Page 60 of Liar
It takes a saint’s patience to wait for him to speak, but when he does, it’s in innuendo and Morse code. “Despite my best effort, I don’t always do what’s wise.”
I don’t make eye contact, not yet. Not until I quiet the conflicting emotions wreaking havoc inside me. I gesture to the cigarette. “Like smoking?”
“Bad habit I do when I’m frustrated.”
My eyes go wide. “What could possibly frustrate you?”
“You don’t want to know.”
There’s a bite in his tone, and I tense. Why torture myself listening to riddles spoken by a man who clearly believes I’m bothering him? Chin up, I turn to flee. “Well, I’ll leave you alone then.”
“Stop.”
I freeze.
“Cazzo,” he grinds out.
They say a person always counts and cusses in their native language. It certainly sounds like he’s swearing in Italian.
But it’s not what he’s saying or how he’s saying it that captures my attention.
It’s why.
He doesn’t want me to leave, does he?
As the silence grows, I’m tempted to look higher than his chest, to search his expression and gauge if my assumption’s correct.
“Come sit on the bench.”
He waits while I scan the shadows for the bench in question then waves with a gentlemanly gesture for me to walk by him.
I do so without argument, too curious, too intrigued.
He follows close behind me and then settles down next to me.
Don’t, Luciana. Remember Diego, and the beating he took because of this man.
“You ordered Diego to pledge to the Z22.”
“Yes. And he did so willingly.”
I snort. “He lacks common sense, which is why I trusted you to keep him out of harm’s way.”
He leans back, his arm brushing lightly against my hair as he stretches out across the bench back. It’s an intimate move, the kind a date pulls on his girl while watching a movie. If my spine weren’t ramrod straight, and if I relax the slightest bit, we’d be touching.
His cologne has a fresh-from-the-dryer scent, tea leaves cut with hints of citrus, bergamot and neroli. Clean. Exotic. Addictive.
I inhale the smell of him, and pivot in my seat to look at him.
He’s staring off into the darkness, deep in thought, and I can’t help but soak up every inch of him.
In profile, he’s gorgeous. Full lips, straight nose, high cheekbones. His hair is longer than when I last saw him, a dark lock of it hanging low across his forehead. I could look at him for hours, searching for the slightest flaw, the tiniest crack that proves his soul is as beautiful as the rest of him.
“You told Diego about the Superama.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
