Page 112 of The Gangster King

It’s the photo of Dante beside his mother looking every bit the gangster.

And every bit the man I love.

Whether I want to admit it or not.

I’ve never had a sex dream. I’ve never wanted any man like I do him.

I stare at his dark blue eyes, the scruff on his face and the scowl he’s giving whatever photographer taking his photo. His thighs are thick and powerful, his arms bulging out of the black t-shirt he’s wearing and on his wrist the Rolex I know all too well.

His father bought it for him on his sixteenth birthday and he made sure I noticed.

“So what.” I shrugged after he pointed it out, even though I thought it looked sexy on him. There was no way in hell I was telling him that.

Gianna had smirked at me from her sun lounger that day, enjoying the fact her brother's face fell—momentarily—before he turned angry.

“Closest you’ll ever get to one, so soak it up princess,” Dante replied.

“Whatever, Baldassare. My father would buy me a much nicer one if I asked.” I lied. We all knew those things were reserved for the males in the family. “Now go do whatever gangster shit you boys do.”

“Men. I’m a man,” he said, dropping his hands on his hips and glaring down at us.

Even then, he’d been bulking up. His biceps forming, his chest broadening. He even had a few tattoos already.

Oh boy, I noticed.

I noticed everything about him.

I close the laptop and stare out the window.

Will he one day have a son that looks like him? Or a beautiful little girl who is blessed to have his long dark lashes? I imagine him standing at his wife’s side as she gives birth and my heart aches.

A tear slips out and I angrily wipe it away.

I’m twenty-six. Plenty of time to meet someone I’ll love. He’s not the only man for me.

Although it feels like it.

I glance around my house and decide to go out for a walk. Some fresh air might do me good. I live in California after all.

I change into a nice sundress—this one I splurged on from Gap—and slip on my sneakers. Then grab my phone, a jacket, and sunglasses and head out the door.

I live near a beach, so I head in that direction and soon hit the sand. I walk all the way to the end, and then back again. By the time I cross the road, I’m starting to feel better.

I’ll get over him.

I’ll miss my father and brother less every day. In two years, I’m sure it will feel different.

I spot a coffee shop I saw a few days ago and decide to go in. This is my new neighborhood, after all.

“What can I get you?”

“Cappuccino please.” I tell the guy who looks like he is a few years younger than me. “And a cupcake.”

Cupcakes cheer you up.

I’m pretty sure that’s a rule.

“What flavor do you want?” he asks, a little annoyed because there are about ten different options in the cabinet.

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