Page 142 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
He breathes out slowly and then says, “They’re pausing. They don’t like it when they smell smoke.”
He hangs up and looks at me.
“It gives us at least tonight. A bit of peace before the council dinner.”
I let my laugh out like a small, sharp thing.
“Boring?” I say.
“Boring,” he echoes. “For now.”
25
NICO
Iwake to the sound of her moving around my kitchen like she owns it.
She does now.
The place smells like coffee, soap, and a hint of lemon from the cutting board I scrubbed at five.
The sky out the window is pale and a little sullen.
I stand in the doorway for a long minute, just watching her.
She’s wearing one of my old T-shirts, the grey cotton hanging off one shoulder, the hem brushing mid-thigh.
Her hair is a messy knot, and she’s humming something under her breath as she butters a piece of toast.
The domesticity of it is a punch to the gut, more potent than any memory of the night before.
This is what peace looks like.
This is what I’ve spent my life running from.
She senses me, turning with a soft smile that doesn’t quite reach her tired eyes.
“Coffee’s on.”
I don’t move for the coffee.
I move for her.
In three strides, I’m across the cool tile, my hands finding her waist, turning her to face me.
I back her against the counter, the hard edge digging into the small of her back.
I don’t kiss her.
I just look at her, drinking in the sleep-soft lines of her face, the faint purple smudges under her eyes, the way her pulse flutters in her throat.
“Good morning,” I say, my voice rough with sleep and something else, something darker, more possessive.
Her breath hitches. “Good morning.”
My hands slide from her waist down to her hips, then under the hem of the T-shirt.
Her skin is warm, smooth.
