Page 31 of Mafia Men Need Love Too
That was something she’d never done with her ex. With Jeremy, if she’d even hesitated when the server asked about appetizers or dessert, he’d give her a look that wilted her soul—a look that reminded her that he thought she could stand to lose a few pounds. And he’d always refused the bread before she could even get a sniff of it.
It was why she’d stopped eating with him at all by the end of their marriage. It was just too damn exhausting dealing with his negativity.
But Nico obviously didn’t think she needed to lose any weight. He didn’t care if she ate all the bread. In fact, he looked pleased that she was eating all the bread. Was it possible that the only man who’d ever encouraged her love of carbs was the mob boss who was semi-forcing her into an arranged marriage? Or was it a marriage of convenience? She always got those tropes confused when she was reading romance novels. Seemed like there was a lot of potential crossover there. But?—
“Your brow is furrowed,” Nico said. “What’s going on over there in that big, beautiful, chaotic brain of yours?”
“I was actually just trying to figure out what we’re doing. If this is a marriage of convenience or an arranged marriage,” she admitted.
“Does it matter?”
“Probably not. Neither is very romantic, though.”
Now he had a furrowed brow. “Does that bother you?”
She shrugged, glancing down at the napkin she was nervously twisting in her lap. “My first marriage failed so spectacularly. I guess I always assumed that if I ever tried again, it would be because I was hopelessly in love with the guy…and vice versa.”
Nico leaned back in his seat, and she saw the indecision in his eyes. If she had to guess, she’d say he was starting to question his assertion that he’d never lie to her. But eventually, he quietly admitted, “I’ll gladly give you everything I have—my name, my body, my protection, my respect, my loyalty. It’s all yours. But I’ve never loved anyone or anything, fiorellino. I’m not entirely sure I’m capable of such things.”
Well, that was maybe the saddest thing she’d ever heard in her life—and not only because he was basically telling her he’d probably never love her. “What about your parents?”
“Didn’t know them. I was raised in group homes in Sicily until I was twelve. On the streets for a bit after that.” He shrugged as if he wasn’t describing the tortured youth of a Dicken’s protagonist. “Found out I had family in America when I was sixteen, so I came here. They were mafia, and they didn’t hesitate to put me to work.”
The tight tone of his voice told her she didn’t even want to know what kind of jobs the mafia would give a desperate, affection-starved sixteen-year-old. She swallowed the growing lump in her throat. “What about friends? Girlfriends?”
The sad smile he gave her held not even a trace of humor. “Working for the mafia isn’t the best way to make friends…or build relationships.”
“That must be really hard,” she said quietly. “Not having someone to…”
“Hold my hand when I sleep?” he finished for her softly.
He was, of course, referring to her comment about otters the night they met. “Something we have in common, I suppose.”
Nico offered her a small grin. “I’ll be your otter if you’ll be mine.”
It wasn’t a love declaration. Not even close. But it was the best offer she’d had in a long, long time.
“Deal.”
Chapter 18
Feeding River was quickly becoming Nico’s favorite thing in the world.
She wasn’t someone who ate solely to fuel her body. River savored each morsel, tried new foods with gusto, took almost childlike glee in each bite as the flavors exploded across her tongue. To her, food was to be experienced, not merely ingested. It was a joy to offer her food, and an even bigger joy to watch her eat it.
Then there were the sounds she made.
The moans she let out when she ate something she enjoyed…hell. They’d finished their meal over an hour ago, and he was still half hard.
If she made those faces, those noises when she ate a buttery filet, how would she look and sound when she was spread out beneath him with his tongue buried between her gorgeous thighs?
The only thing that managed to dampen his desire in the slightest was her question about love and romance.
He’d wanted to lie to her. He truly had. Everything would be so much simpler if he could tell her what she wanted to hear. That he could love her like she deserved to be loved. But he respected the truth—and her—far too much for that.
And the truth—the simple truth he hated to even admit to himself—was that he was broken. Everything he’d experienced in his life had shattered the good person he could’ve been. Life had shattered him, and he’d had no choice but to put himself back together again and again. Each time, his edges got rougher. The pieces never fit quite right. Sometimes, pieces were lost altogether. That’s what he was. A collection of jagged, broken pieces that might not ever fit with another person.
Especially not one as beautiful and pure and whole as River.
