Page 8 of Promise Maker

Francesca groans dramatically. “Cristo, Father.That’s all you talk about, day after day. Just let him do what he wants.”

“He wants Solari,” Father grates. “This obsessionover Bishop’s daughter has gone on long enough. It was merely an attraction.Time to move on.”

I twist and glare at him. “I suppose I don’t havea choice. Do I?”

He straightens from the chair. “Speaking of my oldfriend. I’m going to make some calls and try to uncover the rat that’s sellingBishop out to his enemies.” He leaves the office.

Francesca lingers behind. “Are you going to returnto Sicily without telling her?”

I dip my head and sigh heavily.

“Nico, you haven’t stopped talking about Solarisince you met her at ten. When you saw her again years later, you swore thatshe was the one you wanted.” She jerks my shoulder. “Tellher what happened. You’re both older. No one can stop either of you. Maybeshe’ll give you a chance.”

I allow my heart to consider it.

That has always been a sweet fantasy; Solari andme in some paradise bubble. No attempts on my family or having to kill.

But that isn’t reality, and Bishop’s words are aconstant reminder.

“I can’t, sister. I’ve already promised. Martellikeeps their word.”

“Hm.” She gives me a sympathetic pat on the back.“We sure fucking do. No matter the cost.”

3

Dad and I are still joking and laughing by thetime we reach back at the house.

“Seems you two had fun,” Mathew remarks as weenter the foyer.

Dad nudges my arm playfully. “Yeah, Sol stillthinks I’m a cool Dad.”

“Pfft. Only when you’re not all about business.”

Mathew chuckles at us. I don’t miss the slightspark in his gaze, lingering on me a tad before he walks away. I’ve beennoticing that lately. But I could just be misreading. He’s twenty-one years mysenior and like an uncle.

Dismissing the thought, I turn in the direction ofthe kitchen to put away leftover pretzels.

“How about a comedy?” Dad calls out.

“Sure. I’ll make popcorn.”

He veers down the hallway towards our home theaterwhile I continue to the kitchen.

I retrieve a pack of kernels from the pantry andplace the bag in the microwave, leaning against the island to wait.

It’s not long until the popping starts, and mymind drifts to Domenico Martelli yet again.

God, he lookedgood.

“Ugh!” I pull out the band and ruffle my curls,mumbling to myself, “He doesn’t want you. Forget him.” Domenico is probablyrunning through the women in Sicily. I bet he has a community dick.

Hm. I wonder how big it is.

“Stop it,” I scold myself. Who cares about thesize.The point is it’ll never enter me.

But it’s hard to pretend that doesn’t bum me out.

Loud popping catches my ears, jolting me from theisland. It didn’t come from the microwave.

---