a bit more dangerous; I press my lips together, feeling the matte finish settle. I take a step back, studying my reflection.

My hair is pulled up in a high ponytail, my curtain bangs falling just slightly over my forehead. I push them back with a quick flick of my fingers, liking the way they frame my face. I’m wearing a black leather jacket— his leather jacket. I stole it from Romiro four months ago after he left it at my place, and I never gave it back. Underneath rests a short, cream-colored cotton dress. The worn leather smells faintly of him still, of smoke and something else, something that feels like trouble and safety all at once.

The music swells as I take a deep breath, feeling the excitement buzz under my skin. Tonight is different. Tonight, there’s no hiding, no pretending. I smooth my hands over the jacket, feeling the familiar weight of it on my shoulders, and I feel a shiver of anticipation rush through me.

Then, there’s a knock at the door, three sharp raps that echo through the room. I glance at the clock—he’s right on time, like always. I turn down the volume of the music, my heart pounding a little faster as I make my way to the door. I open it, and there he is—Romiro, leaning casually against the doorframe, a cigarette between his lips, smoke curling lazily around his face.

His dark eyes flick over me, and I see the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Hey, Red,” he murmurs, pulling the cigarette from his mouth and flicking it away. “Looking for trouble?”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “Maybe,” I reply, stepping aside to let him in. He steps forward, and as he passes, he leans in, his lips brushing my ear. “You’re gorgeous,” he whispers, his breath warm against my skin.

My heart skips a beat, and I turn to see him bending down to greet Mr. Marvin, who’s already winding around his legs, purring loudly. “Hey, buddy,” Romiro says, scratching behind his ears. “Keeping Red in line?”

I laugh softly, leaning against the door as I close it. “He’s doing his best,” I say, and Romiro straightens, his gaze locking onto mine.

He takes a step closer, and I feel the air shift between us, charged, electric. “You really are gorgeous,” he says again, his voice lower, rougher. His hand reaches out, brushing a stray lock of hair from my face, his fingers lingering against my cheek, just a moment longer than necessary.

I lean into his touch, my breath catching in my throat. “You’re not so bad yourself,” I manage, my voice a little unsteady. He’s devastating, and he knows it. His lips curve into a knowing smile, and he steps closer, his hand sliding down to my waist, pulling me to him.

He guides me backward, pressing me against the kitchen counter, the edge digging into my back, but I don’t care. His fingers are at my waist, then lower, pushing up the hem of my dress. I bite back a gasp as his hand slips under the fabric, his touch firm and unapologetic.

“Romiro,” I whisper, my hands gripping the edge of the counter, my knuckles white.

He smirks, his lips brushing against my neck. “What is it, Red?” he asks, his voice teasing, dark. His fingers find their way to the heat between my thighs, sliding against my panties, and I feel a rush of desire flood my senses.

“Oh, God,” I moan softly, my head falling back as his touch grows rougher, more insistent.

“Not God, Red,” he murmurs against my skin, his breath hot against my ear. “Romiro.”

His fingers slip beneath the lace, pushing inside with a swift, determined motion that makes me cry out, my body arching against him. He moves with a purpose, each thrust of his fingers rough, relentless. His thumb circles, teases, drives me closer to the edge. My breath comes in short, desperate gasps, my heart races, my body trembles.

I grip his shoulders, my nails digging into the fabric of his shirt, and he groans softly, the sound vibrating through me. “Come on, Alessia,” he whispers, his voice low, commanding. “Let go for me.”

I feel the tension coil tighter, winding through me like a spring about to snap, and then I’m there, shattering around him, my body trembling as I gasp his name—my voice breaking, raw and desperate.

He keeps going, his fingers pushing deeper, harder, until every nerve is on fire, and I can’t think, can’t breathe, can only feel. When I finally come down, my chest heaving, he pulls his fingers out slowly, watching me with a dark, satisfied smile.

He lifts his hand to his mouth, his gaze never leaving mine as he licks his fingers, tasting me with a look that sends another shiver down my spine. “Sweet,” he murmurs, his voice like velvet, his eyes blazing with heat.

I swallow hard, my heart still pounding in my chest, my legs weak, unsteady. “Maybe we should… we should stay in tonight,” I manage to say, my voice shaky, breathless.

He grins, taking my hand and pulling me toward the door. “Not yet, Red,” he says, his tone teasing, but there’s an edge to it, a promise of more. “But soon.”

We step out into the hallway. He leads me down the stairs, his hand firm and warm around mine, and I can’t help but smile, feeling light, almost giddy.

