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Once again, Vincente has showed me just how naïve I’ve been. His family has evaded prosecution on every charge the department has tried to bring. The only reasonable explanation is that they had inside information, help to keep things just murky enough that it wasn’t clear enough for conviction.
My voice trembles. “And you don’t care? That my father is one of the men trying to catch yours?”
“Well, I was initially hesitant,” he admits, lacing his fingers through mine and tugging lightly to continue our walk back to his building. “But when we saw you in Kellerman’s that day, Elian was immediately fired up again, and I could hardly argue with him anymore. I wanted you, too.”
Heat pulses through my body. “You did?”
“I do,” he corrects, squeezing my fingers. “I have since we kissed at that party. But even then, my brothers and I already had a plan, and I knew that Elian was completely convinced you were the one for us. I couldn’t risk ruining it; for this situation to work, this was something that had to be done the right way.”
“I see, and the way everything has gone down is what you’d consider the ‘right way’?” I ask, teasing now. Vincente was always the one I was unsure of. Elian had apparently always been my champion, and Sandro wasted no time in telling me how he felt. But Vincente always seemed to hold back.
He chuckles. “Well, I don’t know about that. It’s not been perfect, but the last couple of weeks haven’t been a complete dumpster fire, have they?”
My mind flashes over the dates, the yacht party, the boat rides and special moments with all three of them. Of course there were also the cousins, walking in on a drug deal, and the necklace exchange, which were all memories tinged with fear.
The answer is obvious.
“I wouldn’t trade them for anything,” I reply honestly. “Last night, after my mom lost her shit, all I wanted was to be with you.” It comes out in a small voice, like a confession of weakness.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Vincente’s voice is gentle. “I would have come right over to get you. I’m so sorry you stayed there, alone, when you didn’t want to be.”
“I dunno. I guess I was afraid to admit it, even to myself. Maybe I thought it was just because of what just happened and I’d get over it quickly. But it didn’t change, and I wanted you as badly when I woke up as I did when I went to sleep.”
Vincente stops me once more and pulls me into his chest, holding me tightly. I squeeze him back just as hard, and try to ignore every feeling except the warm, protective energy that seems to radiate from him.
I’ve always been the big sister, the responsible one, the one expected to care for my siblings and be more adult than my age should indicate. And I know now that Vincente grew up the same way, with far heavier expectations than should have been placed on his shoulders. He’s the eldest son of a man who runs a criminal empire, poised to take over his father’s business. I should be terrified.
But he feels safe to me. Somewhere inside I have an instinct, and that instinct speaks to me. Somehow, I knew to be terrified of my own mother’s anger, that it could get out of control. It took twenty-two years, but I knew even as a child to be afraid of her.
And I’ve never felt that way about Vincente. He may have been intimidating, as a sexy older man that seemed untouchable for someone like me. But he’s never felt dangerous, and especially since I’ve spent time with him, I can’t imagine ever fearing him the way I ought to, given his background. And so we stand on the beach, embracing each other tightly as the waves roll in and out and tourists pass by.
Eventually his grip loosens, and his lips press to my hair before he pulls back. “How about I make us some breakfast and we can talk about how to spend our Saturday?”
When I nod, he tugs my hand once more and we head back to his condo without another word.
I shouldn’t be surprised, but his place is gorgeous, all bright white, minimalist like his parents’, but with a few more homey touches. Ocean-themed artwork above the modern fireplace, pillows in a variety of sea glass colors on the pale grey couch, a fluffy navy blue blanket on the end next to a pile of books.
“I’m thinking eggs, maybe an omelette? I’ve got some fresh fruit in here, and I definitely need a coffee… I think it’s time for you to try one my style,” Vincente calls, his head stuck in the refrigerator.
I’ve wandered over to the spot that’s obviously his favorite to steal a peek at his books. “Sounds great,” I reply, examining the titles.
For the most part, it’s biographies; athletes, former presidents, other people with wisdom to impart from a life lived exceptionally.
But one book in the pile, a thick one, catches my eye.
“Game of Thrones?”
Vincente looks up. “Huh?”
“You’re reading Game of Thrones?”
To his credit, he doesn’t appear embarrassed. “Yeah? Is that weird?”
“No, I just… I guess I didn’t imagine you as someone who reads fantasy books.”
That half-smile appears on his smooth cheek. “Oh yeah? And why’s that?”
“I dunno,” I shrug. “I guess you always seem so serious. Like the biographies, I understand. But a fantasy novel doesn’t seem to fit. I imagined you reading the newspaper.”
