Page 15 of Dreadful
My mind ignores his cheeky smile as it tries to compute what he just said.
He bought a tulip-shaped dessert because he likes flowers. He laughs through my sarcastic, dry humor. And he indulges the sass that always got me in trouble growing up.
Did I get this guy all wrong? I’m usually a good judge of character. At first glance, though, I would never have expected this guy to be a gentleman. A cockyfiglio di puttanathat runs with Vincelli’s ruthless mobsters, sure. He’s intimidating and just the type that my dad had to deal with. Now mynonnihave to do the same. I would’ve assumed I’d been found out if he hadn’t literally caught me off guard.
“Your grandfather said you work for the theater?” he asks, breaking me from my thoughts. Something about the question tickles my mind, but I answer despite the feeling.
“Yup.”
“Is it the Revere? What do you do there?”
“I’m a costume designer.” I rattle out the total and push the box forward on the counter.
He pulls out a card from his wallet, and I reach to take it. The question I ask everyone rolls off my tongue.
“Do you have a name for a customer loyalty card? I could also use Orazio’s if you’d like. I think I have his number by heart.”
His fingers tighten on his card, and his brow furrows. “You have Raze’s phone number?”
“No…hiscustomernumber.” I tug the card, but he snatches it away. “I need a customer number or a name to enter if you want credit.”
“And you don’t know mine?”
The pointed question takes me aback. I raise a brow to point out how conceited that sounds, and he shakes his head.
“On second thought, I’ll use cash.”
“Suit yourself.”
He hands me the bills, and I drop the change into his hand. His fingers envelop mine and give me a squeeze.
“My name’s Sev.”
“Sev?”Interesting.“Is that a nickname?”
He shrugs. “It’s what I go by.”
“Okay, then. Do you have a customer loyalty card,Sev?”
“No…” He smiles, and I swear my heart stops. “I just wanted the famous sweet Tallie to know my name.”
“Oh…” At this rate, Gio and Tony could melt their sugar right on my damn face. “Well, I’m clearly not as sweet as advertised.”
“Now, I wouldn’t say that.”
My jaw drops, and he smirks as he turns to leave. I stare at his practiced swagger until he backs into the glass and tilts his head.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Seems you’re going to, so why not?”
He keeps going despite my surly attitude. “Why theater? You’re an excellent artist. It seems you could just do that.”
I almost lie, just like I would if he’d asked me about my tattoo. But the truth comes out instead.
“Sometimes I like helping people pretend to be someone else for a night.”
“And other times?”