The drive to the diner is quick, the city lights flashing by in a blur of neon and darkness. He keeps his hand on my thigh, his fingers tracing lazy circles against my skin, and I feel a constant, steady pulse of heat wherever he touches me.

When we arrive, he pulls up outside the little diner, the one we always come to, our secret place, our refuge, the one that gave us hope. The lights are dim, the sign flickering softly in the night, and I feel a wave of nostalgia wash over me as we step inside. We might have been here the other night, but this feels different.

Greta gives us a knowing smile from behind the counter, nodding as Romiro leads me to our usual booth. A bottle of wine is already waiting on the table, two glasses beside it.

He pours us each a glass, his movements smooth, controlled. I watch him, feeling a warmth spread through me that has nothing to do with the wine. “So,” he says, his voice soft, a hint of a smile playing at his lips, “are we finally going to talk about this?”

I take a sip of my wine, feeling the warmth slide down my throat, and settle in my belly. “Talk about what?” I ask, feigning innocence, though my heart is pounding.

He leans forward, his eyes locked on mine, his expression serious now. “About us, Red. About what’s been happening between us for years.”

I bite my lip, looking down at my glass, then back up at him. “I thought it was obvious,” I say quietly. “I’ve… I’ve always had feelings for you, Romiro. I just didn’t think…”

He reaches across the table, his hand covering mine, his grip firm, reassuring. “Didn’t think what?” he asks gently.

I swallow hard, meeting his gaze. “Didn’t think you reciprocated those feelings.”

He laughs softly, his thumb brushing against the back of my hand. “You don’t understand do you?” he says, his voice warm, affectionate. “I’m completely obsessed with you.” He swallows before continuing. “I’m…fucked up. Someone like me doesn’t deserve to have you. But I’m done trying to stay away. I’m too selfish to not chase after the only person I’ve ever wanted.”

I feel a rush of warmth, my heart swelling with hope, and I smile, a real smile this time. “Then why didn’t you say anything?” I ask, my voice barely more than a whisper.

He shrugs, his eyes darkening slightly. “Because I was scared. Scared of what would happen if I let myself feel this… if I let you in.”

I nod, understanding more than I want to admit. “Me too. I don’t want to lose our friendship,” I whisper.

He lifts my hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to my knuckles. “We won’t be losing anything,” he says firmly. “From now on, you’re mine as much as I’m yours.”

I feel a surge of emotion, my throat tightening, and I nod, squeezing his hand. We sit there, holding hands, the wine forgotten, the world outside fading away, and for the first time in a long time, everything feels right. Everything feels like it’s exactly how it’s meant to be.

* * *

The sun is shining through the tall, arched windows, casting a soft golden pattern on the wooden floor as I make my way down the long hallway toward the dining room. I feel lighter, almost like I’m walking on air, with the events of last night still buzzing in my veins. I can't help the smile that tugs at the corners of my lips, a secret smile that I try to hide before I step through the doorway. I look fresh, I feel alive, and I know I look it, too.

I pause for a moment just outside the dining room, taking in the scent of fresh coffee and warm croissants that wafts out to greet me. My Mamma’s favorite, of course. The familiar sound of silverware clinking against china drifts through the slightly ajar door, accompanied by the soft murmur of conversation. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. This morning, I feel different, renewed, but I know I need to keep it to myself.

I push the door open gently, stepping into the room. The chandelier above is a cascade of crystals, catching the morning sun and scattering fragments of rainbows across the navy walls. The long, oval dining table gleams, polished to perfection, with its rich wood reflecting the light like a mirror. The silver place settings glint in the sunlight, perfectly arranged around delicate china plates with gold trim.

The room feels like it’s waiting, like it’s always waiting—every detail meticulously curated to create an air of elegance, a sense of old-world grandeur. The kind of room that doesn’t belong to the everyday; it’s meant for grand moments, for decisions that ripple through the lives of those seated at the table. Today, it feels almost too big, too grand, for a simple breakfast.

My eyes sweep over the tall, heavy curtains that frame the windows, a deep shade of emerald that contrasts beautifully with the navy walls. They’re pulled back just enough to let the light pour in, making the crystal glasses sparkle. The floral arrangement in the center of the table catches my attention—a burst of soft pink roses and ivory peonies, lush and fragrant, arranged in a silver vase. A touch of softness in a room that always feels so… serious.

