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Allegra
Once the house is in decent shape and I have plenty of throw pillows, I run out of stuff to do.
It’s kind of pathetic. I find myself obsessing over meaningless little projects like tightening doorknobs and using a level to get pictures perfectly straight. Gian keeps shaking his head whenever he finds me elbow-deep in some new household project, and one afternoon he can’t seem to hold back anymore.
“You need to get out of here.”
“Sorry?” I slide out from under the sink where I was tightening the bolt that keeps the faucet in place. It felt a little wiggly. “I’m not—” I sit up too fast and slam my head into the edge of the cabinet.
“Oh, shit.” Gian’s down at my side, helping me out and checking my head. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Just a bruised ego. And a bruised head.”
“Come here, sit down.” He steers me to a chair and gets me seated before rustling up an icepack. “Hold this on the wound.”
“It’s not a wound,” I mutter.
“Since when were you so handy? From what I remember, you didn’t know the difference between a screwdriver and a hammer.”
“That’s exaggerating it a little bit.” I glare at him, but he’s not wrong. I grew up a spoiled little mafia princess—tools and I didn’t get properly introduced until later in my life. “I’m just trying to stay productive, okay?”
“You could always go back to work.”
“I’m thinking about it.” I groan and lean forward. “God, my head’s killing me.”
He decides to leave it there, pours me a glass of wine, and we spend the rest of the evening watching a movie together before hitting bed early. Which means copious filthy sex to the point that I pass out and only move again when the sun’s rising the next morning.
But Gian’s right. The bump on my head proves it. I need to get the heck out of the house for a while. When he leaves for work—which means hanging around the Rossi house waiting for Renzo to give him a job while he figures out what’s next—I head out to that little coffee shop I like with my laptop.
There are other young professional-types hammering away at their keyboards. I sip a latte and wish I could be more like them. After I graduated from college, I never moved out of my father’s house. That was basically taboo: a girl my age should either live at home or get married, no other alternatives. And since I couldn’t meet a decent guy to save my life, I remained in my childhood bedroom.
Those years taught me a lot about myself. While my father always viewed my work as a silly little game to keep me distracted, I realized pretty fast that it was the most fulfilling thing in the world. Screw sitting around at home waiting for Mr. Mafia Prince to come sweep me off my feet. I wanted to take control of my life, and I think that’s what motivated Sophia to apply to nursing school, even though I doubt she’ll ever use the degree. She saw how happy I was, and she wanted a piece of that.
Thinking about Sophia is depressing as crap though. I finish my latte, order another one, have to use the bathroom like three times, before I finally stop pretending like I’m working and head back to the house. It’s a quick walk, and as I get close, I start to slow then stop.
There’s a car in the driveway that I don’t recognize.
Fear lances into me. It’s probably paranoid since Gian and I haven’t exactly been in the center of the war, but I can’t help myself. Another thing my father drilled into my skull: our lives are dangerous, and I have to be careful at all times. But as I get closer, I realize there’s a note left under the windshield wiper written on simple white paper.
It’s Gian’s handwriting.Allegra. I hope you like your new car. The keys are on the front right tire. And I hope this will keep you from knocking down walls. The house can only handle so many amateur home improvement projects.“Asshole,” I mutter, smiling to myself.Come meet me at The Suburban in Center City tonight at six for drinks. In the meantime, update your resume. Love, Gian.
I run my fingers down the hood, smiling to myself. It’s a black BMW, top of the line for this model. I sit behind the wheel, running my fingers up and down the steering wheel. It smells brand new. Where the hell did he get this thing on such short notice? But that’s the power of money. Wave it around and someone will take it eventually.
Gian’s not the person I expected. I kept imagining a self-centered asshole, a massive dick of epic proportions, and not in a good way. Instead, he’s shockingly attuned to my needs.
This is one of the nicest gifts I’ve ever been given.
Because, in a lot of ways, it’s freedom.
Parking in Center Cityat freaking rush hour is an absolute nightmare. “Fucking asshole,” I grumble to myself as I circle the block for the thousandth time. “Never should’ve given me this car.” Right now, in the middle of my rage, this BMW is a curse.
Eventually, I give in and find a spot in a paid parking garage a couple blocks from the bar. I find Gian already sitting on a stool with a whiskey in front of him and a gin and tonic waiting for me. I slip into the spot on his right and he leans over to kiss my cheek. “What do you think?” he asks.
“It’s a decent spot,” I say, looking around. The Suburban has the feel of an old-school diner with modern touches. There’s lots of gleaming chrome, plenty of seating, and the bar area’s framed with fake wood. Young professional fresh out of work linger in the booths.
“No, I mean the car.”
“That old thing?” I give him a sly smile as he glares. “I love it. Seriously, thank you.”
