Page 9 of His Passerotta

The car slows, and I turn my head to the church just as he pulls into the lot.

When he unlocks the door, I grip the handle and glance at him with a quick ‘goodbye’ on my tongue, but I pause. The way he looks at me with interest lighting up his eyes makes my breath catch.

“I didn’t catch your name,” he says, giving me a kind smile that literally makes me forget my own name.

I blink to snap myself out of it. “I’m uh, I’m Bailey.”

“Bailey…?”

“Fisher.”

He nods as if deeming that an acceptable answer.

“The name of the restaurant is Au Revoir. I’ll let the manager know to expect your application, Bailey Fisher.”

“Really?” I ask with way too much hope in my voice. I steady myself. “That’s… That’s great. Thank you.”

He gives me a lopsided grin. “If and when you get an interview, try not to be late.” He glances out the window as if reminding me of my current gig.

My current gig that I’m definitely getting a bad review for.

A very bad review.

But I won’t be taking on any more side jobs. I made enough in tips at the dive bar to pay for a ‘thrifty’ life in Naked City. A bar in a fancy restaurant on a better side of town…

I’ll be making bank.

This was the goal for La Divina, and one chance encounter with the guy from my naughty fantasies put that dream into overdrive.

Maybe… He didn’t technically give me the job.

Still, I’m floored. Fucking floored.

So much so that when I plunge toward Anthony, my lips connecting with his cheek, I tell myself the kiss is involuntary. Full of gratitude. Totally out of my control.

If I’m lying, I’ll never admit it.

My neck warms, and I pull the door handle before he can respond to the overt lack of respect for boundaries. “Thank you,” I blurt before hurrying out of the car and into the church without looking back.

I can feel my skin burning as I walk, but nothing burns as much as my lips.

It’s not a bad feeling.

2

ANTHONY

My car lurches as I hit the speed bump outside the abandoned warehouse too fast, and I cringe at the sound of metal scraping.

That’ll have to be repaired.

There aren’t any cars in sight when I park beside the building, but that isn’t unusual. We use this spot as neutral territory for meetings with rival organizations, and both sides typically park a decent distance away. The point of this place is discretion, so all our vehicles in plain sight would make it a little too obvious for law enforcement.

Today, I’m breaking that silent agreement because I have—I glance down at my watch—negative thirty-four minutes before the meeting is supposed to start and am not wasting another second on a farther walk.

There’s a good chance I missed negotiations entirely, which is not ideal. There are few people Nikita Petrov, Pahkan of the Bratva, can stand, and I happen to be one of them. Neither of my brothers make the cut.

My heart races as I hurry into the building, my hands tucked into my slacks to shield the agitation that has my fingers tapping.

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