Page 33 of Savior

“Thank you.”

She leads us into a private dining room, seats us, and hands us menus before a server comes in, takes our appetizer order, and leaves behind drinks.

“This place is nice. I’ve never been here.” I try to break the growing tension in the room with words, but it doesn’t really help.

Luca’s warm eyes flick up toward me from where he’s been perusing the menu for a good five minutes. “It’s a Ricci Family holding.”

I’m dying to know how the hell the good father got in with the Italian mafia of New York, but I bite my tongue.

Currently, he’s the one keeping me safe from the wrath I escaped. I don’t want to seem ungrateful.

“Well, they were very kind to allow us to come. I was going a bit stir-crazy.” I smile as I take a garlic knot off the table and place it on my appetizer plate, cutting it with a knife and fork to keep from looking like a heathen.

“I could tell you were struggling. I’m sure you’re not used to being cooped up.”

I narrow my eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I don’t know why I’m so snarky with him all the time. I can’t help it. Something about him makes me want to dissect everything the man says to me because I know the words he gives him, he means.

It’s something I’ve never dealt with before.

“I only mean you seem so… free. I doubt you’re used to having to stay caged.”

Caged.

The words strike me as odd, and I can’t help prying. “And you? Are you caged? Or are you free?”

His eyes lock on mine, his hand flexing on his water glass. I almost hear the material creak in his hold from the force. “What kind of question is that?”

Knowing I’m affecting him as much as he is me has something giddy in my chest when I know it shouldn’t. I shouldn’t revel in unnerving a man who needs to be solid in his foundations. To lead. To give solace.

But I can’t resist.

“You said it in such a way that it was implied thatyoumight not be free. I was only asking.”

His eyes scan around the room, falling on the door before he flicks them back to me. “Some days, I don’t feel free.”

It’s a confession I know he doesn’t give lightly, and I don’t want to push him further, either.

Looking inward and prodding ghosts isn’t easy. It’s why I don’t do it.

“I hate to hear that, but I can see how your life could feel that way.”

We both get ravioli and then share tiramisu for dessert; before I know it, hours have passed. The conversation got more manageable, but we skirted anything deeper than we’d already gone.

And when we’re on the way back to the rectory, I feel the weight of the place bearing down on Luca as if it’s a breathing organism in the car with us.

My hand itches to reach for him, but it’s so inappropriate. Shit, this dinner was. But it kept the demons at bay. I haven’t felt one ounce of anxiety or restlessness since pulling away from the church with him.

Hours later, I’m in the kitchen, drinking a glass of water in front of the sink and looking out the window. I can’t sleep. I’ve tossed and turned for hours before deciding to give up.

There’s a small night light plugged into the right of the sink. A tiny little angel. Her cheeks are aglow as I run my eyes over them.

The hand that comes around me and reaches for it startles me, and I nearly drop the glass of water I’m holding as I gasp.

His presence at my back is overwhelming, so I put the glass into the sink and hold my breath.

He tugs the night light from the plug and bathes us in darkness as if what he’s about to do next is something he needs to blind God to.

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