Page 26 of His Passerotta

Nothing.

Well, I mean, there’s the obvious.

“Umm, you guys sell drugs. And sex. And guns. And, you know, other organized criminal activity stuff. Did you miss the part about me growing up a heathen? Like I said, this is all common knowledge. I’m not a spy, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

One side of his lips lifts with amusement. “You are not nearly stealthy enough to be a spy, so no, I’m not thinking that.”

My eyes narrow. “It took me, like, two seconds tops to break into your restaurant.”

“And it took you how long to get caught?”

Maybe five minutes.

My lips thin when he chuckles.

“It’s a good thing, passerotta. You don’t want me to think you’re a spy, do you?”

No. No, I do not.

I look away, still a little insulted but seeing his point. For once, being an idiot is working in my favor. He doesn’t see me as a threat.

“You’re also sloppy enough to have gone to prison. And you got caught stealing what, a month ago?”

I snap my gaze back to him, my hands gripping my jeans to keep them from balling into fists. “Are you trying to be a dick?”

He looks like he attempts to school his expression, but his lips still twitch with a smile.

“I got caught hot-wiring a car because my partner ratted me out. That’s why I went to prison. And I didn’t steal from Freddy’s, the manager is full of shit. The register came up short, and they wanted someone to blame.”

I swat a loose strand of hair from my face. “I’m not a criminal anymore. I’ve been straight since I got out.” I huff with irritation. “I just needed my fucking phone tonight.”

“Okay, relax.”

“If you would have chosen a better lock, none of this would’ve happened.”

“So it’s my fault, then?” He chuckles. “I caused you to spy on my very private conversation?”

I roll my eyes. “Your ‘private conversation.’ Oh no, someone did something to the blond dude and you and Pervert need to help him.” I wave my hands dramatically. “Such sensitive information.”

His smile falls as his eyes harden. “You might be cute, passerotta, but don’t push it.”

“What is that, the Italian word for idiot? Don’t fucking call me that.”

I throw my hands up and stand, no idea what the hell I’m about to do. I can’t just storm out.

My arms cross over my chest while I look between Anthony and the door. He makes no move to stop me, but his eyes bolt my feet to the carpet. They remind me why I’m here, who he really is.

A chill runs down my spine, but I try not to let the wave of anxiety show, instead hugging myself tight and glaring.

He doesn’t let up. Doesn’t so much as blink.

I stand my ground for a solid ten seconds before breaking my stare, unable to meet his eyes anymore.

“Sit down,” he commands, his voice like a hand wrapping around my neck.

Slowly, I sit down next to him, fighting the urge to resist.

A large palm cups my shoulder and squeezes, sending mixed signals of fear and lust to my brain. “Good girl.”

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