CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

El

OF COURSE, HE’D never been on a date.

I had eyes.

I was aware of what type of godlike presence the man had — it’s not like I was exactly thrilled that he basically just slept with whoever he wanted without having to even buy them dinner first.

I’d felt so stupid saying something that I almost ran into my room and locked the door behind me.

But his laugh.

God, that laugh.

It was loud, real, amused.

I loved it.

It was one thing I would take away from my time in this ranch house, hearing Dante Nicolasi laugh should be illegal.

It wrapped around me, made my body throb in all the right places, and it took everything in me not to jump into his arms and start ripping off his clothes and beg him for more.

More laughing.

More teasing.

He was always serious.

Always haunted.

Always angry.

And I wondered, if maybe, I was helping chip away at the armor he was so keen on keeping — maybe I could break through.

Maybe this, whatever this was, could go beyond sex, beyond attraction.

Beyond misguided protection of his name.

I had hope.

For the first time since I could remember I had hope that my future wouldn’t be filled with death but life.

Hope was a dangerous thing.

Because it made me daydream about things I had no right daydreaming about, it made me think anything was possible when I knew that we were running against a clock that picked no sides, that owed us no favors.

I sighed and went over to my suitcase and opened one of the frilly boxes the girls had given me.

The nightgown was black silk, it had an open back and could almost pass as a chic cocktail dress.

I quickly put it on and eyed the garters next to it.

“What the hell?” I pulled on the thigh-highs, attached the garters to the matching lacy black thong and did a little turn in the mirror before letting the dress cascade against my legs.

It felt expensive.

I pulled my hair into a loose bun at the base of my neck and went searching for some makeup.

I never wore a lot around Dante, mainly because Xavier had always wanted it caked on my face. I think it made him angry to see my bruises and know that it was because I fought him.

He wanted complete submission. While I wanted to stab him in the throat with whatever sharp object was close by.

He wasn’t here now.

It was just me, and Dante — and that weird cow out back.

I squared my shoulders and applied some dark eye shadow followed by a blue eyeliner and some bronzer.

Lipstick was just going to come off, at least I hoped so, but I loved red lipstick, loved it.

Even though I rarely wore it.

I used to see it on his skin.

And I hated that he ruined one more thing for me.

But maybe, maybe the red on Dante’s skin would be redeeming. With shaking hands I added a few more finishing touches.

A spritz of perfume that one of the girls had packed with the boxes, and finally a pair of black and white heels I don’t remember being given.

What did they do? Just buy things and stash them away for times like this?

I gave my head a shake and touched the doorknob.

I’d been gone maybe forty-five minutes.

Was that enough to come up with something? Anything? Or would he still be standing there wondering how the hell he was going to give me a date?

I took a shaky breath and opened the door and walked with slow steps down the hall, my heels making a clicking sound against the wood.

It smelled like he was cooking I just wasn’t sure what.

The table was set.

One plate on each side of a white tablecloth, with napkins on the dishes that he’d folded and placed silverware on top.

He’d even lit a candle and turned the lights down.

Throat dry, I made my way around the table and found Dante in the kitchen. It was a complete disaster. He cooked the way he fought — with reckless abandon, he was very goal oriented. And apparently his goal had been to massacre spaghetti until it resembled something like mush.

“Looks… good.”

“I over cooked the noodles, tried again, then under cooked them, but this batch,” he said, pointing at the stove, “is going to kick ass, I just had to go through two boxes of—” He looked over his shoulder. Eyes blazing he raked his gaze over me from head to toe and back up again, he sucked in his bottom lip like he was imagining tasting me, and when his eyes met mine again he looked drugged. “Don’t move.”

“Okay.”

“El…” He swallowed, looked back at the pasta then back at me. “Fucking dates.”

“You don’t want to do this?” Suddenly embarrassed I started to back away.

“Don’t. Move.” His jaw cracked as he braced his hands against the countertop and leaned over like he was preparing for a fight. “You know what? I have an idea, here.” He turned off the stove, drained the pasta, and dished out everything onto plates like he was getting timed. Once everything was on the table, he grabbed a towel and handed it to me. “Take this.”

“A towel?” My eyebrows shot up. “Am I on cleanup duty already?”

“Not in that dress you’re not.” He groaned. “Just wrap it around my eyes.”

I tried not to flinch at the hurt that spread through my shaking hands as I took the towel and wrapped it around his eyes, just as I was ready to tie it, he gripped my wrists and hung this head.

“El,” He inhaled greedily like he could smell me in the air. “You look beautiful.”

“And yet you don’t want to look at me.”

“One more second of looking instead of touching and that dress would be either destroyed or on the floor, your makeup smeared, hair pulled, thighs wrapped around my body so damn fast that you wouldn’t get your date. I’d feast on your body while the spaghetti got cold, I’d worship you with my tongue and I wouldn’t take my time, I wouldn’t ask you questions. Fuck I can’t even remember Nixon’s address right now.” He confessed. “I want to do this right, El. Up until now I’ve done everything wrong, it’s the only thing I’m good at, doing the wrong thing. So give me this chance, to give you the date you deserve, and don’t let me see you until you’re ready for me to make love to you, not against the wall, not on the table, but in a bed, a nice bed where I can take my time with you where I can worship every inch of you. All right?”

I swayed toward him as tears filled my eyes.

“El?”

I didn’t answer.

I sniffed loud enough for him to probably guess I was well on my way to ruining my makeup. Nobody had ever taken me on a date.

