The morning after Ras and I return, I wake up feeling tired and groggy.
I’d expected a full interrogation from Mamma last night, but she let me go to bed after only taking my temperature and asking if Ras behaved himself around me.
I assured her that he did. Actually, I lied and said he only had to check in on me a few times, even as I shivered at the memory of his hands on my skin.
I think I’m…developing an attraction to him. It’s the only thing that would explain why what happened in his kitchen made my body feel hot all over.
How did I go from hating him to feeling this—whatever this is—in the span of a few feverish days?
He’s still the same cocky Camorrista who stole a kiss from me at Martina’s wedding. I wasn’t attracted to him then, was I?
I bite down on my lip. Even then, I felt something when he kissed me.
I swipe my palm over my brow. There’s really no point in ruminating on my feelings for Ras. I’m an engaged woman, and he is a temporary guest who’ll probably be out of here sooner than later. Plus, my schedule before the wedding is busy. I’ll mostly be out of the house, so I’ll hardly see him.
Now that I’m back in New York, my imminent future is a shadow looming over me. My gaze drifts to the calendar hanging on the wall and the date that’s circled with a red pen. There are five weeks left until I become a married woman.
I go to take a shower and get dressed. Cleo barges into my room while I’m brushing my hair and asks me a million questions about how I’m feeling. I assure her that I’m all better and we head downstairs for breakfast.
As soon as we enter the dining room, I pick up on the weird atmosphere. My parents are already sitting down with Ras. His gaze jumps to me when I walk in, but he quickly slides it back to Papà.
“Are there any cameras in the area?” he asks.
“Not on the streets. We had them taken down years back,” Papà grumbles, taking a sip of his coffee. “The idiot was wearing dark clothing while it was pitch black out.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask as I take my seat.
“There was a car accident,” Mamma says, her expression drawn. “Someone ran over Armando this morning.”
My eyes widen. “What? Is he okay?”
“Four broken ribs, one broken leg, and a concussion.” Papà sneers.
Ouch. “Who was the driver?”
“It was a hit and run.”
I frown. That’s strange. Our neighborhood is as safe as it gets.
Mamma shakes her head. “I’d bet anything it was one of the Nelson boys. One of them has supposedly developed a drug problem.”
“I’m going to look into it,” Papà says, “But in the meantime, Armando is out of commission for at least a few weeks, and the timing couldn’t be worse. I have eight of my guys tied up across the border with the Mexicans this month, and you know it’s our busy season.” He moves his attention to me. “I’m going to have to ask Joe to drive you around.”
Cleo groans. “Joe’s half blind. Didn’t he get his license taken away?”
“He’s fine as long as it’s light out,” Papà says, but Mamma frowns.
“Cleo’s right, Stefano. The last accident he got into was in broad daylight. I don’t want to risk it.”
“You drive Gemma then,” Papà snaps.
Mamma’s eyes narrow on her husband. “Gemma’s schedule conflicts with the things I have going on with Cleo. Her classes are important.”
I take a sip of my coffee. Mamma’s doing everything she can to make Cleo seem eligible despite the whole lack-of-virginity thing.
“We can cancel the classes until Gemma is wed,” Cleo offers helpfully, giving me a meaningful look. “I don’t mind.”
Mamma breaks the shell on her egg. “Of course you don’t mind. Your piano playing is atrocious, Cleo, as are your table manners.”
I glance down at my sister’s plate. She’s gotten flakes of her croissant all over the tablecloth.
“Until you demonstrate at least some semblance of being a lady, you’re not missing a single class. Especially not after you completely embarrassed me in front of Ludovico.”
I make a note to find out about what happened there when Ras clears his throat. “I can drive Gemma. My schedule is flexible while I’m here.”
My eyes snap to him. No way. The last thing I need is to confuse myself more by spending hours alone in a car with him.
I clear my throat. “That’s really not—”
“That’s a generous offer,” Papà interrupts. “But you’re our guest. I can’t put you to work like that.”
