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And all through the rest of my shift, there he sat.
Patiently waiting for me to finish up.
Like he had nothing better to do with his time.
Like I actually mattered enough for him to be so inconvenienced.
Oh, and he was right, too.
I thought about him every single time a breeze blew up my skirt.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Salvatore
“You gonna be able to manage not getting stabbed or shot for the next couple of hours?” I asked Anthony as I got ready to make my way out to the diner.
Objectively, Whitney didn’t really need me to keep treating the leg. The slight infection that had been there had already gone away.
I was milking that shit.
Because I liked being around her.
I was just choosing not to analyze it beyond that.
“Talking like it’s the highlight of my fucking life to be crashing on your couch again,” Anthony said, shaking his head.
“You keep getting hurt, your damn brother is going to put you in a head-to-toe Kevlar vest,” I shot back.
“Tell ‘em to stop sending me on jobs that get me stabbed and shot,” he said, shaking his head. “But, yeah, I’m good. Got all my shit,” he said, waving toward the coffee table that was loaded down with drinks and snacks, provided by his ma and sisters who’d dropped by to check on him. There was lasagne, meatball subs, and soups in the fridge too.
“Won’t be too long,” I assured him.
Before I got there, of course, and noticed something was off.
I figured at first that my eyes and the shitty lights of the diner were playing tricks on me. Or that she was trying out wearing makeup she didn’t need. Some shit like that. Because the alternative didn’t make sense.
But then she got close.
And there was no denying the shadows. Sure, they had some pretty thick makeup covering them up, but I knew bruises when I saw them.
I had no frame of reference for the rage that surged through me right then. Sure, I’d been pissed at shitheads who owed us money or fuckers who thought they could step to the Family.
But that was work.
It was a different type of anger.
What I felt when I’d seen that someone put their hands on her, fuck, that felt personal.
I’d genuinely just wanted answers when I’d had her meet me in the bathroom. I wanted to know the name of the fuckhead who thought he could put his hands on her. Or, short of that, a physical description so I could track his ass down myself.
Then, well, shit just got out of hand.
In the best goddamn way possible, granted, but out of hand.
Before I could even think better of it, she was coming around me, and I was coming inside her.
And I’d broken my word to Lorenzo.