And nobody, not even Xavier had ever touched me on a bed, where I was able to look into his eyes.

Where I was able to be a part of the process.

Where I was an equal.

I pressed a kiss to Dante’s back, he let out a guttural groan before I tightly wrapped the towel around his face and knotted it. “Done.”

When he turned I wanted to roll my eyes or at least have a very serious one on one talk with God.

How was it possible to look better with half of your face gone?

His smile was sexier, his mouth a touch wider than I remembered, his skin smoother. I cupped the sides of his face, ran my thumbs down his strong jawline and pressed a light kiss to his mouth.

He licked his lips, and nodded. “More?”

“Food first.”

“Food first,” he rumbled. “But now that I can’t see you’re going to have to do something for me…”

“What’s that?”

“Feed me.” He grinned again. “Ever seen Lady and the Tramp?”

“Let me guess you’re the tramp?”

“Well I’m the one who never dated just screwed so yeah I’ll take the title, after you,” he pointed to the table as his lips danced along my ear. “My lady.”

I shivered and pulled out his chair then sat in mine, I was inches from him, our plates nearly kissing.

“I think I like this date already.” I eyed the French bread and tore off a piece. “Apparently they stocked us up with food?”

“I think Phoenix did the shopping.” He sat. “Loads of macaroni, Chase would have an aneurism if he saw all the boxed-up food in here and cans, the man hates anything not made from scratch.”

“Chase should have been a chef,” I agreed.

Dante’s face fell a bit before he shrugged. “I think we all could have been a lot of things, had we not been born in this.”

“Yeah.” The bread suddenly felt like sand in my mouth, I set it down and then grabbed a fork.

“What about you?” Dante interrupted my thoughts. “What did you want to be growing up?”

“Nice date talk,” I deflected.

“Answer the question,” he fired back.

I dropped my fork and stared down at my hands in my lap, he reached across and grabbed them in his. I’d always been afraid of what his hands were capable of, not realizing that I had fear over a part of him that would take care of me, please me, do anything for me.

Those hands, they would kill for me.

Those hands, they would rip apart anyone and anything for me.

And those hands, that night, would touch me, caress me, love me.

The hands didn’t define the man.

The man defined the hands.

“I love these.” I kissed his fingers without thinking.

Dante sucked in a breath. “My hands?”

“Destructive, murdering, beautiful, saving — hands.” I kissed his wrist.

“Answer the question, El.”

Nothing got past Dante. Not even my obsession with his hands.

I sighed as he squeezed my hands tighter. “My parents were killed by Xavier before I ever even knew who he was, before I moved in with my papa. I was playing with my dolls and a knock sounded at the door, it was the same day I told my mom I wanted to be a mom just like her.”

I smiled even though he couldn’t see me.

“Girls my age they wanted to be supermodels, reality TV stars, teachers, astronauts—” Tears glistened in my eyes as I shrugged. “My dream was to be her.”

Dante leaned forward, his chair creaked. “El… what was that like? What was she like?”

And then I remembered, like an idiot. I was talking to an orphan.

A casualty of this life.

Just like me.

He’d grown up not even knowing his own mother.

He’d grown up knowing that this life that had killed his father — would most likely take him at some point.

He grew up motherless.

“She was always singing,” I whispered. “Everything was homemade, she’d be in the kitchen for hours, I hated that kitchen because it always meant I had to do dishes,” I laughed at the memory. “She was beautiful, happy, always doing things for others. You know, I don’t think I ever saw my mom cry? She was so strong. When—” I gulped. “When the gun shots went off, I ran downstairs, there was blood, so much blood.” I shook my head. “I stood there for at least an hour. There was no pulse. But at least their eyes were closed, you know? At least it looked like they were sleeping. That’s what I told myself when papa came with them.”

Dante froze. “Who did your papa come with?”

“The cavalry.” I sighed. “Or at least it felt that way, the man looked like an angel, he had salt and pepper hair, crystal blue eyes, he smelled like cigars and peppermint. His suit was pinstriped, and I remember him asking if my papa was capable of protecting me.” I licked my lips. “Papa didn’t even hesitate. He said he’d protect me with his life. The man seemed to be upset about something, he and papa argued a bit but it was decided I’d be okay. And then,” I smiled at the memory. “Even though it was the worst day ever, he knelt down next to me and placed his hand on each cold body and said a prayer.”

“Blood of my blood, you’re free — find rest—”

“Find rest at the end of your journey, may you be blessed, may your family be blessed, may their lives be blessed, may they be protected by the blood you spilled. Sangue in nessun fouri,” Dante finished quietly.

I gasped. “How’d you know that?”

He didn’t answer right away, his jaw clenched and then he leaned back in his chair and gave his head a shake. “Because it’s what Luca Nicolasi says when he loses one of his own in battle. It’s the motto of the Nicolasi family and it’s been passed down to the rest of the four families. We memorize it just in case we have to say it to a friend, relative, associate. It’s our way of sending someone home.”

Tears slowly began to make their way down my face. “Are you saying that, the man, that the Italians were the ones who came that day?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” He opened his mouth like he was going to say more, instead he nodded to the table. “We should eat before it gets cold.”

And that was it.

He was either uncomfortable with the conversation.

Or hiding something.

But I knew Dante well enough to know this — there would be more, when the time was right, when he wanted to talk.

And for the first time in a long time, I was able to speak about my parents’ deaths, about my dreams.

Without crying.

His hands, those hands, they squeezed mine again. And I knew — his strength was my own.

I wasn’t alone.

Not anymore.