Page 68 of His Passerotta

His hand lifts to my face, caressing my cheekbone before pushing my hair over my shoulders. A rush of warmth settles in my chest, and immediately, I want him to kiss me again.

I go to lean toward his lips, but he steps away before I can. He hands me the plate, and I busy myself with another bite.

He leans against the counter, his hand caressing my knee, and it takes everything I have not to toss the plate on the floor and throw myself at him.

“So, what was that back there with your brother?” I ask to distract myself.

“Settimo?” He tilts his head while rubbing circles over my knee. Ninety percent of my attention is on that simple action, but I do want to know if I should be worried.

He goes on before I can respond.

“Nothing. It was just better to tell him the story before one of the Russians come to him complaining about it.”

“You lied to him,” I say, my lips dipping. “Would he have been mad if you’d told him the truth?”

Anthony looks up like he’s weighing the possibility.

“I mean, would he have wanted you to kill me?” My voice strains even though I try to say it calmly.

Anthony’s thumb on my knee slows, and he squeezes. “No. He would give me a hard time about it, but nothing beyond that. I only lied because it seemed better to make him look like an asshole than to make me look like a pussy.” He chuckles, but there’s discomfort underneath it. Like he just revealed something to me.

“You’d look like a pussy because you didn’t kill me?”

He hesitates for a second, then nods.

“That’s dumb.”

“That’s the familia.” His hand glides to my inner thigh. I’m not sure he’s conscious about all the ways he touches me, but the trail of warmth invades my every thought. “Mercy has no place in my world.”

I frown. The way he says it makes me think he believes it. “Strength without mercy is for nothing.”

He gives me a small smile, but I can tell I haven’t convinced him. I can’t imagine Anthony as anything but strong. Does he not believe that?

“You’re not eating,” he observes, gesturing to the plate.

I pierce the cake with my fork and take a bite.

“Enough about people killing me.” I spear another piece. “Are you being careful? You said you know who planted the bomb at your restaurant, but I can’t help but think you should be cautious.”

“I’m fine, passerotta. Stop worrying about me.”

“I can’t get over this feeling I have in my gut that you’re in danger.” I watch his face for signs that he’s taking me seriously, but he still looks apathetic.

“I’m not in danger. I have enemies, but none that are stupid enough to kill me. That would result in a bloodbath.”

Which is exactly what Corey said he wanted.

“Somebody put a bomb outside your restaurant, Anthony. What makes you think they won’t put one inside?”

He raises a brow. “It’s a legitimate business earning a modest profit compared to my other endeavors. Nobody would get anything out of blowing it up.”

“Except your death.” My voice is louder and more insistent than I mean for it to be, and it fades Anthony’s apathy, making room for what looks like annoyance.

I can’t help myself. A cocktail of cortisol and adrenaline flow through my veins, breaking up any sense that I have not to make Anthony’s guard go up. If his guard goes up, then I risk him finding out the truth. That can’t happen. But if it doesn’t, if I don’t warn him in some way, I’m terrified I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.

“What if the Irish aren’t content with simply leaving Las Vegas again? They wouldn’t have attacked if they didn’t think they could win a war.”

His eyes narrow as his hand pulls away. “How do you know about this? I’ve told you nothing about the Irish or a war.”

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