Page 53 of Wicked Sinner

"He was." I fidget with the paper napkin, thinking about how different this is from the fancy restaurants Caesar has taken me to. "This probably isn't what you had in mind when you suggested a date."

"Actually, it's perfect." He reaches across the table to cover my hand with his. "I'm getting to see a side of you I've never seen before."

"What do you mean?" I feel my shoulders tense slightly at his touch. It feels good. Too good. He hasn’t run away screaming yet, and a part of me wishes he would. It would make things easier. Would confirm that we’re all wrong for each other, that we can’t possibly be compatible, if he’d balked at eating here and demanded we go somewhere else.

"You're relaxed here. Happy." His thumb strokes over my knuckles. "You look like you belong."

“Is that a compliment or an insult?” I tease, trying to break up the moment with humor, but Caesar doesn’t let me.

“You know which it is,” he says calmly, not letting go of my hand.

The waitress returns with our milkshakes—thick, old-fashioned chocolate malts topped with whipped cream and cherries. Caesar takes a tentative sip, and his eyebrows go up in surprise.

"Good?" I ask, amused by his expression.

"Better than good." He takes another sip. "I don't think I've had a real milkshake since I was a kid. This is more sugar than I’ve had in years."

"What did you do for fun when you were growing up?" I ask, wondering what his answer could be. Fun probably isn’t high on the list of activities for a mafia kid.

Caesar’s expression turns guarded. "My idea of fun and my father's idea of appropriate activities didn't always align."

“So, nothing fun.” I bite my lip, stirring my straw in my shake. “Target practice? Kicking puppies? What are mafia kids supposed to do?”

Caesar looks at me, a glimpse of annoyance on his handsome features. “Not everyone in the mafia is an evil bastard,” he says flatly. “I know that’s the trope, but—”

“You kidnapped me,” I remind him, and he sighs.

"I liked cars," he says finally. "Fast cars, motorcycles, anything with an engine. I used to sneak out to go to illegal street races when I was sixteen."

My eyebrows shoot up, and I feel a tingle of excitement run through me—followed quickly by my heart dropping in my chest. Why does he have to be a mob boss?

An asshole with enemies and a world that I don’t belong in?

This just makes meeting him, seeing him, wanting him, all feel so much more unfair.

"I assume your father didn't approve?" I manage, shoving the feeling down.

"He thought it was beneath the heir to the Genovese family." Caesar's smile is bitter. "He wanted me to spend my time learning about the business, about power and control. About becoming a man like him, which is exactly what I didn’t want to be."

I want to ask more about why he left. But I want him to open up, to be the one to share all of what happened with me. If he’s going to be honest, as he promised, then he will.

Which means part of me also wants him not to. Then, it’ll be easier to walk away. I can point and say he wasn’t honest. He didn’t share all of himself with me. He kept secrets.

I can tell myself that Isabella knew my husband better than I do, and use that to comfort myself when I’m alone after all of this, wanting a man I should never have allowed myself to have.

The food arrives, and for a while we eat in comfortable silence. Caesar digs in enthusiastically, and I can't help but smile at the sight of this powerful, dangerous man eating a four-dollar hot dog.

"What?" he asks, noticing my expression.

I bite my lip. "Nothing. You just… you look different here." I draw in a breath, watching him. I never thought someone could look sexy eating a messy hot dog, but somehow, he pulls it off.

Caesar sets his food down, looking at me cautiously. "Different how?"

"Younger. Less..." I search for the right word. "Less weighed down. More like you did the night I met you," I admit. “You were cocky and arrogant, but you seemed so much younger that night. After you came back, it was like you’d aged ten years.”

“Thanks,” he says sarcastically, and I roll my eyes.

“I don’t mean it like that. I just mean—”

“I know what you mean.” Caesar runs a hand through his hair.

“The day after I met you, everything started. Meetings with Konstantin, demands to get married, insistence that I might not be the one to inherit all of this. I felt like I aged. And being here with you, like this, eating food I wouldn’t normally eat and pretending to be normal—” He lets out a dry laugh. “It does make me feel better.”

“But you couldn’t do it every day.” I look at him from across the booth, feeling that odd ache in my chest again. “You couldn’t live like this.”

Caesar shoots me a look. “I thought we agreed not to talk about that today.”

