Page 47 of His Juliet

“So terrible.” I ran my hands up his body, trying to ignore the ache in my chest at how much I would miss him. “I’ve never been to Chicago, but I’ve heard it’s nice.”

He just grunted. “It’s windy and cold and not New York City.”

“But they have deep-dish pizza.”

His scowl only deepened. “Yeah, and what the fuck is that?”

“Oh, come on. I’ve heard it’s really good.”

“You’ve never had it?”

I shook my head.

“I’ll have to bring you one.”

I laughed. “Okay, you can bring me a Chicago pizza to make up for being gone.”

“Deal.”

My fingers entwined with his, and he squeezed my hand.

“Have you always lived in the city?” I asked.

He nodded. “My parents were from Italy, but I was born here. What about you?”

“Yeah.” I chewed my lip. “I actually don’t know anything about my parents. I think they immigrated here from somewhere, but I’m not sure.”

Romeo’s thumb made little, soothing circles on my hip. “What happened to them?”

“They died.” I fiddled with the collar of his shirt. “Actually, they were murdered.” Dark, disjointed memories flashed through my mind. A sinister voice. A scream. Two loud bangs. And then complete despair and loneliness as I lay trapped in a closet until the police found me.

Romeo made a low sound in the back of his throat and pulled me closer to his chest. “How old were you?”

“I was two, so I don’t remember them. I spent my childhood in foster care and then later in a girls’ group home.”

It had been so long since I told anyone about my past, since Itrustedsomeone, but as Romeo ran his hands up and down my back, I didn’t feel panicked. I felt taken care of.

“My father was murdered, too,” he murmured. “I was grown, in my early twenties, so I got to have him growing up. But I at least know a little of what it’s like to lose someone like that.”

“I’m so sorry.” I ran my fingers through his hair, wishing I could take away his pain. “That’s horrible.”

“Yeah.” His voice was rough. “Yeah, it is.”

I laid my head on his chest, wrapping my arms around him as tight as I could.

“Your mom?” I asked.

“She moved back to Italy after it happened. We talk on the phone.” He played with my hair, but I heard the pain in his voice. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to try to keep being a family after something so horrible happened.

“Have you been to Italy?”

“I have, several times,” he said. “I think you’d like it. Charming towns, beautiful art, and incredible food.”

“When I was younger, I thought it’d be fun to travel.”

“You still can.”

I made a noise of disbelief in the back of my throat. “I can’t manage a one-block detour. Not sure Italy is a realistic prospect.”

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