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“You know what I mean,” I counter.
He’s quiet for a moment, staring off into the distance before his eyes find mine and something in his expression changes. “I didn’t like hearing that you're unhappy, that you’re lonely.”
I bite back the wave of emotion his words bring on. How long has it been since someone’s actually cared how I feel? I almost don’t know what to do with his concern.
“It’s not that I’m miserable here, or with you in particular, it’s…”This life. But how can I tell Daniil that? He’s fully entrenched in the world I want to get far away from.
“I get it, more than you know,” he says, focusing on swirling the wine in his glass.
The weight of his full attention settles heavily on me, even as a team of waiters delivers what seems to be half the menu to our table. There’s pizza of course, but also eggplant Parm, Caesar salad, and spaghetti and meatballs. It all looks so good.
“Why did your uncle raise you after your parents died?” he asks, putting a slice of pepperoni on my plate.
“I didn’t have a choice.” I smooth the napkin in my lap and lift the slice, but don’t actually eat it. It’s simply an excuse to keep my hands busy while I consider how much to reveal. “Emilio was the only living relative I had, and I was still a minor. It was either become a ward of the state or live with him.”
He brings the glass of wine to his lips, and studies me over the rim. “Were you close?”
“No,” I say a little too quickly, venom coating that one word. “I hadn’t even met him before I was sent to live with him. My mother left Colombia when she was young.Abuelitohad a great love for my mother and didn’t want her tainted by the ugliness he was involved in. It was only getting more violent as the Colombians went to war with the Mexicans. My mother wanted out, and Florida made sense. She enrolled at the University of Miami and met my father in their journalism program, fell in love, and the rest is history. She never went back home.”
A tragic history.
“Did you know about the Zegas? That your uncle ended up taking over the cartel?”
“Not really,” I shrug. “My mother hinted that her brother was involved in some shady stuff, but no details. I only learned all that after…” After it was much too late.
Daniil nods, and then holds a slice up for me to take a bite. “Here, try it. Brooklyn-style pizza. Thinner and crispier crust.”
“You don’t need to feed me!” I protest.
“I want to,” he insists. “Open up.”
I do as he says, opening my mouth and leaning forward to take a bite. His intent eyes watch me closely. Damn, as promised, this pizza is amazing.
“Printsessa,” Daniil murmurs, his presence cutting into my thoughts. I press a napkin to my lips as I swallow the saucy deliciousness. “Have I told you how pretty you look with your mouth full?”
“Oh my god,” I choke, reaching for my water, but he’s clearly enjoying making my cheeks warm.
“Come on,” he chides. “You have to admit, this pizza is pretty unreal.”
“It is,” I agree, though I look away from his heated stare. I try to distract myself by taking in our surroundings, the string lights twinkling overhead, the picture-perfect little table all in a row. Such a quaint place. When was the last time I had done something like this, something so normal? Just a casual dinner out. Not since coming to live with my uncle.
“So, your parents were journalists?” He leans forward, and the intensity of his attention burns my skin.
I suddenly feel exposed. I hadn’t meant to share all that I had, but something aboutthisDaniil—the one who takes me to a casual red-sauce joint and listens intently when I speak—is different. Still, I’m on dangerous ground here. My parents were investigative journalists, the best at what they did. But I don’t want him looking too closely at them, because if he does, it won’t take him long to connect the dots.
“I don’t like to think about the past, to be honest.” He nods, not pushing the issue. Somehow, he’s asked all the questions tonight, when I’m the one who should be doing the deep dive into his life. But I’m tired of always playing this game, rather than living my life, so I ask something I am genuinely curious about. “You don’t like my uncle, do you?”
The glow of candlelight glints off his light-brown hair, casting a shadow under his cut cheekbones as he takes a slow sip of his drink. “I don’t know your uncle enough to dislike him.”
“You don’t trust him or Jorge. Our wedding was proof enough. I want to know why.”
“I don’t trust anyone,” he says with a frown. But there’s something behind his words I don’t buy.
“Including me?”
With a finger under my chin, he tilts my face up. “You most of all, printsessa.”
“Just because I didn’t want to marry you? Because I wanted to stay with Jorge?” I lean in close, so he doesn’t miss my words. “Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t know. Ever hear that expression? For all I knew, you could have been the worse choice.”
