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I step out and slam the door behind me, then stomp onto the walkway just as the owner of that motorcycle exits my house.
Luca Sinacore. Or as I like to call him, Luca the Dick. I don’t feel bad about calling him that. I’m pretty sure he has some choice names for me too. The man has never liked me, not since we were kids and his father dragged him to the shipping warehouse my dad owned. And certainly not after he grew up. It’s like the very sight of me causes every nerve in his body to tense. His left eye twitches, and his hands roll into fists as if he’d like nothing more than to strangle me with them.
His already stern expression hardens even further the moment he spots me coming toward him.
I stop in front of him, hating that he’s so tall that I have to tilt my head far back to look up at him.
“Luca,” I say, because anything else would sound like I’m pleased he dropped in for a visit.
“Carina,” he replies.
“What brings you to this part of town?” Translation: “What shady-ass business are you trying to involve my already broke father in?”
The edges of his mouth curve up into an insincere smile. “I came to say hello to an old friend.” Translation: “It’s none of your fucking business.”
“Is that all?” I cross my arms over my chest and narrow my gaze.
He grins at me, but I’m not as easily affected by his handsome face as I’m sure he’s accustomed to. His bad-boy good looks, with his long hair shaved slightly at the sides, scruffy cheeks, and piercing blue eyes are wasted on someone like me.
His smile falters, and I smirk smugly. Not that I believe he’s trying to charm me. Though he’s smiling, the intensity of his gaze doesn’t waver.
Then he does something thatdoesunnerve me. He rakes me with his stare, from my dirty white sneakers, over my torn jeans, and up to the disheveled bun I’ve redone several times today.
Suddenly, I’m all too aware of my appearance. Working through lunchtime at Hob’s Diner, then the dinner hour at Lou’s Kitchen leaves me not only messy, but haggard as well. Not to mention smelly.
Against my will, blood rushes to my cheeks, making them burn under his scrutiny, and I damn my Irish genes for the fair skin that gives away my emotions. Why couldn’t I have taken after Dad and inherited his olive skin?
“You still work at the diner.” It’s a statement, not a question.
Frowning, I ask, “How do you know?”
He plucks something from my hair. It’s all I can do not to move when his fingers graze my cheek as he pulls them away.
He shows me the piece of lettuce that somehow crept to my head, and the embarrassment that suffuses me would be enough to make me curl into a little ball if I didn’t have some pride left.
“I own the city now, Carina.” The way he says it, not bragging but as a fact I should be aware of, worries me.
Yes, he owns the city now. With Tony Sinacore and his underboss dead, he’d be the only one remaining to run it all.
“I’m sorry about your brother,” I say.
“Are you?”
I stare at him for a moment, but when I don’t reply fast enough, he scoffs.
“Of course not. Why would you be? You barely knew him.”
“I knew him enough.” I shake off the feeling of dread that’s begun to creep in and force myself to keep my chin up. “We used to play together, remember?”
“How could I forget?” he asks, running his hand through his long hair as he gives me an annoyed look. Then he turns away as if he can’t stand the sight of me anymore. Tugging a set of keys from his leather jacket, he throws over his shoulder, “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you soon.”
I practically sneer as he gets on his bike. He revs the engine loudly, looking sideways at me as he does. As if he can touch me all over again from where he is, the spot where his fingers met the skin of my cheek burns.
But I don’t allow myself to lift my trembling hand to my face. I don’t let him see the effect he has on me.
No. He has no effect on me, I remind myself. And even if he did, I’d deny it till my dying day.
“Dick,” I mutter as the caravan of thieves leave.
