Page 50 of Broken Pieces
“How about a game of chess now, Romano?” Matteo asks.
“No fucking way. It bores me to play with you.”
He snorts at my comment. “Only because you always lose.”
I flick his forehead, causing him to hiss. Enzo laughs, so I flick him too.
“What the hell was that for?”
“For asking questions you shouldn’t be asking,” I say dryly.
He places his palm on top of his mouth, trying to hide his smirk as he says, “Right. I forget Red is a touchy subject.”
Through gritted teeth, I reply, “She has a name, and it’s not Red, idiota.”Idiot.
“Who are we talking about?” Matteo asks curiously.
“You remember when we went to the club with Romano? He wasn’t there to have fun. He was there to followa certainemployeeof his,” Enzo taunts, trying to get a rise out of me. “I’m surprised you like them young,cugino. Consider me proud.”
“She’s twenty-five years old, not fucking nineteen. Stop making me look like a fucking creep,” I sneer.
There are worst things than a ten-year age gap between two consenting fucking adults.
Why are you so upset? It’s not like she’s with you.
“Aha, so youdolike her,” he retorts smugly.
“Like you even care that I wasn’t there to have fun. You disappeared the second we got there,” I say deflecting, trying to steer the conversation away.
Enzo shrugs. “Well, yeah. I go to clubs to hook up, not to go babysit a grown woman. You do know she can make her own decisions, right?”
I wave my hand dismissively. “You don’t get it.”
And he truly doesn’t. Enzo is nothing but a player, getting high off playing games whether is with women or actual gambling. He has never taken anything seriously once in his life, and I don’t think he ever will.
“I get it. Love makes you a fool,” he jokes.
“Love?” I say in an incredulous tone. “Please, Enzo, give me more credit than that.”
Do I think about her all the time?Yes.
Do I want to spend all my waking moments with her?Also, yes.
Does the possibility of her being with someone else drive me to the brink of insanity?Abso-fucking-lutely.
But I amnotin love with Aria Petrov.
Or so I keep telling myself.
‘Carry on Wayward Son’ byKansasblasts through my apartment as I pack for New York since we’re leaving in a matter of hours. My room is a mess and I don’t even know where I’m standing. Frustrated, I throw myself in bed to rest, except, I’m so uncomfortable because I have a pile of clothes and shoes in the bed after trying to come up with some decent outfits. It took forever, but I’m pleasantly surprised with my choices.
Why am I so nervous?
Uhm, jeez, I don’t know. Maybe because your boss kissed you and you’re kind of hoping it happens again?
I groan, murmuring some insults to myself. I’m fucking ridiculous. He’s not kissing me again, not after what happened. Having a panic attack after someone kisses youis a clear sign to not try it again. But the thing is… I want theexactopposite. To feel his strong hands roaming my body as he trails kisses from my lips, to my collarbone, my breasts…
I shake my head, trying to get the image out of my head. Closing my eyes for a moment, I let the music drift me away as I rest my eyes. Suddenly, someone jumps on top of me, startling me.
