Page 14 of Dreadful
“Smettila! Per favore!” I shout with a laugh, but I keep my eyes on the man in front of me.
When he meets my gaze again, his face is smooth, devoid of emotion. I can’t read him to see if he’s telling the truth. In this neighborhood, many of mynonni’sgeneration are fluent, but not their kids. My parents weren’t, but they still knew enough to talk to the elderly customers at their shop. Even if this guy doesn’t know the language perfectly, he might know the basics.
I push the mortifying thought aside and blank my own expression. “A cookie, right? Anything else for you?”
On autopilot, I open the glass case and retrieve one of the sweets before placing it in a small parchment bag.
“Uh, the request was for a dozen chocolate raspberry cupcakes and…four pistachio cannoli.”
I repeat the order to him and place the desserts in the box. “You’re in luck. Those are usually gone by this time.”
“So, I’ve heard.” He chuckles. “My cousin won’t shut up about this place. But if the frosting on that cookie is any indication, I can see why.”
I pray we both ignore the fever creeping up my cheeks as I grab the cannoli with the tongs.
“Wait.” He reaches over the counter to lightly graze my hand before giving me an apologetic wince. “Do you know who made the cannoli?”
The realization that I didn’t flinch at his touch stuns me for a second. But then his question registers, and I burst into a laugh.
“Orazio sent you, didn’t he? Is he the cousin who won’t shut up about the shop?”
The customer’s brows furrow, and his hand pulls back almost as if I’ve burned him. “Yeah, Raze is the one who asked me to stop by. Do you know him?”
I shake my head. “No, not really. Granted, he comes in all the time. The guy has a bigger sweet tooth than I do, and I’m hard to beat. He’s obsessed with thecannoli al pistacchio, but he always requests mynonnimake them. You can tell him not to worry. I didn’t touch this batch. Although, the cookies are all mine, so good luck. They’re edible, but I can’t promise how good they taste.”
His smile returns. “I already love the taste.”
I refuse to dignify that with a response. After positioning the desserts into two boxes, I place them on the counter and go to ring him up.
“Here ya go.”
Sweat pricks along my spine thanks to the intense way thisbastardois studying me. I push back my hood to lift my curls up and over the neckline, letting the air conditioning cool my nape. When I glance up to tell him the price, I notice his gaze catching on my jawline. Apprehension banishes my smile, and I quickly untuck my hair from my ear.
I barely had enough time to shower this morning, and all I could manage was applying my color-correcting makeup to conceal the marks on my jaw and neck. My hair mostly covers the scar, but as I hide it, my sleeve slides down my elbow, nearly revealing my tattoo. I shove it down before he can see.
“What was that?”
“A tattoo,” I snap. “Never seen one before or something?”
People are always so interested in tattoos. Even total strangers get insulted if you don’t want to explain their meaning. Tattoos are like most things people feel entitled to. The ink is on your body, so you must have wanted them to ask, right? They can’t comprehend that you made a choice aboutyourbody without havingthemin mind.
Throughout the years, I’ve made up shit just for fun to teach them a lesson. I don’t know how I’ll explain the design to this guy, though.
The part of me that’s still full of rage from this morning wants to show it to him and lay it all out without sparing any of the gruesome details. The shock on his face would be worth it.
He remains quiet, and an almost nostalgic look softens his hard edges.
“Were those tulips?” he whispers.
“You know flowers?” My heart pounds. He obviously didn’t see the rest of it, but I’m surprised he could identify the purple petals.
He shakes his head. “My mother loves to garden. Foxgloves are her favorite, but those…those have always been mine.”
The reminiscent smile makes my heart flutter, and I struggle to finally come up with a stuttered response.
“It’s, um, good you got a tulip cookie, then.”
“That and the taste are why I wanted it. And because you made them, of course.”
