Page 42 of Mistletoe in the Mafia

I’ve never heard of that before. “Why does it happen?”

I’m totally taking advantage of the fact that he’s sick because if he was fully alert, there’s no way in hell he’d be telling me all this right now.

“I was pretty sick as a kid,” he whispers, making my heart clench. “I already opened up the database for you on the laptop, so just have at it. I think I’m gonna sleep a while, okay?”

As soon as he ends the statement, he falls asleep, his breathing evening out. I’m not sure how long I stare at him for. I have so many questions. Why was he sick? What was he sick with? And more importantly, does his sickness have anything to do with the scar that’s directly above his heart?

Once I’m sure he’s not going to die on me or anything like that, I fall back on my heels, finally taking my eyes off him. I grab the laptop, wondering if I should leave his side and head to maybe his dining room to work. In the end, I decide to stay put right where I am.

I sit with my ankles locked on the floor against the couch. I then place the laptop against my knees before starting to work. The hum of Dominic’s laptop fills the quiet of his penthouse for some time, a low backdrop to the rhythmic tap of my fingers against the keys.

Before I realize it, it’s been three hours.

The only time I stood up within those three hours was to grab a blanket from his room, which I draped loosely over his broad shoulders. I glance back at him briefly. His features aremuch softer in sleep, but there’s tension there, too, a crease between his brows that doesn’t seem to go away even when he’s unconscious.

I bite my lip and turn back to the laptop, trying to focus. But then I hear it. A low, broken sound cuts through the quiet. I freeze, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, listening as the sound grows clearer. He’s calling for someone. A faint desperate word, tumbling from his lips like a plea.

“Ilya,” he says softly, pain coating the word.

I scoot closer to him, the laptop forgotten, my pulse quickening. “Dominic,” I whisper, hesitant.

His breathing grows erratic and I hurriedly stand up. He’s gripping the edge of the couch, bracing himself against something. I know this look, this feeling, all too well. I’m sure this is how I look every time I dream of my mother getting murdered.

He’s trapped in a nightmare. The kind that’s as much your reality as it is a dream. I kneel beside him, my fingers hovering just above his face. I don’t know how to wake him up when he’s like this. It could be dangerous, especially when he’s so obviously trapped in his own mind.

“Dominic,” I try again, my voice gentle.

He still doesn’t stir. I steel myself, finally reaching down, ready to touch his shoulder. But before I can, his hand shoots out, iron-like, and grab my wrist. I gasp, my heart leaping as his eyes snap open, gray eyes darker than I’ve ever seen them. For a second he looks at me like doesn’t recognize me.

Then he blinks and the sharpness in his gaze softens.

“Flowers,” he breathes, his voice rough and raw.

His grip on my wrist loosens and I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

“It’s okay,” I say softly, even though my heart is still pounding. “You were just dreaming.”

He sits up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face like he’s trying to scrub away the remnants of whatever nightmare had him in its grip. I stay frozen in place, watching him. His movements are precise, controlled, but I know what it’s like to wake up with your pulse racing, your mind clawing for clarity.

Before I can say anything else, he pulls me into his lap, his arms wrapping around me tightly, as if using me as an anchor to reality. I place a hand on his chest to steady myself, right over his rapidly beating heart. When our eyes meet, my breathing catches and I find it impossible to look away.

“Please,” he whispers.

It’s only one word, but it’s enough to shatter my heart in two. And then his lips are on mine, urgent and consuming, like he’s trying to down out whatever ghosts his mind conjured up. I don’t fight the kiss; in fact, I lean into it. My eyelids flutter shut and I wrap my arms around his neck. My heart thumps as his lips slide over mine. I remain right there with him, helping to guide him back to reality. I kiss him back with just as much fervor. Our tongues take part in a dance only they are privy to.

I feel a pressure building up behind my eyelids. But I don’t stop kissing him. I don’t let go until he does. He breaks the kiss after what feels like forever, pulling away from me. I’m panting, my chest heaving with each breath.

Dominic slowly lowers his head backward, his eyes going up to the ceiling. I’m still in his lap and his hands are still around my waist. Neither of us says anything for a long moment. Finally he clears his throat before gently shifting me out of his lap and onto the couch. I open my mouth to speak then close it because I genuinely have no clue what to say.

“You good, Flowers?” his gruff voice questions, breaking the awkward silence.

I nod slowly. “Y-yeah. I’m good.”

“Okay.” He rises to his feet, running a hand through his hair. “What time is it?”

“Around ten,” I reply, looking everywhere but at his face.

“Shit. I’ll take you home after I have a shower, okay?”

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