Page 25 of His Passerotta

“Right.” I wipe my palms on my lap. “Sorry.”

He doesn’t answer, just stares at his coffee table with dead eyes, like he’s deep in thought.

“I knew that about you anyway. You never order the same thing, and you always manage to surprise me.”

“You mentioned that,” he murmurs. Finally, he looks at me, not my eyes but my body. My skin heats beneath my oversized, ragged hoodie, and suddenly it’s too warm in here. His eyes dance around my chest and thighs before moving to my face. “I don’t understand how I could forget you.”

I cross my arms when my nipples pebble, although there’s no way he could see. It’s just uncomfortable feeling things I should not be feeling right now. Great, he isn’t going to kill me, but he also isn’t going to let me go. Not right now, at least, which makes me his prisoner.

Oh my god, I’m getting wet.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I shrug because I’m not sure how else to respond.

He doesn’t say anything else, instead taking another quick perusal then standing and sauntering toward the kitchen. I wonder if he knows how obvious the ogling is or if he’s even doing it at all. Maybe it’s in my head.

I look down at my hoodie, inspecting it for a stain or something that might catch someone’s eye.

“You know, you almost got me in trouble today,” he says, his voice booming in the vast space. His kitchen is damn near as big as his living room, with way more counter space than a single man should need. He pours himself another glass and walks back to the couch. “I had your lipstick on my face when I went to a meeting that I was very late to.”

Oh… That’s right, I kissed him. Add my lips to the list of things currently burning.

“You said my stop was on your way.”

“It was,” he agrees, sitting back down beside me. “Dropping you off only took an extra minute or two. But that isn’t what it looked like.”

My thighs press together while I shift uncomfortably. Even the idea of what he’s suggesting makes my spine tingle. It isn’t fair. I spent too many nights thinking of this man, hearing this voice, smelling this smell. My body can’t keep up with the new information. The dangerous information.

Anthony is a criminal. A cold-blooded criminal who very well could change his mind about not hurting me.

And yet… I can’t help but notice the bizarre similarity of my current situation with my fantasies. Me and Anthony, alone in his apartment, inches between us, him having full control over me. It’s almost exactly as I imagined it, everything except the fear clenching my stomach.

“Sorry,” I say, my voice low and a little too heady.

He lifts a shoulder. “My brother gave me a heads up before my boss could notice.”

My forehead pinches, and he must notice my confusion because he asks, “What?”

I shake away the thought. “Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing, and you agreed to be honest with me.” There’s no sign of a threat in his voice, but I know it’s there, lingering beneath the surface.

“I just um… Well, I thought Settimo was the boss.”

Anthony’s relaxed expression stiffens, but he quickly softens his features and leans against the cushion. “You know a lot more than you pretend to.”

Do I?

Settimo Gruco is a known criminal. He’s… I mean, they could just be rumors, but from my very limited knowledge of the Las Vegas underworld, he’s a man you don’t want to come in contact with. You would think I’d feel the same about Anthony, but I’m clearly an idiot.

He did save me, though. He could’ve let the other guy have me…

“I’m sorry,” I say without knowing what I’m apologizing for. “I really don’t know anything, but I’m privy enough about your organization to know that. It’s just … common knowledge.”

He nods slowly, seemingly believing me. “Fair enough. What else do you know?”

What else do I know?

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