The difference between him and Dominic is like stepping from a cold room into warmth, but I’m still wary. I won’t let his kindness lull me into a false sense of security. I did that once with Mick and look where it got me.
Dominic is part of the mob, and that’s something I can’t ignore. He roughs people up for a living—or possibly worse—and that scares the hell out of me.
I’m not looking for another relationship, and I’m not even sure you could call us friends, but the last thing I want to do is jump out of the frying pan and straight into the fire.
I’m done being that naive girl who ignores the danger just for the thrill. No more pretending that the rush is worth the risk, and no more convincing myself that I can handle what I clearly can’t. I’ve paid the price for that, and I’m not willing to do it again.
Dominic might be tempting, dangerous, even a little intoxicating, but I won’t let myself be swept away just because it feels good. Not this time.
I glance back down at the bottle in my hand. “I’m not even sure how much of this I can have.”
“Five to ten mills every four hours,” he replies.
“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”
He clears his throat. “I’ve had to take it a time or two when I haven’t had tablets at home.”
“Is this Peach’s?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“That’s sweet that you carry it with you when you’re out.”
My statement has his brows pinching together. “It’s not sweet,” he growls. “It’s sensible. I can’t predict when she’ll get a fever or hit her head or something.”
My eyes widen slightly. “Does she hit her head often?” I ask because that seems like a weird thing to say.
He looks away and scrubs his hand over the back of his neck. “Once when she was learning how to walk, she fell and hit her head on the leg of the side table.” His eyes move back to me, and I see the conflict behind them. “She’s got a little scar right here,” he says, pointing to his hairline just above his temple. “I had to take her to the hospital. I still feel sick to the stomach every time I do her hair and see it. It was an accident, but I was terrified Mary was going to take her away from me.”
“Mary?”
“Lil’ Peach’s caseworker from DOCS.”
I just sit here, staring up at him as a sudden burst of warmth floods through me. This man is such a conundrum. The way he loves and cares for that little girl is something else.
Daylight doesn’t make me feel any less uncomfortable. If anything, it makes everything feel sharper, too bright, too real. I’m sitting at the dining table with Dominic, Peach, Lucia, and her husband, Romeo—whom I just met for the first time—eating breakfast.
He hasn’t exactly been rude to me, but he carries thesame growly, intimidating vibe as Dominic, like they were born with permanent frowns and shoulders built to block out the sun.
It’s a stark contrast to the mobsters I witnessed at the Christening a few days ago. As a whole, they almost seemed normal … jovial even, but that may have had something to do with the endless supply of top-shelf alcohol flowing like water.
Sober, and in broad daylight, there’s a heaviness to them. A quiet kind of danger that settles into the room.
I’m trying hard not to fidget or look like the outsider sitting stiffly in a chair, surrounded by people who could make me disappear with a single phone call.
My eyes move over the elaborate spread before us. I’ve never seen a layout like this. The entire table is covered, and I don’t know where to look first. Do they eat like this daily? I’m used to Vegemite on toast, a bowl of cereal, or, on my days off, bacon and eggs. To me, this is overkill.
There’s a basket overflowing with warm cornetti, they’re golden, flaky layers dusted with sugar. Next to them sits a platter of fresh fruit—figs are split open to show their ruby centres, sliced peaches, and glossy grapes still on the vine. A small bowl holds ricotta drizzled with honey and another has thick, velvety yogurt sprinkled with toasted nuts.
Plates of cured meats are arranged like artwork, ribbons of prosciutto and curls of salami, beside chunks of sharp pecorino and soft, creamy mozzarella.
There’s a carafe of freshly squeezed blood orange juice, and the rich smell of espresso lingers in the air.
It’s all so beautiful, so abundant, that for a moment I forget to be anxious, but when Dominic clears his throat beside me, I remember exactly where I am.
“I got an update about the furniture this morning,” Lucia says as she piles up her plate with food. Her eyesmove between Dominic and me as she speaks. Dominic grunts, which I’ve come to realise isn’t an unusual reply for him. “They said it will be delivered between eleven and midday.”
“We’ll head home after this,” Dominic replies casually, like that sentence isn’t full of landmines.
