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“It’s how I always address my elders,” I say with a smile, and it feels good to joke around. Refreshing.
I don’t know this man at all. We’ve had one brief conversation prior to this, but I enjoy testing the limits. And I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about the mysterious rival mafia man over the past couple of weeks. Probably more than I should, but a girl can dream.
“Elder?” He grabs his chest as if I’ve wounded him. “I’m thirty years old, not fifty. Goddamn, woman.”
I smile as I hold the coffee mug up in my hand and motion like I need to get back to making his drink.
“Oh, please, don’t let me interrupt,” he says, motioning me back to my barista duties and picking up the copy ofPersuasionthat he purchased the first time he came into my shop and actually bought something.
I grab the remaining ingredients I need to finish up the drink and continue handcrafting, but this time, I watch him as he reads, and I slowly make a drink I’ve made much faster than this plenty of times before. Children’s giddy laughter echoes throughout my space as I study the man in front of me who is devouring Jane Austen’s words.
I’ve only ever seen him in all black.
Black pants.
Black button-up shirt.
Black shoes.
Black ink on his arms and a black chain around his neck.
It doesn’t shock me. Mafia men are always well-dressed. It comes with the territory, I’ve learned since becoming part of the life. My husband’s designer suits that can only be dry-cleaned are a testament to the fact that they are some of the most well-dressed men I’ve ever seen. But still, seeing the man in front of me strikes something within me that I can’t register.
Maybe it’s the fact that I know he’s been watching me.
It gives me the confidence that I’ve had to mask for the past three years.
Something aboutmeis enticing tohim, and whether or not he’s trying to show it, he is, and it feels good.
I slide the coffee over to him, and he pauses in his reading, lifts the mug to his lips, and watches me over the rim as he takes a long sip. His dark eyes are home to golden flecks, and I notice the light catch them as he tips his head back and away from the coffee cup. A warm honey hue flashes in them as he nods.
“Fuck, that’s delicious,” he compliments as he swipes a thumb across his lip, catching the excess coffee residue on the pad of his finger and sucking it off.
The pit of my stomach tightens, and I force myself to look away.
It’s almost the same type of feeling as when Giana introduced the two of us, formally, when they first arrived for her shift. The way his eyes locked on mine as he took my hand in his caused a rush of heat to flood to the apples of my cheeks like I was a teenager all over again.
I can’t even be mad at the feeling because at least I’m feelingsomethingagain.
We’re silent for a few moments as I ring up a long-time customer, and he continues sipping and reading. I want to talk to him, though. It’s been so long since I’ve had a genuine conversation with a person of the opposite sex that I feel almost compelled to just say something, anything. He glances up and sees me staring at him, and I quickly look away.
Damn it.
Cool, Ev. You’re so cool. Effortless, actually.
“So,” I say, as I wipe the counter and try to act like he didn’t just catch me staring at his face that looks straight out of a fuckingGQad. Chiseled jawline, five-o’clock shadow, orgasm-inducing lips that I bet he knows exactly what to do with…
“So…” Niccolò says as he shuts his paperback and places his elbows on the bar top.
“Do you always follow your sister around? Are you employed as her bodyguard or something, or do you just enjoy hanging out in cozy little bookshops while dressing like you’re about to walk down a runway?” It’s the first thing I think of.
His expression shifts from curiosity to something else—the corners of his mouth turn down as a scowl forms on his face. “Lying is very unbecoming, Evelina.”
His words hit a nerve, and I immediately back away from him. He beckons me forward, and for some unknown and probably ignorant reason, I oblige and rest my hands on the counter.
He lowers his voice and speaks in a way that sounds like he has secrets to tell.
“I know a woman like you does her due diligence, which means you know who Giana is. You know who I am.” His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip before he continues. The look in his eyes screams of a darkness boiling inside of him as those warm golden and honey hues dissipate. “What kind of man would I be if I let my sister go onto neutral territory, where I know your family is, without a form of protection?”
