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Luca walked me like a prisoner to the car, his arm a warm shackle around my waist.
Nico and the others were still inside, and I prayed they were doing the Made Man version of hugging it out, which usually involved violence of some kind, but not war.
“Instead of running off next time,” Luca said dryly, “I’m betting if you ask him for something he might just give it to you.”
“I didn’t run off. You were a little busy”—my gaze hardened—“so I left a note on the island.”
His eyes narrowed. “There was no note.”
I blinked. What?
He watched my expression before giving his head a shake, muttering, “Fucking Isabel.”
I sat cross-legged on my bed, flicking the Zippo open and closed.
If you ask him for something he might just give it to you.
I’d come to the conclusion that Nico made me as crazy as he was. Because asking was an easy fix to a problem I wouldn’t have hesitated to utilize with anyone else. It was simple: when Nico was in the equation, all rational thoughts were lost.
I flicked the lighter open, and hope ignited with the new flame.
Perhaps I didn’t have to see him with other women, to share a bathroom with one. The hope was only an ember, barely flickering with light, because the idea that there would be other women at all cut me straight through the chest, leaving a raw and bleeding ache behind.
However, infidelity was a fixed denominator in a Made Man. Like a surfer and a board. A writer and a pen. You couldn’t separate the two. And asking would be a fruitless endeavor.
Out of sight, out of mind, as the saying went.
I could live with not knowing.
My grip on the lighter faltered when the quiet purr of an engine drifted to my ears. I walked to the window to see Nico get out of his car and head into the garage. Luca had hung out in there since we’d gotten back close to an hour ago.
When I’d come inside, I found my crumbled note in the trash. Fucking Isabel was right. I hadn’t gone about anything the right way, but I hadn’t left without telling anyone, as Nico must have believed.
Shame became a heavier weight on my shoulders with every minute I waited. I’d been upset, and the choice to leave was rash and not me.
Luca left the garage and rubbed his jaw before getting in his car. I stood there, waiting for Nico to make an appearance, but he didn’t. I’d spent the last hour wondering how he would react, what I was going to say to him, and now that he was here, a restlessness inside me demanded I get it over with.
I headed down the stairs and out the back door. The cement was hot against my bare feet as I stood in front of the garage. Nico’s hands were braced on the worktable, a glass of whiskey sitting nearby. His shoulders tensed when he realized I was here.
His gaze came to me. It was dark, warm, every emotion in between. A shiver danced across my spine, and before I knew what I was doing I walked toward him. I didn’t expect a rough palm to cup my face and brush across my cheek. My heart glowed like a Zippo flame.
He made a quiet noise of satisfaction when I pressed my face into his chest. His hand slid from my cheek to the back of my head, his fingers threading through my hair.
He smelled so good. Felt so good. Like comfort, security, and need, all in one. There was a name to it, but I didn’t know what.
“I’m sorry,” I breathed. “I didn’t mean for any of that to happen.”
He let out a breath in between disbelief and amusement, and I thought he muttered, “So this is the Sweet Abelli.”
He’d done something no other Made Man should do and paraded his mistress in front of his fiancée, and somehow, I had ended up apologizing for the outcome.
My nonna and mamma were right.
This man would eat me alive.
But he was so warm, felt so right, it was hard to even care.
His fist tightened in my hair, tilting my face to his. His gaze hardened.
