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“It’s this daydream where… it’s dumb.” I shake my head, and god, even if this story saves my life, I can’t confess it. “Please don’t make me say this.”
Cedrone’s knees crack as he crouches in front of my chair, gripping both arms. The lamplight washes over his face again, and I can see his eyes. The tawny flecks; the warm mahogany rings. He’s sort of beautiful once you look past the scars.
“Tell me,” he orders, voice gruff.
Gah.
“We’re in your suite,” I say in a rush, like if I get this out quickly, it’ll be less embarrassing. I’d prefer the thumbscrews at this point. “Out on the big stone balcony. You’ve dragged the leather armchair out there, and we’re sitting in it together, covered in blankets and watching the snow fall. Feeling it melt against our cheeks.”
Cedrone shakes his head slightly. He looks baffled. “You daydream about that? Sitting in a chair with me?”
“Sittingonyou in a chair. With your arms around me, and—”
I cut off, because Ireallycan’t say the rest. The other things I imagine.
The enforcer’s hard chest behind me, heaving with ragged breaths as he pulls the blankets aside. His scarred hand with its swollen knuckles, delving into the layers of fabric, seeking out my bare skin. His deep voice rumbling in my ear, his hot breath against my throat, saying:“Is this all for me?”
The room is pin-drop silent. I can hear the rush of blood through my own veins.
“And?” the mobster urges.
“And that’s all! Just you and me. In that chair.” My stomach hurts from all these nerves, and I’ve creased this apron beyond all hope of rescue. “I told you it was dumb, Mr Cedrone.”
“Diego,” he mutters, pushing to his feet. The room seems colder when he walks away. He scrubs a hand over his bearded jaw, watching me from beneath those thick eyebrows, and the pause stretches on until I’ve forgotten how to breathe. Then: “Run along now, Holly. And if you see anyone acting strangely…”
“I’ll tell you, I swear.”
So I’d better not look in any mirrors, I guess. The mobster turns away as I hurry for the door. He doesn’t wish me goodnight, and I don’t say another word either.
As my feet fly down the corridor, I’m lucky to be alive.
Even if I’m dying of embarrassment.
Four
Diego
“Anything?”
The next morning, the boss summons me to his study. It’s barely eight, but Santo’s clearly been up for hours already, with an empty coffee mug by his elbow and dark shadows under his eyes. Though he’s at home in his own mansion with nothing but his own people around, he’s still dressed in a crimson waistcoat and shirtsleeves. Does he sleep in evening wear? Does he sleep at all?
“I’ve narrowed it down,” I say.
The balcony door is open, the frosty morning breeze gusting through. It ruffles the papers on the desk and pierces through my clothes, goosebumps rippling across my bare forearms.
Shoving my hands deep in my pockets, I stroll to the bookshelves against the far wall. There are books in almost every room in the De Rossi mansion, and the ones in here are on every possible topic from history and economics to law and botany—though whatever order he’s got them in makes sense in Santo’s brain and Santo’s alone.
“I want names.”
Of course he does.
“The Merlotti kid.” He’s young, barely a foot soldier, but he’s developed a taste for gambling. A hobby like that’ll go south real fast.
The boss nods, lining up the pens on his desk to perfect parallel lines. “And?”
“Carlotta, the laundry lady? She’s got debts. Medical.”
Santo’s mouth twists, but he says nothing. Stares into the middle distance, waiting for me to go on.
