Page 6 of Flawed

Angelo continues, "The end justifies the means."

I take the last inhale of my joint, stub it out in the ashtray, and leave. I want to be able to feel nothing over my role in the Abruzzo family, but it's impossible. I get into my red Dodge Viper and refrain from peeling out of Angelo's driveway and blasting my music. The last time I did that, I heard about it for months.

As soon as I reach the main road, I turn up "Paradise City" by Guns N' Roses. I gun the Viper, weaving through traffic. Horns blare all around me as I cut off too many vehicles to count. I veer onto the road that leads into the city. I have to pick up my dry cleaning before it closes.

By the time I get there, it's almost six. I park in a no-parking zone half a block away, knowing it's going to be hell trying to find an empty spot. I get out and race toward the building. Two steps away, the door opens, and a red-haired, green-eyed, younger woman runs into me.

"Whoa!" I grab her around the waist so she doesn't fall.

She drops her dry cleaning. Her pouty red lips tremble. Tears erupt in her eyes.

My hand moves to her cheek. A few months ago, I met her at a hot new club. We didn't last long on the dance floor before I took her to my place. The next morning, I thought I'd see her again, but when I woke up, she was gone.

By chance, I ran into her at a coffee shop. Without her knowing, I followed her home, even though she said she wasn't interested in seeing me again. None of it made sense. We had chemistry you can't fake. Everything seemed perfect before I fell asleep that night. And I've racked my brain too many times to try and figure out where I went wrong.

I inquire, "Chanel. What's wrong?"

She bends down to get her dry cleaning.

I crouch with her, grab it, then pull her back up. I repeat, "What's wrong?"

Her French accent pops out. "N-nothing." She tears her gaze off mine and then tries to step away. "I have to go."

I circle my arm around her waist. I move her out of the path of pedestrians on the crowded sidewalk.

"Luca, I have to go," she reiterates.

I cage her between the brick building and myself. I slide my palms back over her cheeks, forcing her to look at me. "Why are you crying, stellina?"

She squeezes her eyes shut and takes short breaths, as if I'm causing her pain.

I run my thumb over her bottom lip, stepping as close as possible. She's even more beautiful than I remember. It's like she's glowing, yet she also looks tired. Her cheeks are hot, but I'm unsure if it's because of me or if she's coming down with something.

She turns her head and sneezes.

"Bless you," I say, pulling out my handkerchief.

She sniffs hard and quickly wipes her nose. "Sorry."

"It's okay." I move my palm to her forehead. "Chanel, you're burning up. Are you sick?"

She swallows and winces. Her voice cracks. "No. I'm fine."

"Come on," I order, then spin her, guiding her quickly to my car.

"Luca, let me go."

"You're sick. Get in. I'll take you home," I state, open the passenger door, then grab her dry cleaning.

"No. I'm more than capable of making it home."

"Get in, stellina."

"Stop calling me your little star!" she angrily blurts out.

I freeze. "You know Italian?"

Her face heats hotter. She glares at me.

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