Page 87 of The Temptation
Arabella rolls her eyes at her husband, but when she turns her attention back to me, her voice softens. “He’s right, but like I said before, it’s not the same without you here, Lu-Lu.”
I swallow hard, trying to keep my smile from slipping. “Yeah, well … I’d probably just end up crying all over her and freaking her out.”
“She puked on me this morning,” Dante admits. “She’s lucky I love her; men have lost their lives for less.”
Arabella nudges him playfully, then points the phone back towards Caterina. “Alright, prepare yourself. Here come the rolls.”
The camera shifts and focuses in, and there they are, those impossibly tiny, dimpled legs, folded like warm dough. She’s kicking at the air without a care in the world.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, something sharp and tender catching in my throat. I quickly snap a screenshot, already knowing where it’ll go, into the folder I created the day I arrived here.
It’s become my quiet little sanctuary. A digital diary of everything I’m holding on to. Screenshots from video calls with Arabella, and all the cuteness of Caterina. Arabella is right; she’s growing so fast, which is evident when I scan through the images.
There are so many of Romeo in there, too. Some are blurry, others were caught with perfect clarity. Quiet, candid moments I managed to steal when he wasn’t paying attention. When the mask slipped and he let his guard down just enough to show who he really is beneath all that bravado.
Not the underboss, just Romeo the man. Thoughtful. Tired. Sometimes kind. Maybe that’s why I can’t stop taking them. Those images feel more real than anything else around me. Like little truths I’m not supposed to see, but can’t help holding on to anyway.
Romeo’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth when Ki-Ki suddenly starts barking in the backyard. It’s sharp and insistent and not his usual bark. A minute later, my heart stutters at the sound of a loud knock on the front door.
“Are you expecting someone?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
He drops his cutlery with a clatter and pushes his chair back. “Stay here,” he says, reaching behind himself and pulling out a gun.
My eyes widen. “You brought your gun to the dinner table?”
“We’re in the middle of a war, Lucia,” he replies, rolling his eyes like I’ve asked him something ridiculous. “If that war finds us, I doubt they’ll let me go to my room and retrieve it. It’s called being prepared. It’s called staying alive.”
Things have escalated, and I only know this because my brother-in-law called Romeo in the middle of the night, and I just happened to be lying beside him when he answered his phone.
Three of their men had been brutally executed at the hands of Giuseppe Salvatori.
The second call came two hours later. One of theFamiglia’srestaurants had just been firebombed.
Is the person, or persons, responsible currently knocking on our front door?
Romeo crosses the room quickly, every move sharp with focus, but before he disappears down the hallway, he turns, stalks back to me, and tugs me to my feet.
“Go into the bedroom and lock the door. Pull up Dante’s number on your phone, and if you hear anything … gunfire, shouting, anything, you call him. Do not,” he says, his voice dropping low and becoming deadly serious, “leave that fucking room under any circumstances. You hear me?”
I nod; my throat too tight to speak.
“Good girl,” he says, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to my forehead. When he draws back, his eyes hold mine for abeat too long, as if he’s memorising my face or silently begging me to understand just how real this is. “Go.”
I turn and rush towards the hallway that leads to the bedrooms, but when the sound comes again, thethud, thud, thud, loud and threatening against the front door, I freeze.
I desperately want to do what Romeo instructed me to do, but that’s not me.
Following orders has never been in my blood. Breaking rules is practically stitched into my DNA. I know, he’s trying to protect me, but if something were to happen to him …
If I hid behind a locked door like a coward, while he bled out on the floor, I’d never forgive myself.
Not in this lifetime.
Not in any.
I’d rather go down beside him—bloodied with my heart wide open—like some fucked-up Mafia version of Romeo and Juliet.
Chapter 19