“Nonsense,” Ras says. “It would only be a few hours a day. Dem and Vale instructed me to do everything I can to ensure Gemma’s recovery, and if I’m being honest, I think she’s still a bit unwell.”
I glare at him, my eyes communicating that I’m perfectly fine.
“She does look a little pale,” Cleo says.
My irritation spikes. Does Cleo think she’s helping me? Probably. She has no idea what happened between me and Ras. She smiles and pops a piece of croissant into her mouth.
I try again. “Papà—”
“Are you going to be comfortable driving in the city?” he asks Ras, ignoring me.
Ras nods. “Piece of cake. Trust me, I’ll keep her safe.”
“It’s settled then.” Papà gives Ras a close-lipped smile before turning to me. The look on his face tells me his decision is final. “Give your schedule to Ras, Gemma.”
Frustration simmers inside me. Is my opinion completely irrelevant? It’s me he’ll be driving. But I know what’ll happen if I start arguing at the dinner table. Papà will shut me down, and I’ll still be stuck with Ras as my driver.
I clench my fists under the tablecloth. “Tomorrow, I have a private shopping appointment. It’ll probably be super boring and take a long time.”
Ras’s gaze sparks. “Perfect. I need to stock up on clothes. Didn’t pack for an arctic climate.”
Hmm. How convenient.
“What time is the appointment?” he asks.
“Noon. Manhattan.”
Ras reaches inside a bowl on the table and takes a moment to pick out a cup of yogurt.
When he finally decides on one, heat travels down my chest in a slow wave.
Peach.
He glances at me from beneath his brows as he tears open the cup, his expression pure innocence if it weren’t for the flash of wickedness inside his eyes. “We’ll leave at eleven to beat the traffic.”
The next day, I step through the front door at eleven sharp.
Ras is already waiting inside the car, and when he sees me, he hops out to open the passenger door.
I clench my teeth. A part of me hoped he’d be late so that I could complain to Papà about his punctuality and insist on getting Blind Joe as my driver.
Yes, I’d rather risk an automotive accident than spend the next few weeks in Ras’s orbit.
I’m scared. Scared I’ll do something stupid around him.
Scared that my attraction might develop into a full-grown crush and make the next five weeks even harder than they are already going to be.
No matter how hard I try to tap into my previous dislike of Ras, I can’t seem to do it.
Not after he spent days nursing me back to health.
And not after what happened in his kitchen.
Last night, I had a dream about him. We were on a bed, and I was feverish, my back pressed against his front. He dragged a cool washcloth over my neck and then dipped it down over my chest. It was at that moment in the dream that I realized I wasn’t wearing any clothes. The washcloth slid between my breasts, over my abdomen, and down between my legs where everything felt so sensitive that I couldn’t help but moan. Lips pressed to the side of my neck, and a familiar voice asked. “Are you wet for me, Peaches?”
I woke up then, aroused and sweaty and in desperate need of a release.
I’ve never lusted after a man like that before, and there’s a flicker of guilt at the back of my mind. After all, I’m engaged to marry someone else in just a few weeks. Even though I don’t love Rafaele, it still feels wrong to be having sex dreams about another man.
I swallow and glance over at Ras. His long hair is neatly pulled back at his nape in a loose man-bun, and he’s trimmed his beard. His tanned hands flex on the wheel as he takes us out the neighborhood, following the GPS. One of the rings he’s wearing is the one I tried on in his bedroom. The realization makes something hum beneath my skin.
“Ras, what are you really doing here?” I ask, unable to keep an exasperated note from slipping into my voice. “Whatever it is can’t be that important if you’re willing to spend all this time chauffeuring me around.”
“Did your papa tell you to ask me that?”
“No.” I frown. “Why would he?”
“He didn’t seem to believe me when I told him I’m here on a diplomatic mission to get to know our American partners a little better.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that when Damiano commits to doing a deal as big as what we’re considering doing with the Messero and Garzolo clans, we need to be sure the two of them can deliver what they promise.”
The line sounds rehearsed, but the gist of it makes sense, I guess. It doesn’t sound so unreasonable, although I can see why Papà wouldn’t like it.
