Page 55 of Sinister Intentions

It was as if he let me see this part of his world, a part not many people got to see. A part you wouldn’t know was there—if you only looked at the surface or at the information available on him.

With Picca trotting happily beside us, we began our leisurely stroll along the walkway.

The boardwalk was alive with activity, joggers and cyclists passing us by, families strolling leisurely in the sunshine.

It was a weird feeling, but despite the bustle around us, I felt cocooned in a strange tranquility despite being acutely aware of Vince’s presence beside me.

We settled into a comfortable silence, and for once, I didn’t feel the need to fill it with idle chatter…or trade insults, which, apparently, was our version of idle chatter.

I looked at Vince from the corner of my eye. Weirdly enough, he didn’t look out of place at all, which I would’ve expected. Maybe it was the jeans and white button-down and his relaxed features—a far cry from the imposing, intimidating figure he typically projected—that made him seem more human.

At least if you didn’t dig too deep.

Because if you really looked at him…or stared…you could see that his attention was everywhere. He surveyed our surroundings with an unobtrusive vigilance.

But I was pretty sure he could tell me exactly who was walking behind us and where everyone was. For a moment, he focused his attention on Picca, his expression softening as he watched the pup sniff at every pebble and leaf in her path.

It was such a weird dichotomy. This quiet and softer side of him definitely stirred something within me—a curiosity, a desire to unravel the layers that made up this unsettling man.

As if sensing my gaze, Vince glanced over at me, and our eyes met briefly before I quickly averted my own.

Too late because the intensity in his stare sent a shiver coursing through me, reminding me of how dangerous Vince Salvini was exactly.

I stared across the Hudson at the high rises in the distance, at the surface of the water, really anywhere but at this dangerous man next to me.

Dangerous, in more ways than one.

I walked closer to the waterfront, watched the white yachts and the perfect scenery, and increased the distance between us while mentally distancing myself, as well. Something I should’ve done immediately before I surprised him in the shower.

Why did I ever think it was a good idea to go in instead of getting the hell out of there?

I must’ve been insane—at least temporarily—probably because of the shock and the aftermath of my panic attack.

I sighed. I really thought I’d dealt with the whole Italy situation, had become more stable. Of course, I’d never experienced a trigger like that; maybe I just needed more time.

A street performer drew a crowd, narrowing the spacious promenade. But when I inched closer to Vince, a cyclist who weaved with speed through the onlookers headed straight for me.

I froze for a split second, but just as I wanted to jump to the side, Vince’s swift, powerful arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me back against his chest just as the biker sped past, close enough for me to feel the rush of air.

My heart raced from the sudden rush of adrenaline, so it took me a couple of seconds before the unexpected, undeniable comfort of Vince’s arm slung around my waist and holding me tight sunk in. The warmth of his body against my back was surprisingly non-threatening and almost nice. “You’re a walking train wreck, aren’t you?” he growled in my ear, the anger in it surprising and absolutely unnecessary.

I turned my head to look at him, but Vince’s face was set in a hard line, his eyes tracking the cyclist as he faded into the distance.

“This was so not my fault.”

Vince turned his head to me, and his eyes met mine, dark, hooded, close, so fucking close.

I swallowed. “Not that I have to defend myself or something.”

He held my gaze, a crackle of something unspoken and undeniable passing between us. Then he gave the teeny-tiniest nod—a silent acknowledgment of me being right? I didn’t think the great Vince Salvini would be self-aware enough to acknowledge when he was talking out of his ass.

“Maybe you’re not a train wreck, but you’re attracting danger like a pile of dog poop attracts flies.”

Or not.

“Excuse me?” I pulled on his arm, and slipped out of his embrace, then turned around to face him fully. “Did you just compare me with a pile of shit?”

He cocked his head. “Wrong comparison?”

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