Page 135 of The Crowned Garza
Instead of letting me go, he clings to me as if we’re never going to see each other again.
“You have to let me go,” I say when he shows no signs of unpinning me from the car.
“Don’t want to.”
“They could be watching us right now.”
“Let them.”
It takes another several minutes for me to extricate myself from him, get in the car before he can block me, and leave. Watching him in the rearview mirror until he’s no more.
I choose you, Santo Luciani.
Now, forever, always.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“And now you’re a part of it?”
Tillie
BETWEEN THE RISING INTENSITYof Sunny’s case, Saint’s mafia drama, and both of us being under microscopic scrutiny, it’s gotten nearly impossible for us to meet.
After much trial and error, we’ve found the safest place to be is the kitchen at my workplace, anywhere between 4:00 a.m. and 5:30 a.m.
To avoid raising suspicions, we’re careful to meet as irregular and sporadic as possible and use burner phones to communicate.
It takes cautious effort, which is frustrating, but whenever we do meet, it’s pure bliss. We have small, quiet dates in the pantry, eating good food, drinking good coffee, cuddling, and “pillow-talking,” or justbeing,enjoyingeach other’s presence before dawn yawns. Sometimes we’re like teenagers hiding in a tree house, sucking faces and dry humping.
There’s apparently some rising tension in Saint’s “mafia life” that’s had him under pressure more than usual. He tells me these small pockets of time with me have become his only reprieve.
“Il mio conforto,”he often whispers with his face buried against my neck.
I like being that for him. His person, his solace. Because it’s taken a long time to get him to be open and vulnerable, and heneedsit.
One such morning, we’re making gourmet breakfast together—cooking and trying new recipe ideas with him has become one of my favorite things because he’ssodarn good at it—and messing around, laughing and making the best of our stolen hour, when his phone chimes.
His body language abruptly switches to alert mode.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Someone’s approaching the building.” He grabs up his phone from the stainless-steel counter, swipes around on the screen, then relaxes a second later. “It’s Tor.”
And he’srelaxedabout that? My scariest brother? “Oh, oh, of course. It’sjustTor. Okay, uh-huh. No biggie. Just the one brother who’s like a father to me. Cool. Cool. Real cool.”
Saint frowns down at me, confused by my panicky sarcasm. “Merda.” His frown clears. “I’m sorry. I forgot to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“Tor already knows.”
Before that revelation has a chance to shock me, the side door beeps open and Torin strides in.
Resisting the urge to duck behind the station, I utter an awkward, “Oh, heyyyy there, bro bro.”
Torin lances me a sharp glare. “I’m not ready to deal with you yet.” He then shifts his attention to Saint. “We need to talk...”
His tone suggests the talk needs to happen in private.
