Page 81 of His Passerotta

I think he’s passionate. Passionate about his work, his family, his dreams. He carries himself in a way that hints at his power, but with it comes a greater sense of safety than I’ve ever felt. He’s smart, smart enough to be a threat for his enemies.

He’s compassionate, funny, merciful, an optimist who quells my pessimism. Until him, I never saw the argument for love. I never thought it was possible.

But here I am, standing outside his apartment with a pot full of soup, probably making an idiot of myself. It took so much strength to come here and even more to keep from running away.

The fear of being wrong about how he feels about me, or worse, being loved and then thrown away just as I watched men do to my mother countless times, spreads goosebumps over my flesh and begs me to go. Run before he can open the door.

But I stand still, with my heart on my sleeves and my mind made up.

I love Anthony Gruco.

Every time I say it in my mind, it makes my chest hurt, but I say it anyway.

I don’t expect him to want me too, not after last night. I’m not even sure he’ll open the door. All I know is I owe it to myself to show my cards. I owe it to myself to take a chance. Because before yesterday, I was content being alone. Now the idea of crying alone, no shoulder at the ready, no arms to wrap around, no lips to kiss me goodnight, sounds unbearable.

My heart leaps up my throat when the door opens and Anthony appears. Immediately, I try to read his expression, searching for anger, or better yet, longing. His brows knit as he glances from the pot to me.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” I say, my tone high-pitched. I clear my throat and hold out the pot. “I made this for you.”

He carefully takes it, looking more puzzled than he did a moment ago. “What is it?”

“Soup,” I squeak. I open my mouth, ready to start in on the speech that’s been running through my head for hours, but Anthony turns and carries the pot into the kitchen.

Not sure if I should follow, I cautiously step inside and shut the door behind me.

“I know you’re not sick, but I figured you might like a sample or something, you know, for the future?” I let out what is supposed to be a chuckle, but it sounds so strangled that I cringe.

“It’s chicken noodle,” I go on, meeting him in the kitchen. He blinks at me, and I continue before he can tell me to get out. “I-I didn’t know what kind you liked, but everybody likes chicken noodle soup when they’re sick, right?” I really should shut up now.

“I…” His eyes glaze while thoughts swirl behind them.

“You don’t have to say anything,” I blurt, taking a step toward him. “Just let me get this out, and I’ll go afterward, okay?”

Instead of answering, he crosses his arms over his chest and waits for me to continue.

“I fucked up.” The words nearly stick in my throat, so I gather what little moisture I can and swallow. I blink away the sting in my eyes. “You spared my life, and I didn’t repay the favor. I lied to you, I let you walk around knowing people wanted to hurt you. I…” My stomach recoils thinking about this next part, but I have to say it. I have to trust that everything will be okay. That he’ll make it okay. “I let you start a war that you shouldn’t be fighting.”

He shifts his weight while his eyes widen.

“The Irish didn’t plant the bomb at La Divina. It was a gang. They wanted you to think it was the Irish so you’d run them out of town, and then they could grow their turf to where it was before the Irish came to Vegas.”

My hands start to tremble, and I grip the sides of my pants to steady them. “The gang’s name is The Lost Boys, and Corey is a member. He…” My lip quivers with fear that’s difficult to steady, but I speak through it. “He is not innocent, but he’s my brother, and if you ever cared about me at all, you’ll spare him. I’m telling him tonight that you know everything, and I’m going to talk him into leaving the city. Use this information to help your family, but don’t follow Corey. Please.”

“Why are you telling me this?” he asks, his voice gentle. He doesn’t sound angry. He doesn’t even sound surprised.

Why?

“Because,” I say, taking a deep breath. “You are the only man I’ve ever wanted to make soup for. You’re the only person I want to see me cry. You’re the… You’re the one person I feel safe with and the only man I’ve ever loved.” I swallow. “And if I let you carry on with this war, knowing it could hurt you and your family, I’ll never be able to forgive myself.”

A shaky breath slips past my lips, and I try to gather my next words. I should go. I said what I had to say. I’m prepared to face the consequences, even if that means leaving Las Vegas and never looking back. But his caring face makes it so hard to leave.

“I understand if you never want to see me again. I probably wouldn’t either… But I needed you to know. I?—”

“Enough,” he says with one long stride toward me before his hand covers my mouth. I tense but don’t move. “That’s enough talking.”

He replaces his hand with his lips, kissing me in a firm, long kiss that feels never-ending but couldn’t possibly be long enough. His fingers thread through my hair, pulling me onto my toes as I press into him deeper.

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