Page 54 of Enforcer

“Red,” I shoot back.

He chuckles. “Makes complete sense.”

I furrow my brows at him. Even though I told the truth that red is my favorite color, I feel defensive about my choice now. “Why does that make sense?”

He shrugs, lifting his beer to his lips. I don’t know that we should be partaking, but I’m glad he hadn’t shot the idea down because it’s calming my nerves, usually frayed around him.

“Because when I look at you, think about you. If you were to be a color, red would be the one. You’re just…saucy.”

“And the sauce is red?”

He grins. “The best ones are, yes.”

I smile as I drop my face and bring the glass bottle to my lips, letting the dark lager we’d chosen fill my mouth and harden my nerves.

“What’s your favorite color?” I ask him.

“Depends.”

“Not fair! I gave you my honest answer and chose only one color!”

“Well, if you’d have asked me first, I would’ve said black.” It makes sense; the marble in his house is black, and everything in every room plays off the same palette.

“But now that you have to answer after me? Not that it should make a difference,” I add.

He smiles, lifting his hand to tuck some of my hair that’s fallen free from the messy bun around my ear. “Now, I’d say red.”

It does something to my insides, and I clear my throat and drop my eyes.

“Your turn to ask a question,” he points out, dropping his touch away.

“So it is.” I think of everything I don’t know about him and ask the one thing that seems most essential—the most mundane.

“Are your parents still together?”

His eyes flick to the steering wheel as his left hand runs over its stitching. It’s a deep mahogany color that has to be beautiful in the daylight. “They would be if they were still alive.”

Fuck.

“I’m sorry. I put my foot in my mouth sometimes.”

He sighs. “No, I wanted to play this game to get to know you. It’s only fair if you have the same rights.”

“They were together from high school on. My father was a Ricci, Slate’s father’s brother. They were thick as thieves, alwaysinto some scheme or another to move the family onward and upward.”

I grin. “And now you’re one of the top families in New York,” I point out.

He nods. “That we are. It doesn’t feel like much when you’re in the family. Desensitized to it, I guess.”

“I can see that happening.”

I want to ask how they died, but I don’t want to be insensitive.

“My father was gunned down when I was little— a deal gone bad. Not one forthe family, however. He was a gambler. My mother always said it was his downfall. She grieved herself to death not long after. I grew up with Slate’s parents as my own until they were killed.”

So much pain in such formative years.

“God, that’s awful. I’m sorry, Dante.”

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