Page 35 of Kept

“You’re very proud of him, aren’t you?” I ask.

“Of all of them.”

I nod and sip my espresso.

“And how are you dealing with everything? I remember the first time I was shot at. Very exciting!” she continues.

“Ah, not how I would describe it. Although, preferable to being stuffed in a trunk.”

Lina looks horrified. I see her attention shift over my shoulder, and I turn to look. Vincent is standing there, one hand casually in his pocket.

Lina throws up her hands and begins to yell in Italian, pointing to me periodically.

“Mother!”

She switches to English, probably for my benefit. “How could you shove a sweet little girl like her in a trunk?”

“I wasn’t overflowing with options.”

She mutters something in Italian that doesn’t sound at all complementary before patting my hand and excusing herself.

Vincent seems like he’s having a terrible headache.

I start laughing. “So your mom seems nice.”

“My mother once beat a man to death with her stiletto when they were attacked by a rival many years ago. I’m not sure ‘nice’ is the right word for her.” He smiles when he says it though.

He walks to the edge of the cafe counter and leans against it, arms crossed over his chest, dark eyes focused on me. The pose causes the t-shirt to stretch over his biceps and broad chest. I feel his eyes run down my body, so much that his gaze might as well have been a touch. When he makes it to my knees, a slight frown flashes over his features.

Looking down, I see that my jeans are torn and knees are skinned. “Oh, I didn’t even notice.”

“Adrenaline will do that.” He walks towards me and holds a hand out to pull me to my feet, before swooping me up in his arms again.

“I can walk,” I remind him.

He smiles, and I feel my body temperature rise at least five degrees. “Not until I make sure there aren’t any more injuries you don’t know about.”

He walks us back through the house and to the bedroom I was in earlier. He opens one of the side doors and a set of motion-activated lights reveal a massive bathroom.

“No tub? Sad, I was enjoying having my own spa,” I tease.

He sets me down on the counter between the matching sinks. “No, it’s just on the balcony.” He nods over his shoulder to a set of heavy drapes.

“Balcony?”

“Mmmm, privacy curtains and everything. Great view of the sunset.”

“For fuck’s sake, who has a tub on a balcony? Who has a balcony?”

He just laughs and points at my current seat. “Sit. Stay.”

I smile. “Woof.”

He walks over to the shower and turns it on to warm up, then disappears into a linen closet before returning with a pair of robes and towels, which he hangs just outside the shower doors. He strips his shirt off over his head.

Holy shit.

His back is covered in massive tattoos, surrounding a large cross. There is a maze of roses, thorns, skulls, and Latin script woven all around it. The entire thing is done without color, giving it an almost sinister feeling. Then I remember it’s tattooed on the head of the mafia. He turns around.

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