Page 68 of Isaia

Chapter 20

EVERLY

Ibelieve him. Isaia.

I believe that Michele tried to have me kidnapped. The man’s a fucking psychopath. What I don’t believe is that Anthony has chosen to break his promise.

Yes, he’s a Paladino, but he’s also my friend. The only one I had while I lived under my stepdad’s roof. The reason I was able to escape Michele’s cruelty.

I’m halfway through a pathetic attempt at reheating last night’s pasta when a knock at the door interrupts me.

Luna’s tail starts wagging as soon as the knock lands. My heart does that stupid little jump, and for a second, I think it’s Isaia. But Isaia isn’t the knocking type. He’s more of a break-the-fucking-door-down kind of guy.

I wipe my hands on a dish towel and pull open the door. Standing there, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and a pizza box in the other, is Anthony Paladino.

His usual effortless charm is in full swing—sleeves rolled up, dark hair slightly mussed, a hint of a cocky grin already in place.

“Dinner service,” he says, stepping in without waiting for an invitation. “Thought you could use something edible.”

“Wow, thanks,” I deadpan, shutting the door behind him. “My self-esteem was thriving until now.”

He drops the pizza and wine on the kitchen counter just as the microwave dings. “You reheating leftovers again?”

“Don’t judge me.” I grab two glasses from the cabinet.

“Before you ask,” he pops the cork with ease, “there’s no artichokes on this pizza. I find it revolting, disgusting, and a crime against humanity.”

I love artichokes on pizza. “I thought we established that you’re supposed to be the one with bad taste,” I shoot back, plucking the cork from his hand and tossing it into the trash.

“Real Italians don’t defile pizza with plants.”

“Well, this isn’t Italy. And technically, you’re not Italian since you were born here.”

“Oh, a low blow,” he says, chuckling as he pours wine into the glasses. “So, ethnicity is based on birthplace now?”

“My house, my rules, Paladino,” I say, shooting him a smug look.

He glances around. “Technically, it’s my?—”

“Shut up.”

Luna trots over, curling up at his feet like it’s routine. He leans down, giving her a few scratches behind the ears. “Hey, girl. Miss me?”

I grab two paper plates from the drawer, eyeing him suspiciously. “You’re not here just to feed me.”

“Can’t a guy enjoy dinner with a friend?”

“You hate Chicago,” I remind him, placing a slice of pepperoni pizza on each plate.

“And yet, here I am. The Windy City’s never looked more appealing.” He lifts his glass, waiting for me to clink mine against it. “Plus, we didn’t exactly get to talk this morning.”

Unease slithers across the back of my neck, thinking about the tension between him and Isaia. It also reminds me of how Isaia had his face buried between my legs half an hour later.

Anthony’s expression shifts, the playfulness ebbing into something more serious. “What are you doing, Everly?”

I avoid his gaze. “What do you mean?”

“Isaia Del Rossa.”

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