Page 60 of Texting Mr. Stranger

“Well, here I go …”

Slowly, I begin to pluck the piece. It’s a challenge involving a melody with the thumb while my fingers attempt to handle chords simultaneously. It comes out slowly, joltingly, in fits and starts. Yet the more I play, the more I remember the instrument. Or maybe it’s like the instrument remembers me.

Finally, I look up to find Bella looking with tears glistening in her eyes.

“Whoa,” she whispers.

I put the instrument aside and move across the limo to sit beside her. Her leg touches mine, the heat shimmering into me. The more time I spend pressed up against her like this, the saner these insane thoughts feel. It’s like there’s this connection in us—this sheet of music only we can read that makes sense tous.

“That was incredible,” she whispers.

“I was rusty.”

“Rusty, passionate, genuine.”

I take her hand, being carefulonlyto take her hand and not give in to the desire, resuming what we started last night.

“Maybe I’ll take it up again,” I murmur.

“Why did you quit?”

“I only played because it made my mother happy. She loved to listen to me. She always insisted my brother and I have an artistic outlet. His is painting. Mine was the guitar. The difference was, he genuinely loved his.”

“What about you?”

“I just loved the look on Mom’s face … and now yours.”

“See?” She squeezes my hand. “That means you’ve got all the motivation in the world to play, right?”

I meet her eye. I’m about to say, “But I thought this was just a deal.” Then she flinches, and I realize I don’t have to say it. She saw what I was going to say anyway. She can read me as easily as she reads music. Turning away, she looks at the floor, and I get it. She doesn’t want to address this. She wants to live in this in-between space just a little longer.

“Do you think they’re watching us?” Bella whispers in my ear as I lead her into the lobby of Ristorante La Bellezza.

“If they’re watching anywhere, it’s here,” I tell her. “The club they burned is just two blocks away.”

Bella hugs closer to me as we approach the hostess. The entranceway is a grand marble lobby, long red carpets crisscrossing as they lead to three chambers, all with chandeliers and soft music playing. As the hostess leads us to the private balcony booth—better for people to spot us—I’ve got my hand on Bella’s back.

The fact we’re doing this for show, or evenpartlyfor show, is a damn shame. At least I can console myself with the idea of, in the future, taking her on more dates,actualdates.

“You look so beautiful,” I tell Bella after we order some nonalcoholic champagne. We have to keep our wits, so no alcohol for us tonight.

She tries to laugh it off, raising her hand as if to wave away the compliment, but I won’t let her. Reaching forward, I grab her hand and softly glide my thumb over her knuckle. Or as softly as a onetime musician Mafiosi can, anyway.

“I mean it,” I say fiercely. “Don’t laugh it off. Don’t pretend you don’t deserve to hear it; it’s the truth. You’re beautiful,” I say, hesitating, wondering if I’m going too far. “… inside and out.”

She slowly squeezes my hand. “So are you,” she murmurs. “Even if … the world has made you do certain things.”

“It’s not the world, Bella. You can’t give me that out. It’s me. I made my choices. I chose to pick up after my father passed away.”

“To keep the city safe, right?”

“Safer than it would be if somebody else were running it,” I say, nodding. “But that doesn’t make me a good person.”

“It doesn’t make you a bad person, either.” Her expression falters as she looks over my shoulder. “Those guys are staring.”

Without turning, I ask, “What do they look like?”

“Two men … They’re wearing slick suits with their hair combed back. They remind me of you, except they are less handsome and nowhere near as jacked.”

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