Nonna is already seated at the head of the table, her back straight as an arrow, her silver hair perfectly coiffed. She glances up as I enter, her eyes sharp and assessing, but there’s a small smile on her lips. “Alessia, cara,” she says warmly, her voice like honey, but with an edge that tells me she’s not done with her questions from last time.

“Good morning, Nonna,” I reply, crossing the room to kiss her on both cheeks. Her skin is cool against mine, her perfume—a mix of gardenia and something spicier—envelops me.

Mamma is seated next to her, delicate and refined as always, with her hair pinned up neatly, her blouse crisp, her pearls shining around her neck. She looks up with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You look well-rested,” she comments, a little too casually, her gaze lingering on me like she’s trying to read between the lines.

“I slept well,” I say simply, taking my seat next to her. “How is everyone?”

“Oh, fine, fine.” Nonna waves a hand dismissively, her eyes still sharp, a small knowing smile playing at her lips. “But we are more interested in you, darling. Tell us about your date with Francesco.”

I feel my stomach tighten just a fraction, but I force a light laugh, reaching for a glass of orange juice. “It was… fine,” I say, carefully nonchalant. “We had dinner, talked a bit, and then we parted ways.” I’m not telling them he’s dead, courtesy of Romiro’s short temper. We may be a family in the Mafia, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any rules to go by.

Nonna’s smile widens just a bit. “Parted ways? So you didn’t have sex?” she asks, her tone amused. Papa chokes on a piece of toast, and my brother taps him on the back before handing him a glass of water.

“Celia! Please not at the dining table,” Mamma chastises.

“Oh, hush. Don’t be such a prude.” Nonna rolls her eyes at the horrified stare Mamma gives her. “No one has seen Frankie since your date. We thought you’d know something,” Nonna adds with a small giggle before taking a sip out of her morning coffee.

Mamma laughs softly, shaking her head. “Did you chase him away, Alessia?” she teases, but there’s an edge of curiosity in her voice.

I smile, playing along, hoping to keep it light. “Maybe he wasn’t up for a challenge,” I joke, taking a sip of my juice, feeling the cool liquid slide down my throat.

Mamma raises an eyebrow, her smile still in place. “He didn’t seem like the type to back down easily,” she says thoughtfully. “What happened?”

I shrug, trying to appear relaxed, though my heart is starting to race just a little faster. “Nothing happened, Mamma. He just… wasn’t interested, I guess.”

Nonna clicks her tongue, her eyes narrowing just slightly. “Not interested?” she repeats, sounding almost incredulous. “A handsome young man like that, not interested in our Alessia? I find that hard to believe.”

I feel a flicker of irritation but keep my smile in place. “Well, maybe I wasn’t interested in him,” I counter lightly, trying to steer the conversation away from where I know it’s headed.

Mamma leans in, her expression softening, but her eyes still probing. “You know, cara , it’s just one date. Perhaps another try? There are plenty of eligible young men?—”

I cut her off gently, but firmly. “Mamma, I appreciate it, really, I do but I’m just too busy with my shifts at the hospital. I don’t have time to go on another date right now.” Papa and Tristan manage to slip out without either Mamma or Nonna noticing. Traitors .

Nonna waves a dismissive hand. “Nonsense. Everyone has time for a little romance,” she says, her voice carrying that no-nonsense authority she’s perfected over the years. “We just want you to be happy, darling. That’s all.”

“I know, Nonna,” I say softly, reaching across to squeeze her hand. “But I really am busy. There’s so much going on right now. Maybe later, when things calm down.”

Mamma sighs, a small, resigned smile on her lips. “You’re always so focused,” she says, but there’s a hint of pride in her voice. “Just don’t let life pass you by while you’re too busy working.”

I nod, smiling. “I promise, Mamma. I’m not letting anything pass me by.”

Nonna gives me a long, considering look, then nods slowly. “Very well,” she says finally. “But don’t think you’re off the hook forever, young lady. We’ll find someone suitable for you eventually.”

I laugh softly, relieved they’re letting it go—for now. “I’m sure you will, Nonna,” I say, my voice light, teasing. “But until then, can we just enjoy breakfast?”

Mamma reaches for the teapot, pouring a cup of coffee with a graceful, practiced hand. “Of course, darling,” she says with a smile. “Tell us about the hospital. How have your night shifts been?”

I lean back, feeling the tension ease from my shoulders. “Busy,” I say, and I launch into a story about a recent case, knowing that this will keep the conversation away from Frankie, from dates, from anything I’m not ready to talk about.

As I speak, I feel the warmth of the room settle around me, the crystal chandelier above catching the light, the familiar sounds of family filling the space.