Page 32 of Allegiant

She ignores his comment, turning her smile on me. “And who is this? You never bring anyone. Not once.”

That makes my chest squeeze slightly, and Samson’s cheeks redden.

Nonna clucks her tongue. “Your name, cara?”

“Rowan,” I say, and hold out my hand to shake hers, but she just leans down and air kisses both of my cheeks.

As she does that, the waitress from earlier brings out glasses of water and a bottle of alcohol.

“Good, good. Now I wanted Samson to marry Carmela here, but—” Nonna shrugs. “—he does not like women.”

It’s my turn for my lips to form that small O.

“He did not know this?” Nonna points at me while looking at Samson.

“Oh, he knows it.” Samson eyes me hungrily, far too much so given we have an audience. A very keen audience.

Carmela blushes, and so do I, Nonna looking smug. I drink my water aggressively, almost spilling it down my shirt.

“Bene, bene. I will let you two piccioncini get back to flirting and I will make your food before you both waste away.” She pinches both of our cheeks then turns around, disappearing back into the kitchen in a flutter of movement.

We watch her go, and then our eyes meet once more.

I clear my throat, trying to gather myself. “Well, I think I’m going to be very impressed with Nonna’s food.”

“You will be. Trust me.”

I realize, in some weird, twisted way, I do trust him. At least not to harm me.

My heart, on the other hand…that I’m not so sure about.

You have to let him in first. There’s no danger of that happening.

“Here, drink,” Samson says, pouring me a small shot of grappa. I take it between my fingers and throw it back, the liquid burning my throat as I swallow.

“Shit,” I cough. “That’s a lot.”

“The alcohol isn’t the only thing at this table that’s a lot.” There’s a gleam in Samson’s eye as he knocks back his own shot. “Good thing I’m built for it.”

I’m pretty sure I need to be rolled out of the restaurant. Not that I’m drunk. No, Samson allowed me one more grappa before cutting me off. He, however, had several more as we dug into our food. You wouldn’t know it. I get the feeling it’d take a lot more than a few glasses of grappa to get Samson intoxicated.

When he said it would be good, he meant it. It was the best Italian food I’ve ever had. And there was so much of it. I’ll have leftovers for at least two days. When Nonna said she was concerned about me wasting away, she wasn’t kidding. The to-go bag she forced into my hands before we left has not only my leftovers—Samson ate his entire plate—but garlic bread and two cannoli as well.

I don’t know if I’ll ever physically recover from this.

“I can carry my bag and my food,” I say as Samson and I make our way out of the restaurant.

He doesn’t so much as smirk. “No.”

I make a face at him, but he’s walking ahead of me, the streetlights flickering slightly. It’s evening now, dusk having come and gone.

“Should talk to the city about fixing those damn things,” he murmurs as I move to his side. “They’re lazy fuckers at the best of times.”

“Do you know the city officials?” I ask, knowing my question is kind of silly. Of course he does.

“Yeah, unfortunately. If they did their jobs, this part of the city would look much better than it does and crime would be far less.”

We turn a corner into an alley and both come to a halt. A figure is before us, like he’s been conjured up by Samson’s words. Dressed all in black, he almost melts into the shadows. That’s not what has my chest tightening and heart racing.