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Not even Enzo knew about my past. And I was married to that man.
There was just something about rereading that old favorite passage of mine, looking into Niccolò’s eyes, and him asking me to show him where I hurt… I found myself willing to tell him about my demons.
It’s out of character, but it feels…so…right.
Terrifyingly so.
“It’s my turn,” he says with a wink, picking up one of the books from the stack I have next to us.
As he flips through the pages, my attention turns to his incredible body. The countless abs, valleys, and ridges… I swear just looking at the man in front of me practically has me dripping with need.
It’s hard to deny him. And as much as he pissed me off in the beginning, he was always right. I was just too stubborn to allow myself to acknowledge it.
He lands on a page with highlighted text, and I already know what he’s going to say before he says it. I’ve read the book so many times I’ve lost count.
He runs his fingers through his still sweaty, unruly dark locks, and I do my best to keep the drool in my mouth. Maybe it really is the pregnancy hormones.
But Christ…Niccolò Amato is a filthy wet dream.
One I desperately want to be a part of.
I’m done running from it—from him.
I feel spent from spewing everything about my sister, about my past, and as he starts to read the words, I relax backward, snuggling myself into his chest as he brings the book out in front of me, encompassing me in his arms.
He clears his throat and glances at me before starting. “My mind lies, and my conscience laughs, and I’m teetering between the two, constantly on the brink of pure insanity. My misery whispers 3 a.m. thoughts, saying this isn’t right. None of this is right. It doesn’t add up, and this isn’t how it’s supposed to be. But then dawn comes like it always does, and it’s time to get dressed, time to make the coffee.
“My misery sleeps, and the switch flips, and I’m pretending, always pretending. My smile is a force to be reckoned with. I need it to make it through the day, and even though my throat feels tight, and I’m one sad song away from a full on breakdown, I continue on. Because it might not be right. Might not add up. Maybe this isn’t how it’s supposed to be…but this is how it is.”
Niccolò stops reading at the end of the highlighted portion, but his eyes stay glued to the page until I bring my hands up and push the book down onto my own chest, looking up at him from my position against his.
“You connect to a lot of really sad things, you know that?”
“So do you,” I say, calling him out the same way he called me out. “You can tell a lot about a person by the way they read words, even if they aren’t their own.”
The emotion behind his words was real, like the tension was thick, like he was remembering as he was reading.
“You know you aren’t getting away without baring your soul to me, right?” I ask, sitting and turning toward him, slapping my hands against his tan, muscular thighs.
The only fabric separating him from me are his boxer briefs, and I’m already aching to take them back off.
But I need to know about his scars even more than I need him in that way right now.
“What is it you said to me? Show me where it hurts, Niccolò. Show me where the others left scars.”
He smirks and shakes his head before running his fingers through his messy tendrils of hair again. He started this, though.
Slowly, painfully slowly, he grabs ahold of my hand and brings it to his chest.
“Feels like I’m suffocating. Like I’ve been suffocating for fucking years,” he tells me. “I’m so fucking sick of not being able to just take a deep breath.”
I nod in complete understanding, knowing how grief can feel like a hundred-pound weight that’s crushing your lungs.
“Growing up with Gabriel, who isn’t my father, by the way… Sorry to drop that on you.”
I raise my eyebrows, and he nods.
“He thinks he is, but I found paperwork when I was young. My actual father is…” He pauses, shaking his head. “Basically just as fucking worthless. His best friend. The underboss, or old underboss now…Stefano.”
