Page 34 of Mafia and Gold Digger

I’m savoring each sip, clicking my bracelet clasp open and shut with my free hand, when Saint walks out of the casino and joins my side.

He’s the last person I want to see. He probably just wants to gloat he was right when he said the first time we met that Ronnie would never marry me. He lights up a cigarette.

I swipe a tear away from my cheek. “Can you find somewhere else to smoke please,” I huff. “I need a bit of peace if I’m going to wallow in my misery.”

“This is the only area where smoking is permitted,” he says in his infuriating languid voice.

“You have to choose now to care about doing the right thing?”

He exhales a ring of smoke that’s as perfect as an angel’s halo. “You’ve lost me.”

“You didn’t care about doing the right thing and telling me the truth about who you were when I thought you were a cop,” I clip. But deciding I don’t want to get into this with him right now, I turn my body slightly away from him, and we both stand in silence. I take another sip as our eyes trail the pattern of hazy smoke as it disappears into the deepening dusk.

His voice penetrates my musings. “I got my wallet back, thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Valentino.” I don’t know why I feel the need to call him by his real name, but calling him by his nickname just seems too pally, too intimate.

“You know, you’re smart enough to have worked out my name without having to resort to stealing my wallet.”

With his birthday being on Valentine’s Day, maybe I should have been able to guess. I shrug. “It was quicker than playing guessing games with you.”

“I like games.”

“Well, I don’t.” The silence beats between us. “Anyway, how come you’re a tough mobster but named after the patron saint of lovers?” I can’t keep the incredulity—and faint curiosity—out of my voice. I can’t see him delivering love to anyone. Maybe hate but definitely not love. Because from everything I’ve seen and heard of him, he’s cold, brutal, and heartless.

“Hey, he was the patron saint of beekeepers as well,” he adds in a mock injured tone.

“Beekeepers? I didn’t know that.”

“Not many people do.”

We slip into silence again, and I let the liquor soothe my frayed soul.

“I came outside,” he starts in a casual tone as he keeps his eyes on the sky, “to check if you’re okay.”

My eyes widen. “What, because it’s asuper-relatablemoment when your cheating boyfriend gets engaged to a girl you hate?”

“You’ll go onto bigger and better things.”

“I can’t talk about it. I’m in mourning.”

“The fuck you are,” he says in a hard voice.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re not upset. You’re embarrassed, humiliated, mortified.”

My breath exhales with incredulity. “I’d bet on my life that no one’s ever told you that you have a comforting manner.”

He just stares at me, his eyes making a heated feeling spread over me.

“Look, if you’ve been sent out here to ensure that I’m not thinking of making a scene in there, you don’t need to worry. I know this isn’tJerry Springer. I’m not about to march over and punch him in the face.”

“Why not?”

My jaw drops as I turn my face toward his.

“Look, don’t get upset,” he drawls.

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