Page 38 of Steal My Heart
“It’s not funny!” I cry. “ I was completely devastated when I walked in on Ellis and Sienna fucking.”
“Remi, I’m not amused by your pain, but by your resourcefulness.” My body stills when his thumb brushes my cheek ever so softly. “Good for you, exacting some payback.”
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I tell him, “It’s not like I really ‘stole’ Sienna’s cat. You’ve met Nola. That cat isn’t going to do anything she doesn’t want to do. She chose me as her human, so no, I don’t feel bad about taking her.”
“Nor should you. And what happened to this pitiful excuse for a boyfriend?” Angelo presses, any trace of softness disappearing.
“Nope.C’est tout.I’ve told you the story of how I came into possession of Nola. Your turn.”
He crosses his foot at the ankle, a formal move for a barefoot man. And not that I’m a foot fetish kinda girl, but he does have nice-looking feet. But that’s not surprising. The man’s polished within an inch of his life.
“What?” He catches me staring.
“You’re too formal, even when you’re trying to be informal.”
“And that’s a problem?”
I shake my head. “Not a problem, but a symptom. You definitely need morejoie de vivre.”
“Again with your professionalpsychicopinion?” he mocks.
I grab his large hand, flipping it over and tracing his life line. “Be nice to your houseguest, and I might give you that palm reading.Afteryou tell me about your tattoo.”
“Puro Dispetto.” The lovely Italian rolls off Angelo’s tongue. “It means ‘Pure Spite.’ I run the family business, but it wasn’t my choice.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, hanging onto his every word as I trace the lines of his palm. It’s doubtful Angelo lets many people touch him, and secretly, I’m eating it up with a spoon.
“I was in my final year of college on the East Coast when I was summoned home to my father’s deathbed. He strong-armed me into continuing his legacy,” Angelo says, lost in thought. “My back was to the wall, and here I am.”
“But Alessandra said your father passed away, so why don’t you get the choice now?” I wonder.
He runs his free hand through his inky black hair. “It’s complicated.”
“Mob business sounds like it.” Realizing my mistake, I drop his hand, slapping both of mine over my mouth.
Angelo silently rises and crosses the room to the wet bar. He pours himself a finger’s worth of whiskey, kicking it back. The empty glass is being gripped so tightly I’m afraid it’ll shatter.
“I didn’t think you drank alcohol,” I comment, for lack of anything else to say.
“I indulge in one drink a week,” he answers in a clipped tone.
“I’d hardly call that an indulgence.”
He returns to the couch, leaning forward and tenting his fingers. “You’re right. But what is an indulgence is my softness towards you.”
I make a show of looking around. “Is the softness in the room with us?”
Angelo’s so damn fast; his hand is already banded around my neck as his thumb rubs lazy circles over my pounding pulse. “You’ve heard the expression ‘curiosity killed the cat.’”
“Nola’s an exception to that rule,” I whisper.
“And you think you’re an exception to my rules? My ‘family’s’ rules?” The sharp edge to his voice cuts like a knife.
“Why can’t I be? You’re the boss, so you get to make the rules, right?” I whisper, my heart beating against my ribcage like a snare drum.
“I do make the rules, Remi,” he says, his voice cold as an arctic blast. “Best you never forget it. My phone.” An order, not a question.
“In Nola’s treat jar.”
