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Then I stared at his ceiling with a stupid grin on my face.
For all of, you know, fifteen seconds. Before the uncertainly and insecurity and fear set in, of course. It was bound to, but I was hoping I might get a little longer.
The problem with joy was that it had always been fleeting for me. I could never get comfortable with it, settle into it, and I definitely couldn’t expect it to be part of my daily life.
So I couldn’t help but wonder what the timeline was on this. Did I get Salvatore for a few days? Week? Months? It seemed absurd to hope for anything longer. Nothing about Salvatore Costa screamed “settling down material” to me.
I mean, not that I was planning on settling down with a mafia capo or anything.
A strange, choked laugh escaped me at that thought.
I mean never in a million years did I think that would even be a thought that could run through my head. Not literally. When fantasizing about a dark romance book? Sure. But no one ever actually hooked up with a mafia capo, y’know? That was all fiction.
Except, of course, it wasn’t fiction for me.
I was a little surprised that the internal monologues of all the heroines I’d read didn’t run across my mind right then. All the reasons mafia guys were a bad choice.
The lifestyle was dangerous!
Yeah, well, I’d already been shot.
They are cold and domineering!
Maybe, but they were also protective and kind.
They could go to jail!
Salvatore had already been there and done that.
The only thing that pulled me out of my swirling thoughts was the sound of male voices coming from the living room. At first, I thought it was just Anthony and Salvatore having a morning chat while the coffee brewed. But then I realized it was at least three voices out there. Maybe four.
Taking a deep breath, I climbed out of the bed, trying to settle my hair as best I could as I went to Salvatore’s dresser and pulled out a pair of black and gray flannel pajama pants, pulling them on, then making my way toward the doorway.
Why?
I couldn’t say.
Curiosity, I guess.
Wanting to meet more of his people, maybe.
I don’t know. To be honest, I didn’t give the urge too much thought as I moved out into the hallway.
And that was when four heads turned almost in unison.
Salvatore, Anthony, some guy in jeans and Timberland shoes with lots of tattoos, and…
“Maine,” I said, the name coming out a little tight.
“It’s Cesare, actually,” Maine said, shooting me a boyish smile. He opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off by the other guy that I’d never seen before.
“What’s his name?” he asked, head nodding in an oddly, I don’t know, intimidating manner.
“Sorry? Who?”
“Your face. What’s his name?”
“Oh,” I said, my hand automatically going up, remembering the bruises. If my history of bruising was repeating itself, then each day for the first three or four would make them look darker and uglier until, eventually, they started to fade a bit. I probably looked worse than I had before I’d slathered on all that pancake makeup.
