Page 47 of The Italian Reckoning
Rocky drinks slowly and nods. “You blame yourself.”
“How can I not? If it wasn’t for me, he would be locked up and Belle and Kara would still be alive.” I wait for the daunting question of what it was I did that caused the case to crumble, but thankfully, Rocky doesn’t ask. He simply rises onto his knees, grabs the bottle of wine, and refills my glass.
“We’ll get him,” Rocky says. “Dude doesn’t know who he’s fucking with.”
“Because you’re all so big and scary.” I snort, savoring a mouthful of chilled wine. “Which makes me wonder… Why did you save me from your father’s men? He’s your boss, right?Aren’t you supposed to do what he wants no matter what because of loyalty?”
“My father and I don’t always see eye to eye.” Rocky snorts dryly. “He’s old school. In his eyes, I’m too relaxed and don’t take enough responsibility.”
“Can’t imagine why he’d think that,” I murmur with a roll of my eyes.
“I see the value in connection. He likes to lead by fear. So we butt heads.”
“But you’ve saved me twice. Why?”
“You saved my life at the gala.” Rocky’s handsome face suddenly grows serious. “A lot of shit went down that night and you could have just left me to die.”
“I wouldnever.”
“I’m not saying you would,” he clarifies hurriedly, “but a lot of people were hurt and injured. Somehow, you found me and you saved me even though we’re not friends. We’re on opposite sides of the law and you didn’t know whether I was friend or foe. But you saved me.” His gorgeous eyes soften the longer he looks at me and my pulse flutters. “So I owe you.”
“Ah, you’re settling a debt.”
“Sure.” He chuckles. “It’s hardly your vibrant personality that keeps me coming back.”
“Fuck off!” A flurry of papers ends up flying his way when I lightly kick my leg out toward him, and for a moment, things feel easy. Normal.
That feeling continues when Rocky insists we take a break and end up gambling what little money I have in my wallet over a pack of cards he finds stashed in a drawer. We play simple games like blackjack and rummy, which get incredibly competitive and amusing as the alcohol flows, and then we’re playing snap with two empty bottles of wine between us.
“Rocky?”
“Hmm?” He leans forward with his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth while he stares intently at the cards I’m placing down.
“Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”
“Huh?” He glances up through a few strands of hair that sweep across his forehead.
“You kept the helmet on. You barely spoke. You were just this mysterious biker but the whole time, you wereyou.”
“Honestly?” Rocky leans up and smirks. “At first it was a bit of a game. I was amused that the cop couldn’t work out who was under the helmet, y’know? But then the night you were mugged, you were so nice to me. It was like I was getting to experience who you really were and how you would treat me if you didn’t know all my baggage.” He shrugs and flips a few cards down onto the pile. “I liked it when you weren’t yelling at me.”
Out of every theory I came up with, I never came close to his real answer. I’d reasoned that it was a trick, a manipulation tactic, or maybe even a cruel joke, but I was so wrong. Rocky just liked my being nice to him. Why is that so sad?
“I’m supposed to yell at you,” I point out gently, setting a card down. “I’m a cop. You’re a criminal.”
“That’s like saying I’m a man and you’re a woman.”
“Also true.”
“And glaringly obvious. But does it mean we have to hate each other?”
“Of course we do,” I scoff, trying to mask my uncertainty. “You break the law. In fact, the law doesn’t even exist to you. It’s just a game. Something that isn’t real. And I enforce the law. I keep people safe.”
“So do I.” Rocky’s cards are added to the pile. “I’m keeping you safe.”
“I take care of criminals.”
“So do I.”
