Page 8 of Dark Romeo

As far as Nonna was concerned, Tito was dead. His name was not to be uttered or spoken in this house. At least, not in front of her.

Merc glanced away. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

I stiffened. Merc used to tell me everything.

That was before you left him eight years ago.

“Come on, man,” I said softly, nudging his elbow. “It’s me.”

Merc let out a sigh and glanced at Nonna’s bedroom door before leaning in. “He’s around. Doing okay. Still underground.”

“He hasn’t surfaced yet? It’s way past the statute of limitations for him. The feds can’t charge him with anything now.”

“Yeah, but…” Merc paused and a look of guilt crept into his eyes as he glanced at me, then looked away.

“What? Spit it out.”

Merc shrugged. “I think…I think he’s still scared of your father. What he might do if…”

I swallowed. My father was not a man to be crossed. “Do you think he’ll ever come home, then?” It’s what Mercutio had been dreaming of since he was thirteen, the only thing he ever asked for on every birthday and every Christmas.

“One day, he’ll come home,” Merc said quietly. “One day.”

JULIANNA

____________

He had such damn deep-set eyes. Too dark. Annoyingly intense. The way he had looked at me. Like I was prey. His gaze rolling so obviously over my body, not even bothering to hide that he was imagining doing all sorts of wicked, unwanted things. My body flushed. Completely unwanted things.

And those lips. The most beautiful wide, thickest lips I had ever seen wasted on a man. I bet they’d feel terrible against mine. I bet he’d be a bad kisser. Totally unskilled. Not that I was imagining him kissing me.

And that voice. So rough and indecent. The way he had demanded my name. Demanded that I meet him again tonight. So shameless. What kind of woman did he think I was? If I had any sense I’d go to the club tonight just to tell him off for being so…so…presumptuous.

“Julianna, you okay, honey?”

I glanced up from my dinner plate of fettuccine marinara to my father’s concerned face, his thick, bushy salt-and-pepper brows furrowed over familiar whiskey-colored eyes. Those were my eyes. I looked like my mother—same curvy build, same long hair that couldn’t decide if it was honey or wheat, same full bottom lip—but I had his eyes. Once upon a time, when my mother’s love painted color on his cheeks and injected his smile with warmth, he would have been handsome. Since she died, the lines had deepened into a permanent frown and a set of purple shadows remained under his eyes.

I forced a smile. “I’m fine.”

His frown didn’t smooth out. “You sure? Because I’ve been talking to you for a few minutes now and you’ve just been staring at your dinner.”

I pushed my plate away. “I’m not hungry.”

“Is it…because of today?” he said, a little quieter.

My heart tugged. I may have lost my mother, but my father lost the love of his life. Despite how busy my father was, I knew he would have remembered Mama’s birthday today. He never forgot things like that when she’d been alive. Despite being so furious with him earlier, I knew that part of the reason he buried himself in work was to keep from remembering her and hurting even more.

I reached out across our small wooden dining table to grab his hand. “A little. Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he said.

“I miss her,” I admitted.

His fingers squeezed mine. He looked like he was about to say something when his phone on the tabletop by his elbow began to ring. He pulled back his hand and answered it. “Hello?” Sorry, it’s work, he mouthed at me. Of course, it was. His face pulled into a frown. “What? Where?”

I sighed and stabbed at a piece of pasta. I already knew that our family dinner was going to get cut short.

When my father hung up, he was already pushing his chair out. “Sorry, honey. They need me to manage some stuff at work.”

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