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A moment passes while he considers it. “It’s irrelevant,” he says. “Gianni business, not mine.”
“You got my oath of loyalty, Noah,” Matteo says, pressing his fist to his chest.
“Mine too, boss,” Alex adds. “We’ll kill any asshole that has shit to say about it.”
I bow my head. The Giannis are mine.
12
EMILY
My father is sitting beside me at the kitchen table, but he might as well be miles away.
“It’s supposed to storm tonight,” I say and watch him out of the corner of my eye.
“Hm,” he grunts.
“How’s your soup?” I ask, pointing my spoon at his bowl.
“You know I hate tomato soup.”
“No you don’t.” I sigh and angle my body fully to him. “Dad, you love tomato soup on a rainy day. That’s why I made it.”
“Is that why? Or are you kissing my ass because you disobeyed me?” He directs his hard stare at me.
He’s angry and hurt, I remind myself.
“Dad, please forgive me,” I say for the hundredth time since he found Noah in the house. “It was inappropriate for me to have brought a man to the house. But in my defense, we weren’t doing anything wrong.”
“Weren’t you?” Dad drops his spoon into the ceramic bowl with a loud clank and pushes back his chair so that he can glare at me easier. “You had the guy upstairs for who knows how long—”
“Minutes, Dad. He was up there for like five minutes.”
“And you come down all red and messed up,” he continues.
“It was one ki—”
He raises his hand to stop me. “I don’t give a fuck about a kiss. You took him to your studio, Em. What were you thinking? I’m not allowed in, but you take some stranger up there?”
I blink at him, unsure what to say. He’s right. I don’t let anyone into my studio. It’s too personal. If and when I want to sell or display my art, I bring it out. But I never let anyone in.
Until Noah.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I don’t know why I did it.” It’s a lie. I know exactly why I did it. There’s just something about Noah that draws me in. I want to know him. Who he is. What he is.
And I want him to knowme.
My father looks away, his foot tapping a rapid staccato on the floor. When he turns back to me, he says through gritted teeth, “I don’t want you to see him again.”
“What?”
“It’s for your own good. Trust me, Em. If you’re that desperate to fall in love, choose someone else.”
“I’m not desperate!”
“You are.” He pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t discouraged it so much, you wouldn’t be set on proving me wrong.”
“Dad, I’m twenty-two years old. I can choose my own—”
