I get to the door, and Ricco is standing outside as expected. “Good evening, Zaira. It’s good to see you again,” he says.
“Hello, Ricco.” I smile. I have always liked him, and I know he would lay down his life for Michael or me. “It’s good to see you too.” I pause. “Is it okay to go in?” I ask, gesturing toward the door.
“Yes, he knows you’re here.”Of course he does.
I walk in and am shocked at the sight before me. Michael is wearing his glasses, which he doesn’t wear often, and is sitting in the recliner. He’s dressed casually in jeans and a tight-fitting black T-shirt, and he’s got a freaking book in his hands. He’s reading. Not the newspaper, not a magazine, but a freaking book. I take a closer look and see it’s a classic.The Count of Monte Cristoby Alexandre Dumas.
“Hello, Michael,” I say hesitantly. He looks so content and handsome sitting there. No, he doesn’t look handsome. He looks downright sexy as always, and my heart aches for him. For a minute, I forget everything that has transpired over the last several weeks. I forget we are separated, and I want nothing more than to run into his arms.
He closes his book and sets it on the table next to his chair. “Hello, Zaira. Nice to see you.” He’s cold, and it breaks my heart.But why?He gestures toward the couch. “Please, sit.”
I walk to the couch and sit. I can feel his eyes on me as I slowly cross my legs.
And to my surprise, he says, “You look nice.”He noticed.
“Thank you,” I say, curling my hair behind my right ear. “So you know why I’m here.”
“I do,” he replies. “And I appreciate you coming here to ask me yourself.”
I shrug. “Well, did I really have a choice?”
He shakes his head. “I guess not. I can be a real dick sometimes.”
“You can say that again,” I reply and immediately realize what I said.
He laughs. I mean, he really laughs and it makes me smile. “Well you didn’t have to agree so quickly.”
I’m surprised he’s not acting how I expected and even more surprised he is laughing at his faults. “Well?” I ask sheepishly.
He gets up from his chair and walks to the window. I watch how his jeans hug his ass, and I fight the urge to follow him and snake my arms around him. He has such a casual swagger to his walk. It’s downright delicious. I remember the many times we were intimate, and I begin to crave the feel of his body against mine. Without thinking, I get up from the couch and walk toward him.
“So, you want to take a trip,” he says, staring out the window.
Standing next to him, I touch his arm tenderly. “I do, Michael.”
He shakes his head. “You can go, but I don’t want you to leave until after the omertà.”
“But—”
“Zaira, please don’t argue with me on this. There are things going on with the family. I prefer you stay close until I can get a handle on them.”
“But, Michael, I have nothing to do with the family business.”
He looks at me and reaches his hand up to caress my cheek. “Oh, Zaira,” he says sadly. “But you are wrong. You have everything to do with the family business.”
Lost in the blue depths of his eyes, I feel him lean closer to me. He wraps his right arm around my waist. In one swift movement, he pulls me close and takes possession of my lips with his own. I don’t hesitate or fight him. I kiss him back eagerly. I’ve hungered for him for weeks now, and here I am, in his arms being kissed. His lips are soft and urgent against my own. His hands roam, pulling me closer to him. My arms reach up around his neck to hold his lips against mine.
We continue to drink from each other, the passion we both have been denying for so long. I’m lost. I’m confused. I’m in love. And then the dream crashes before me as I realize I’m in love with a killer. I’m kissing a killer. I quickly pull my lips from his and push him away. He falters backward, breathless.
“What the fuck, Zaira!” he yells.
“Exactly, Michael! What the hell are you trying to prove?”
“You wanted it just as much as I did, sweetheart. Admit it.”
“I most certainly did not,” I lie, and the sad thing is he knows I’m lying.
“You’re a fucking liar, Zaira. I felt it. You felt it. You are in fucking denial!” he yells.
“How dare you!” I know he’s right, but it will be a cold day in hell before I let him know that. Before he can say another word, I say, “I agree to your terms, but the day after your omertà, I’m leaving!”
I walk toward the door with purpose. As I reach for the handle, he shouts, “Damn Cleopatra! You are becoming a master at the dramatic exit. Bravo!” He claps.
Asshole! And he called me Cleopatra? Why the fuck did he call me that?I’m too mad to give him the satisfaction of asking. I huff, open the door, and walk out.
