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"Why did you become an actress?"
Touché. I lower my hand to my side. "It’s easier to pretend to be someone else than to be myself."
He holds my gaze. "It’s a reminder."
"Of what?"
"Something I’ll never allow myself to forget. This—" He raises his arm. "It’s part of my penance."
I’d caught a glimpse of the design when he’d been working out, of course, and later, when he was in the shower, but this—a full-frontal view of his body is next level gorgeous. It lends him a lethal air and brings home exactly what he is. A dangerous Mafioso who is nothing like the suave characters I’ve seen on screen. This man is untamed, unpredictable, and by the looks of it, very angry. His shoulders are bunched. His jaw is clenched so tightly, the veins of his throat pop in relief.
"What penance? What will you never allow yourself to forget?" I ask.
"What the fuck are you doing down here?" he growls back.
Answer a question with a question? Typical. "If you don’t want to answer the question, you only have to say so. No need to get all huffy about it."
"Answer. The. Question." He lowers his voice to a hush, and my nerve-endings spark. Something inside me wants to do as he commands. Wants to please him and give him what he wants. It’s only an answer to a question. It doesn’t mean anything if I obey him on this. I firm my lips.
"I woke up and was thirsty. I came down to find Vincent, here, closing up the place. He offered me a glass of wine."
The tension pouring off his body multiplies by a factor of one hundred. When he speaks, his voice is tight with suppressed rage. "There’s water in the room."
"I needed something stronger," I shoot back.
He glances at the glass of wine I have my fingers wrapped around, then reaches down and takes it from me. He drains it, then makes a face. "What the fuck was that?"
"A rosé." I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from curving my lips in a smile.
"Figures," He scrunches up his face and signals the bartender, who moves to stand in front of us.
"A pint of Peroni," he snaps.
"We only have Stella," the man replies.
"Figures, only the Brits would pass off that swill as beer." He leans forward and grabs the edge of the bar with his big hand. "Do you have Grappa?"
"We have tequila."
Luca cuts the air with the palm of his hand. "Whisky, neat. Jameson?"
The man nods, then turns to grab the brown colored bottle from the shelf behind him.
Luca wraps his fingers around the nape of my neck and thrusts his face into mine.
"If you leave my sight again, I’ll turn you over my lap and spank you,capiche?"
I dart my gaze to the bartender, who’s moved to the other end of the counter and is busy pouring the whiskey into a tumbler.
"I don’t need your permission," I hiss.
"You do. We’re going to be married, or have you forgotten?"
"Why do you think I’m at a bar at two a.m. chugging down alcohol? It’s not because I am all agog with happiness, you lummox," I snarl.
"That another of your schoolgirl insults?" He smirks.
"I was taught to be polite, you ass-clown, unlike some gangsters I know."
