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Rose
Dante’s moves around the kitchen, much like in bed, are hypnotic. How anyone could make cooking so damned sexy is absolutely beyond me. The bare, perfectly muscled, tattooed torso and low-slung sweatpants certainly don’t hurt either. He spins toward the stove, and I’m gifted a perfect view of his broad shoulders and intricate ink designs stamped across his back. The man is a walking piece of art. Even the myriad of scars doesn’t detract from his beauty, instead they only seem to enhance the dark brutality of his nature.
I creep around the marble island and stand behind him, clenching my hands into fists at my side to keep from touching him. I have no willpower around this man, and a second later, my fingers trace the map of black ink. He shudders at my touch, and my inner vixen gloats with satisfaction. The man is a god in bed, but I like to think I earned a few of those explosive orgasms on his end. I return my attention to his warm flesh, to the tribal markings, the more intricate drawings of chains, skulls, and a dragon with a knife through its gut. Though I can’t see the one across Dante’s chest, it leaps to the forefront of my mind.
Vengeance is king.
Stella had filled me in on Luca’s side of the family history, but every time my gaze lands on that tattoo I’m tempted to ask more. One-sided stories never supply the full picture, and after spending only a few weeks with this mercurial mob boss, I have a feeling there’s so much more to his story. If only he’d open up….
I let out a sigh and dismiss the crazy idea. I should be happy with as much as he’s given me so far. It’s clear sharing feelings are not part of this man’s repertoire.
Leaning into him, I watch his hands as they chop tomatoes and fresh parsley for the frittata I was promised. How those rough, calloused fingers could create something so beautiful is startling. The savory scents fill the air, and my stomach lets out an embarrassing rumble.
With my belly practically pressed to his back, he definitely must hear it. A wicked chuckle rumbles his torso. “Pazienza, Rosa, it’s coming.” He cocks his head over his shoulder and smiles down at me. Not a sneer or a smirk, but an actual smile and gawd, my stupid heart trips on a beat. “Papà always used to saybeware the fury of a patient man.” A rueful chuckle spills out from those kissable lips. “Luckily, I never had that problem. For me, it was more beware the patience of a furious man.”
“Well, it’s a good thing for you that I’m neither patient nor furious.”
“That is very true.” He returns his attention to the stove and flicks off the burner. “There, done.”
I watch completely entranced as he plates the frittatas, cleaning the edges of the colorful ceramic dishes with a paper towel, then garnishes the eggs with the fresh parsley. He places the plates on the island in front of each barstool then fills our glasses with fresh-squeezed orange juice.
“You never really talk about your papà…” I begin cautiously. “And Stella has told me bits and pieces of your past with Luca and King Industries.”
He stares at me unblinking. So I continue.
“Why didn’t you take over the King’s when your father passed?”
Dante shrugs, darkness curtaining his expressive irises. A long minute passes before he finally heaves out a breath. “He made me promise I wouldn’t.”
“Seriously?”
He nods, grinding his jaw so that tendon flutters to life. “Papà didn’t want this life for us. Before he died, he made me vow to allow the company to perish along with him. I was stupid and pretty fucked up back then, and I never told Luca the full truth until it was too late.”
That silences lapses between us again, and I understand the discussion is over. I’m honestly shocked I got that much.
“Mangia,” he finally says as he slides onto one of the barstools. Eat. My Italian is pretty shit, but at least I know that one.
I just stand there like a complete idiot, hot tears pricking at the corner of my eyes. Between his heartbreaking confession and the fluffy frittata I’m a second away from crying. What is wrong with me? Have I really been used to such assholes that a heartfelt conversation and a freaking home-cooked breakfast bring me to tears?
“Rosa?” My name on his lips, in that sexy Italian accent opens up the floodgates.
I spin away as the tears begin to fall, desperately sweeping them away. Dante is going to freak if he sees me crying. He’s going to think I’m getting too emotional, that I’m totally falling for him. He wouldn’t be wrong, but he can’t know. Not yet, maybe not ever.
The screech of the metal bar stool on the wood floor has me wiping the tears back even more frantically. “What’s the matter with you?” His warm breath skates over the shell of my ear.
“Ugh, it’s the onions, they’re making me tear up.”
He throws me a sidelong glance but doesn’t argue. Instead, he grabs a napkin from the table and hands it to me. “Sometimes, I have the same problem with the onions. That’s why I don’t cook often.” He shrugs and slides his hand down my arm, lacing his fingers with mine. “Now come on, eat or it’ll get cold. Don’t get used to this five-star service, sweetheart. It’s New Year’s Day so I figured I’d whip something special up, but I can’t be spoiling you forever….”
I snort on a laugh and follow him back to the island. He takes a bite of the frittata and chews thoughtfully. I wonder if he’s fixating on the word forever like I am.Stop it, Rose. There is no forever with Dante. Once this mess with Dr. Mark and now the freaking Red Dragons has been handled, I’ll have to get back to reality. Dante isn’t my boyfriend. Sure, he likes to fuck me, but I’m not even all that sure he likes me. He’s my glorified babysitter until Luca and Stella get back in town.
“What’s going in that pretty little head of yours?” Dante swings his gaze in my direction, putting an end to my spiraling.
Instead of telling him the truth, I opt for a partial one. “My dad’s been texting me about going to see him.” It’s not a lie. I’d found a half-dozen messages when I woke up this morning. It was like somehow, he knew I was nearby. Being back here on Long Island and so close to my family is weighing on me.
Dante puts his fork down and finishes chewing. “Oh yeah, where does he live?”
I swallow down a big bite, the delicious frittata going down harder than it should have. “Not too far from here, in King’s Park.” I don’t even realize the irony until the name of the town I grew up in spills out. And here I am with the new king of the Kings.
