ELENA
THE TICKING OF THE CLOCK brought my gaze to it as I slipped off the island. I’d been engaged to Nico for only one hour, yet I already felt turned inside out, as if he’d stolen a few of my layers and I’d never get them back. I knew I made the right decision not to give him every piece of me. If I did, the inevitable would happen, and I’d be nothing but dust beneath his feet while he ruled New York’s underworld.
I traced the rim of his whiskey glass, the air-conditioning cool against my bare skin. I leaned on the counter and sipped the liquor, hoping it would numb the abrasive feeling of his scruff against my neck, hoping it would make his clean, male scent disappear from my nose. It didn’t.
When the sound of the garage door opening met my ears, I glanced toward the noise. I wondered if he would leave me here alone, but when I didn’t hear any engines starting, I imagined he was only working on his cars.
I tossed back the rest of the warm whiskey and set the glass on the counter, but before I could walk away, my eyes caught on some paperwork. Hesitation flooded me, but I took a step forward and grabbed the top paper between two fingers.
I stared at my fiancé’s private bank account information, my heart beating with confliction. Vacillation at the wrongness of my intentions. Yet, I felt the hope of absolution, no matter how small it might be.
This life I was born into might be dark, but it was transparent. The Cosa Nostra was only a candid version of the Outside’s politician smiles. I knew this world, knew its darkness, knew its light. And I knew that I was good, but sometimes even the good has its shadows.
Before I could think more about it, I pulled open cupboard drawer after drawer, searching for a pen and paper. When I found them, I copied the information down and slipped it into the bottom of my duffel bag.
You can only sink or swim.
You can’t swim in the underworld, but I’d always heard drowning was the best way to go.
After dressing, I took a tour of the home. I found three bedrooms upstairs and dropped my bag on the queen-sized bed of one that had to be a spare. Cream walls, white duvet and furniture. It was understated elegance, and I knew Nico hadn’t been the one to decorate it.
A bay window with a seat below took up the far wall and looked over the backyard and garage. My fingers touched the glass as my gaze found Nico whose head was beneath the hood of one of his cars in the drive. Only his side profile was visible, but my heart thumped to an uneven beat. He wore a white t-shirt, his button-up and tie lying in a pile on one of the lawn chairs.
I wondered who did his laundry. He said he had a cook, but it was close to lunchtime and no one had arrived yet. I really didn’t know how to cook. It was a travesty for an Italian woman, I knew, but I partly blamed it on my mamma for never teaching me. She was a perfectionist in the kitchen and would slap our hands if we took one misstep, so it had always been easier to stay out of her way.
Heading out of my new bedroom, I stopped in front of the master. With gray walls and mahogany furniture, it had a masculine touch. The large bed was unmade, and dress shirts and ties lay over the back of a chair, some fallen to the floor. It looked like a messy king lived in here. I had an impulse to clean it, but I quelled it and moved on. I didn’t know how he would feel about me going through his things and I didn’t want to. I might have to live with him, but this was an arrangement—not a real marriage.
However, when I thought of my other options, I couldn’t help but feel relief from Oscar Perez’s death. I could guarantee that if I were sent to his home for the day, I wouldn’t have been lying languid on his counter from an orgasm I didn’t have to reciprocate. My skin crawled at the thought of him touching me.
I would kiss whoever killed him.
When I opened the fridge, I was relieved to see some pre-made meals I only had to pop in the oven. There were handwritten notes on the top of each saying what they were in a feminine scrawl. So, he did have a cook. I was going to feel like less of a woman if I had to have some other woman make my meals now that I was getting married. I guessed I would have to put learning how to cook on my to-do list, though it wasn’t as if that was exactly full.
I put a casserole in the oven and then searched the house for a phone.
As I stood at the island and pulled my hair into a ponytail, my brows knitting from the unsuccessful search, the back door opened. My pulse slowed.
Nico stepped inside, his gaze running from the floor to me. God, that plain white t-shirt would be the death of me. Grease stained his arms and hands and he was sweaty to a hot degree. I finished tying my hair up, and then dropped my clammy hands to my sides.
He eyed me as he passed a couple feet away, like it was a natural thing for me to be in his home, but he wasn’t sure whether he liked it. I had the distinct feeling he didn’t and suddenly felt unwanted and out of place. It seemed as though his presence occupied the whole kitchen and there was no room for me.
I stood there, watching his back as he grabbed a glass from the cupboard and filled it from the faucet. His dark hair was mussed, brushing his collar, and I grew warm remembering I’d had my hands in it not an hour ago.
“I thought we talked about that staring thing.” His voice was deep, slithering down my spine with a rough caress. He emptied his glass in one drink without turning around.
“We didn’t talk about anything.” My response was quiet. “You talked and just assumed I was listening.”
“You were listening,” was all he said, bracing his hands on the edge of the sink.
A heaviness filled the air and my lungs. Uncertain. Suggestive. Each silent second was the tick of a bomb soon to detonate. This weight in my chest, this thrill beneath my skin that thrummed when he was near, wouldn’t be good for me. He didn’t even want me here. All my reservations about this engagement came to the surface.
I shifted. “Can we talk?”
“About what?” There was a tightness to his shoulders I couldn’t miss.
“About . . . us?”
“Is that a question, or do you have something to say?”
“I have something to say.”
He finally turned around, crossed his arms, and leaned against the counter.
“Go ahead, then.”
I swallowed. “I’m sure my papà would forget the marriage contract if you asked him to.”
His eyes sparked with dark amusement. “I’m sure he would.”