Page 16 of Gardener for the Mafia

The last thing I need to be reminded of now is that hell.

Inside, warm fire like lights shine red orange from the walls, and several understated chandeliers hang from the ceilings. Their jewels are laid out in a staggered pattern, so that I can see the threaded silver chain connecting them, like miniature stars connected by glittering spider’s webs.

We take a booth in the corner, a prim and proper host with a neat jacket and a neater mustache pulling my chair out for me.

“Wow,” I whisper, when Lorenzo and I are alone. “This is amazing.”

“You deserve only the best,” he says, adjusting his cufflinks. When he sees me looking – they’re hard to miss, carved silver bullets – his eyes glint as he reads me. He’s so good at reading me. “They must seem quite savage to you.”

“I don’t know,” I say noncommittally, not wanting to ruin dinner.

“Honesty, my queen,” Lorenzo says, leaning forward and taking my hand in his, instantly sending waves of comforting safety through me. “We’re going to be together forever. We might as well get used to telling the truth, even if they’re hard truths, sometimes.”

“No, no,” I say quickly. “It’s nothing crazy. I get it. The cufflinks just remind me of …”

“My business?” he says, when I trail off. The lights flicker like flames in the threaded silver of his hair. “I understand, but these are mere ceremonial items. In truth, my work involves far fewer bullets these days. But it’s good for a man to remember what it took to get to where he is.”

“That makes sense,” I say. “Anyway, let’s not talk about depressing stuff. I’m sorry.”

“You never have to apologize to me,” he says. “But if you want to change the subject …”

An almost mischievous look comes into his eyes, like the leader of the pride about to tease his lioness, a baring of the teeth and a crinkling of the eyes that speaks of savage playfulness.

“Let’s talk about your angelic voice instead.”

I giggle, a blush dancing across my cheeks. “What about it?”

“You’re incredible,” he says, sincerity painted across his expression, each contour of his self assured face roaring dominance and possessiveness. For the first time in my life, I actually let myself believe my singing has brought somebody joy, and it warms my heart like a love tipped arrow.

“Really?” I say, trying to laugh it off.

“Really,” he says, squeezing my hand tighter, running his finger over my knuckles one by one. “I’ve got a little talent with the guitar, but your musical ability is something else. It’s magical, Lena.” He laughs gruffly. “It’s not often I get sentimental like that but, with you, it’s the truth.”

“Wait a second,” I giggle. “You play the guitar.”

“Uh oh,” he smirks. “I can play the guitar, yes. But don’t ask me to play.”

“Why not?” I laugh, leaning forward and slapping his muscle corded forearm. “You’ve heard me sing, haven’t you? Maybe we could do a song together one day. I can just see it. Me and you and all our children huddled around a fire, you playing the guitar and me singing. It would just be magical.

“Oh my God, and maybe our little ones would sing, too. And it would just be so beautiful, like the family I never had. Singing was a way to save me when I was a little girl, Lorenzo. When my parents died and I was put in an orphanage, I thought I’d never be happy again, but I could always lose myself in music. But I don’t want our children to lose themselves in music. I want it to enhance their lives, to make what they have even more wonderful …”

I trail off, realizing I’ve just spoken with more passion than in all my eighteen years, my words hanging in the air like embarrassing little forget me nots, just waiting to be plucked and ridiculed.

But when I look up, intensity sweeps across Lorenzo’s face, his jaw tight and a faraway look in his eyes as though he’s staring at the scene I just lost myself in.

“I want that too,” he whispers.

I beam, but can’t shake this unfair, niggling notion that soon he’s going to present the punchline to the joke.

I glance around as paranoia lances through me, wondering if the people at the nearby tables are going to turn and start laughing, telling me that I’m the silliest idiot girl in the universe for ever believing Lorenzo DeLuca could want me.

I want to leave the past where it belongs, but the scars run deep and remind me too achingly of what happened, and of what could happen again.

“Lena, are you okay?” he asks.

“Yes, yes,” I whisper, cursing myself for being a dork queen.

Yes, yes.

What am I, a parrot?

“I have something to show you after dinner,” he says. “I think you’ll really enjoy it. But first, let’s order. I plan on feasting like a Viking who’s just returned from a raid. And it would be my honor if you’d do the same.”

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