I let out a breath, reaching for my milkshake, and nod. “You’re right.” But it’s impossible not to think about it. Not to think about the fact that there’s no way this man could live this life with me, day in and day out.

After lunch, I drive us to the only roller rink left that’s open during the day. It’s nothing fancy, and I see the expression on Caesar’s face as we walk in.

"Roller skating?" Caesar looks at the rink with something that might be alarm. "Bridget—"

"Come on." I'm already walking toward the skate booth. "When was the last time you did something just for fun? Something completely ridiculous and pointless?"

“I’m not sure I—

"Exactly." I grab his hand and pull him toward the rental booth. "Time to live a little, Mr. Genovese."

Fifteen minutes later, we're both wobbling around the rink on rental skates that have seen better days.

Caesar, who moves with lethal fluidity in every other situation, is struggling to stay upright on wheels.

I can't stop laughing at the look of intense concentration on his face as he grips the wall.

"This is harder than it looks," he mutters, taking a careful step forward.

"You're overthinking it." I skate backward in front of him, showing off skills I haven't used since I was twelve. "Just relax and let the momentum carry you."

"Easy for you to say. You're not about to fall on your ass in front of your wife,” he mutters, and I stifle a laugh. He hears the sound and looks up at me, a gleam in his eyes that makes my heart stutter in my chest.

"Your pregnant wife," I remind him. "If I can do this, so can you."

He takes his hands off the wall and manages a few unsteady strides before grabbing my arm for support.

We end up laughing and stumbling together, and for a moment I forget about everything else—the danger, the forced marriage, the fact that all of this is, ultimately, pointless.

Caesar hasn’t told me I shouldn’t be doing this, and I haven’t seen his security anywhere, even though I know they must be watching us from afar.

For a moment, we're just two people having fun together.

By the time we leave the rink, the sun is starting to set, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange. I drive us to a small beach that's always been my favorite thinking spot.

"One more stop," I tell Caesar as we park near the water. "The best part of any day in South Florida."

The beach is nearly empty, just a few joggers and dog walkers enjoying the cooler evening air. I kick off my shoes and walk toward the water, feeling the sand between my toes and the salt breeze in my hair.

"This is where I used to come when I needed to think," I tell Caesar as he joins me at the water's edge. "When my dad got sick, when I was trying to figure out how to keep the shop running, when life felt too complicated to handle."

I can feel his eyes on me. “What happened?”

“Lung cancer.” I let out a breath through my nose, curling and uncurling my fingers. “He never smoked around me, but he definitely smoked a lot. I’d see the empty packs in the trash. I think I knew it was coming—I always worried about it—but it was something different to see it happen.”

“I can imagine that would be hard,” Caesar says softly, and I nod, feeling my throat tighten.

“The hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.” My hand comes down briefly to touch my stomach. “Part of me is glad I don’t have to explain this to him, and the rest of me is so fucking sad he’ll never meet his grandchild. It’s hard, losing someone you love.”

Caesar presses his lips together, looking at me thoughtfully. “Yes,” he says finally. “It is.”

We stand there in silence for a few moments before he speaks again. “What would you think about when you came out here?”

"Everything. Nothing." I wade into the shallow water, letting the waves wash over my feet. "Mostly I'd just try to remember that problems that seem huge in the moment usually have a way of working themselves out. One way or another."

“I’ve found that’s true,” Caesar says quietly, and I turn to look at him. He's standing in the sand with his expensive shoes in his hand and his shirt sleeves rolled up, looking more relaxed than I've ever seen him.

The sun is almost touching the horizon now, turning the water into liquid gold. Caesar moves closer, reaching for my hand.

"Thank you," he says quietly.

I glance over at him, not pulling away. I promised, after all, even if I can feel the soft warmth spreading through me, a feeling that is far too dangerous for us. More dangerous, maybe, than anything else in his world. "For what?"

"For this. For showing me your world, for letting me see who you are when you're not afraid or angry or planning your escape." He steps closer, and I can see the intensity in his dark eyes. "For giving me a glimpse of what normal would look like for you.”

"Caesar—"

But he's already leaning down to kiss me, and whatever I was going to say dissolves in the heat of his mouth on mine.

This kiss is different from the desperate, hungry ones we've shared before.

It's soft and sweet and warm, but it goes on for so long that when we break apart, we're both breathing hard.