Page 1 of Confession
ONE
Vitali
I’ve told Quinn a million fucking times that he doesn’t have to cook. He already has a more than fulltime job as my bodyguard. But every time I point that out, he just says he likes cooking.
Maybe so, but what he really likes is keeping busy. Quinn doesn’t do well with downtime, and he’s had a lot of that over the past six weeks.
“Should you be doing that?” I ask as I walk past him kneading pasta dough at the kitchen island. The glare I get from those hazel eyes. Jesus. If looks could kill.
Sometimes I wonder if Quinn would beat me in a fight. I kind of think he would. I might be an inch or so taller at 6’2” and I’m pretty damn cut, but Quinn is fuckingjacked. As for skill, my training is more formal, courtesy of my father, but Quinn is tough as fuck, courtesy of his. Quinn is rarely drunk, but he was one night, and that came out. I’m not sure whether he remembers that conversation. He sure as hell never followed up on it.
“I’m fucking fine,” he informs me. “Have been for a while.”
I snag the coffeepot. It’s six p.m., which is kind of my second morning. I need caffeine, a workout, and a shower before the night starts.
“You got shot,” I remind him. “Twice.”
Quinn aggressively kneads the dough. “Nothing vital was hit. And one of them was just a graze.”
“Isaac said—”
“Isaac’s a fucking doctor, what do you expect?”
Being interrupted usually annoys me, but interactions with Quinn always seem to activate a different part of my brain. It’s like my usual defense mechanisms relax.
“You’re supposed to listen to doctors,” I point out as I fill the coffeepot at the sink.
He ignores me.
As I get the coffee going, I watch him work. I tell myself that I’m gauging his movement, judging his recovery, but the truth is that I watch Quinn a lot. And sure, I always have for some reason, but since he got hurt, I’m catching myself doing it even more.
Wearing a black apron, with his green plaid sleeves rolled to his elbows, his body rocks slightly as he kneads the stiff dough. For a second, I can almost picture my grandmother beside him, teaching him to do this.
Quinn entered this household in the last year of Nonna Maria’s life. She would keep up a steady stream of Italian, her frail hands correcting his strong ones when he couldn’t understand her words. She would shake her head and say, “No,no,” like she despaired of his efforts, but her face would light up whenever he walked into the kitchen to help her.
Bello, she called him. Handsome.
I mean, he is. Objectively speaking, of course. It’s part of why I hired him as a bouncer at Eclipse two years ago. The nightclub has a certain aesthetic, and his ruggedly handsome face fit the bill. Plus he had the body, skills, and calm demeanor needed for the job.
That feels like a lifetime ago, him working at the club. This is where he belongs. I can’t imagine this house without him.
Arms crossed, I’m standing with my back to the counter, listening to the percolator gurgle to a finish as I watch Quinn. I’m sure no one looking at me would guess that my heart isskipping. It’s done that a lot over the past six weeks, and it’s the reason I’m holding Quinn back.
He could’ve been hurt a lot worse. He could’ve been killed.
When it first happened, adrenaline was high, Quinn was walking and talking, and there was a lot of shit going on. At the time, in my mind, Quinn was doing his job, which he’s damned good at. I cared because I would care about anyone who works for me getting hurt, especially Quinn or Sasha who live in my house. But for some fucking reason, ever since it happened, I’ve been fighting a fixation that I really, really need to get control of.
And it’s not just a fixation. It’s a fear. I don’t want anything to happen to him.
I have to get over it, I know. I have to let Quinn get back to work before he loses his mind, which he’s pretty damn close to doing.
Done kneading, he covers the dough in plastic wrap. I set my coffee aside and walk up behind him. “Let me see it.”
Quinn’s back goes ramrod straight at my sudden nearness. He’s not exactly a touchy-feely person, but I don’t see him tense like this with anyone but me. I don’t get it, and it’s very annoying. I mean, I talk to him more than to anyone. He’s the only person I let see how much it fucked me up when Nonna Maria died last year. And I know he’s not intimidated by me, so what the fuck?
Usually, I maintain a decent physical distance to avoid this response from him, but it’s been harder these past six weeks. There’s like a fucking magnet on him or something.
“See what?” he asks, turning to face me.I’m too close, I know, because I can see the gold and amber flecks in his otherwise green eyes.
