Page 46 of Secret Baby for the Italian Mafia King

Ren reaches out, presses his fingers under the edge of the glass and guides it toward my lips. He follows through the action until I swallow the shot. The burn strips my throat raw. I cough a little. Embarrassing.

“Does it not taste as good now that we’re allowed to be in here?” he prompts.

I scrunch my face.

“I don’t know if it ever tasted good at all.”

I swear he’s smiling. I swear he’s smiling at me. My heart pitter-patters, then thumps hard like a hammer.

He downs his own shot then holds out his hand for me.

I don’t know what to do except take it. Ren pulls me to my feet in the dim light. Outside, the silhouettes of people pass behind the lettered windows, oblivious. We stand in our own little world. Ren pulls me flush against his chest. The cold leather of his glove curls gently around my hand, his other at my waist. I stare, my feet heavy and clumsy, as Ren begins to move.

“What are you doing—”

“Dancing.”

“There’s no music.”

That doesn’t stop him. He moves me like a marionette on strings, glides me around the room the way we used to practice together for all those fancy charity balls and galas every other week. For the exclusive birthday clubs in villas and on the decksof yachts. We veer through the silence, bodies moving to a tune neither of us hears.

My fingers curl around his, tightening.

Emotion bubbles up in my throat and stings my eyes. I look at him, his empty expression, his closed-off eyes, his tight, downturned mouth. He dances me around joylessly, our footsteps the only beat.

He’s holding me so tight, it hurts, even with the hand he can’t close all the way. The tips of his fingers dig into the thin bones on the back of my hand.

I keep my face stony, my mouth a flat line. Maybe he wants me to get upset. To cry. I won’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, I bump up the pace and I take the lead. I turn our somber, funeral two-step into a sweeping, quick-footed tango. Ren almost stumbles to catch up.

“Come on, Ren. I know you can do better than that,” I challenge him, our eyes locked as I take the lead.

We weave around the room as if it’s populated by ghosts.

This dance should feel ridiculous without music, but the past is loud, and it’s all around us.

“I can’t believe you lied to me all those years,” I accuse. His eyebrow twitches. “Always complaining about how you hated ballroom dancing. Look at you now.”

He draws me ever closer, as if telling me a secret as we wheel about the room.

“I hated ballroom dancing because other men could cut in.” My hand and waist grow numb from his hold. “Not here.”

“No one is going to cut in anymore, Ren, no matter where we dance. Why are we here?”

“Because I want to be.”

I look up at him, our faces too close together now. My throat hurts. There’s a lump in it, but I swallow it down and clear it out of my voice.

Don’t let it get to you.

“Why?”

His dark eyes answer, but his mouth doesn’t.

“Do you miss it?” I dare to ask.

And this time, I know he smiles. A mean, crooked smile that cuts.

“I never left it.”

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