I don’t know how long we’ve been out here, but it’s long enough that the ice in our glasses is completely melted, and tiny droplets of condensation drip down the side from the heat. Between the fire and what’s building between us, it’s intense.
Roman relaxes back, legs spread wide, one arm draped across his lap and the other dangerously close to my leg. There’s plenty of room, and either of us could scoot over, but we don’t.
When I look up at him, he captures my gaze with a pair of stunning crystal eyes that make my stomach flutter.
“Do you like it?” I glance away. Those are the kind of eyes that a girl could lose herself in. And if I’m not careful, I will.
“What? Being in the Mafia?”
I nod. “You said you inherited the position from your father, which usually means you were just given it and didn’t have a choice. Would you have chosen it if you had an option?”
A strange look washes over him as if he’s never considered the idea. He swallows, scratching his stubbled chin. “It’s been a tough year. I don’t know if I have a good answer for that.”
Roman’s body clenches, his fingers gripping so tightly to the glass in his hand I’m afraid he might crush it. My question struck a nerve, and I wish I hadn’t asked because it shifts the mood. He doesn’t say anymore and the subject dies.
A few minutes of silence pass between us, and when he turns to look at me, whatever pained emotion was there before is gone. It’s like he flipped a switch, turning off any bit of vulnerability or candor he had and taking back the reins.
“I think I still owe you a proper apology.” Roman slants his eyes up toward me. Heat ripples through my core when he looks at me that way, and I completely lose my train of thought.
“A proper apology? I didn’t know I’d ever hear those words out of Roman Molanari.”
“Well, keep interrupting me and you might not.” He chuckles, that strong jawline flinching. “I just want you to know that I’m sorry about how things started between us. Like I said, it’s been a tough year and I’ve been under a lot of stress.”
Part of me wants to ask about thetoughyear, but I’m a little nervous, too.
“Apology accepted. I probably would have done the same if I were in your shoes.”
“Somehow, I find that hard to believe.”
“Okay, maybe not the exact same.” I blush, tucking my knees up into my chest and turning toward him. “But I can understand being willing to do anything for someone you love.”
Silence sits between us for a few seconds. “He’s been through a lot.”
“Does he ever see his mom?”
“Uh…” He draws in a deep, hesitant breath and clenches his jaw. “She’s…Ty’s mom…she died several months ago.”
Roman’s words gut me. There’s never been another woman around and he doesn’t wear a ring, so I assumed they were divorced or she left. It never occurred to me she was dead, butit all makes sense. Ty’s injury probably brought back all kinds of emotion from losing his wife, and his reaction at the time is now even more understandable.
“Oh Roman, I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how hard that is on both of you.”
“It is.” He nods. “We’re just trying to get our footing, which is why things are kind of hectic. She…She did absolutely everything for us. It’s been an adjustment.”
“You don’t have to justify that to me. It’s honestly impressive you handle things the way you do. Ty’s lucky to have you.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. I couldn’t keep either one of them safe.” His eyes darken, and he takes another sip of his whiskey. He balls his fists at his side. “Talia was murdered, and it was my fault. I was out of town and the men who attacked her…they were trying to send a message to me.”
Murdered. It’s one thing to lose a mother and wife, but to lose her in such a traumatic way feels almost impossible to get through. Poor Ty. Poor Roman. His face fades at the weight of what he told me, and I can’t imagine carrying that around.
“And you think the same thing happened with Ty…”
“It would be a huge fucking coincidence if it was random,” he says, rage pulsing through him. “And I don’t believe in coincidences. I just have to prove it.”
Reaching over, I set my hand on top of his, gently sweeping my thumb across it. “I’m so sorry, Roman. I’m sure it’s probably hard to talk about, but I’m here if you ever need to.”
He glances down at our intertwined hands, and a look I can’t quite make out flashes through his eyes—a thirst, a craving.
Neither one of us moves, but we both consider it. Consider crossing the line. Consider what it could mean. Consider how dangerous the game we’re playing right now is.