If that’s what Ras is here for, why is he so eager to volunteer to drive me around?
Something is off with all of this.
I have a feeling it has something to do with the bruise on my face. Vale still hasn’t brought it up, and I know my sister. She wouldn’t let something like that go.
Is Ras here to also keep an eye on me?
I guess I should be grateful if Vale did ask him to do that. Papà isn’t stupid enough to hit me while Ras is staying at our house.
I’m safe from him for the time being.
But there is a new threat. The one posed by the man in the driver’s seat.
Maybe I need to remind myself of all his flaws so that I can nip this crush in the bud.
He’s arrogant and shameless.
He’s unable to stand the cold. As in, he’s a total baby about it. A smile tugs at my lips at how miserable he looked last night.
I scan him. Even now, he isn’t dressed for the weather. He’s wearing a wool suit and a crisp gray button-up, but no coat. The heat in the car is on full blast. He really didn’t pack for a New York winter, did he?
What other flaws does he have? Have I ever seen him ruffled by anything?
A memory resurfaces. “Tell me how you got your nickname.”
By the way his brows furrow, I can tell he wasn’t expecting that to come out of my mouth.
“Why?” he asks suspiciously.
“Just curious. Does Ras mean something?”
He switches into the fast lane. “In the system, it means someone with authority who still reports to a higher boss.”
That makes sense. After all, he reports to Damiano. “So Dem gave it to you?”
He shifts in his seat. “No, I’ve been called that since I was sixteen.”
“How come?”
There’s a subtle shift in the mood inside the car. His profile hardens, and I get the distinct sense that I’m wading into something uncomfortable.
He hesitates for a while before finally answering. “I got it from a kid in my class,” he says in a low voice. “We didn’t get along. I did something I shouldn’t have, and that started a war between us. He gave me that nickname as a way of humiliating me.”
Whatever I was expecting, it was not that. My nails dig into the soft flesh of my palms. “What did you do to him?”
“I stole his new motorcycle and crashed it. His parents worked for my father’s business, and they had saved up for years to buy it. It was a bad thing to do,” he admits, dragging a thumb over his bottom lip. “And Nunzio made sure I paid for it.”
“Did he beat you up?”
Ras huffs a humorless laugh, like there’s far more to it. “Yeah.”
I rake my gaze over his powerful, muscular body. “I have a hard time imagining that.”
“I didn’t look like this back then. I was a skinny kid. As son of the area capo, I could have told my father about it all and gotten Nunzio taken care of, but that would have been admitting that I couldn’t handle the situation on my own. I was too proud for that. So I took his beatings for nearly two years until he finally decided to deal the final blow the night of our graduation.”
Ice slips inside my veins at his tone. A foreboding of something terrible. “What did he do?”
He clears his throat. “His friends held me down while he tried to slit my wrists in the playground behind our school. They wanted me to bleed out slowly, so that I’d feel myself go. They almost managed to do it, but then one of the teachers came out to have a smoke and saw them.”
Horror wraps around my throat and squeezes as we pull into the parking lot of the department store. I turn to look at Ras. His profile is a mask. There’s no hint of what he’s thinking or feeling.
Suddenly, I’m at a loss of what to say.
He could have died.
My chest squeezes with the need to comfort him, even if this happened long ago. I can’t imagine how traumatic that must have been. To be held down like an animal while someone cut up your veins.
My stomach lurches. “Ras, I’m so sorry.”
He doesn’t say anything as he parks the car. When he turns off the ignition, I reach over and wrap my palm around his wrist.
He freezes. Stares at where I’m touching his skin.
Gently, I pull his arm toward me. Dark ink seeps out from under his sleeves, and when I push the sleeve up, I see it. There’s a thin scar about three inches long right in the center of his wrist. The tattoos wrap around it without crossing over even once. It’s like he made a point to make it stand out.
“Why not cover it up?”
“I want to remember it.”
I drag my thumb over the scar, and he shivers in response. Slowly, I lift my gaze to meet his. “Tell me you killed him.”
A fire burns inside his eyes. He takes his hand back and says, “Not yet.”
