Page 14 of Romeo

I grunt in acknowledgment, though I don’t say anything. He’s right, of course, but he doesn't need to know that. Dante gives me a final warning look before focusing his anger on the yoga-loving nurse he’s been texting all morning.

After Dante shuts my office door, I get buried in work. Despite what Hollywood would have you believe, the life of a mafia king involves a lot more phone calls and business appointments than clandestine meetings and territory wars. The dirty work is left to those beneath me while I sit at the top, untouchable.

And lonely.

No. Alone, but not lonely. At least, not until one little miss Thalia Brooks showed up in my life.

Bright green eyes fill my vision, surrounded by auburn hair. I swear I can smell her rosemary and peppermint scent. Try as I might to shove thoughts of the voluptuous vixen from my mind, she remains ever-present.

Unfolding myself from my desk chair, I take a moment to stretch out the kinks in my neck and back. I’ve been hunched over my desk for hours now and blown right through lunch and dinner. No wonder everything aches.

I close out my computer and put everything on lockdown before heading downstairs to my home gym. A few rounds with the sand-filled punching bag should ease some of my tension.

Stripping down to a pair of sweatpants, I forego the boxing gloves and land a crushing blow to the bag. It rattles in its chains, absorbing the hit along with my pent-up energy. Over and over, I let out my frustration, my confusion, and my chaotic emotions one swing at a time until I’m drenched in sweat.

“Fuck,” I exhale, holding the punching bag between my palms as I rest my sweaty forehead on the cool surface. My shoulders heave with labored breaths, and my heart hammers against my ribcage in a staccato rhythm.

When my breathing has somewhat returned to normal, I grab a towel from the shelf in the corner, wiping down my face and chest. I have every intention of going back to my room, showering, and ordering a late dinner before retiring to bed. Yet, I somehow find myself approaching Thalia’s room, my feet shuffling forward with a mind of their own.

Her door is cracked open slightly, and like the predator I am, I fade into the shadows as I continue my hunt. Thalia is propped up in bed, surrounded by several balls of yarn, throw pillows, and a pile of blankets. She’s busy crocheting something tiny in her hands. I can’t explain my need to find out what it is or my insane jealousy that she’s caressing the yarn instead of me.

“Jesus,” I mutter as I step closer to the ray of sunshine beaming from inside the guest room.

Her reddish-brown hair is gathered to one side in a soft braid, her cheeks dusted with freckles and a slight blush. I watch as Thalia nibbles her bottom lip and tilts her head to the side, examining what appears to be a little stuffed dog in her hands.

Adorable. Precious. Ethereal.

All words I’ve never used to describe another human being, but Thalia epitomizes each one. With her slightly upturned nose, flushed cheeks, and green eyes narrowed in concentration, she looks like a delicate little angel weaving magic and happiness into her current crochet project.

I move forward, then stop, squeezing my hands into fists at my sides. I want to scoop her up, cradle her against my chest, and finally, fucking finally, claim her sweetness.

Dante’s words echo through my head, giving me pause.

It’s my duty to remind you what this life is like and what it would be like for any romantic partners.

Thalia is a beacon of innocence who fucking crochets stuffed toy animals. She’s shy and beautiful and precious… far too precious for a man like me to know how to handle. She doesn’t belong in my world. She doesn’t belong withme.

I grunt as the tightness in my chest grows to an unbearable level. Thalia freezes, causing me to do the same. Slowly, so slowly, she lifts her head, those emerald eyes drawn to mine as if following some invisible string.

She doesn't startle, doesn’t gasp, doesn’t seem frightened or freaked out that I’m staring at her. She simply blinks, and her gorgeous eyes drink me in. I forgot I’m only wearing sweatpants, and I suddenly feel exposed and vulnerable in a wholly unfamiliar way.

Our eyes remain locked, and Thalia’s gaze turns inquisitive as she sets down the yarn and crochet hook. In slow motion, she swings one leg over the edge of the bed and then the other, approaching as if I’m a wild animal.

When she stands, something in me snaps back to reality.

I take a step back, spin on my heel, and sprint to my room next door, shutting the door with a bang. Leaning against the solid oak, I bury my head in my hands, trying to keep my racing thoughts from spilling out.

I don’t know how to talk to her or what to say, yet I can’t let her go. For now, it has to be enough that she’s under my protection.

CHAPTERSEVEN

THALIA

“One… more… stitch… and… done!” I whisper to myself in the early hours of the morning.

Reaching over to grab my small scissors on the nightstand, I snip the yarn and weave the end back into the previous stitches to hide it.

I lean against the headboard of my luxurious bed and admire my handy work. It took me all night to finish this project, but it’s not like I was going to get much sleep anyway. Between nightmares about my brother’s execution, the uncertainty of my future, and the big, brooding mafia king brushing me off and ignoring me the last two days, my racing thoughts have made for restless nights.

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