Like a fool, I get up and rush to him, wrapping my arms around his middle and pressing my face against his chest. His arms band around me, strong and protective. This guy would kill for me in a heartbeat. I know that already. Loyalty is his gig, and I’m under his protection.
“I don’t want you to go,” I admit. My belly shudders trying to hold in a sob.
He slides his hand into my curls and massages the back of my head. “Cry for me, Flowers,” he murmurs, resting his chin on top of my head.
I sob a little into his shirt. “That’s so wrong.”
“Maybe I’ll wake up,” he murmurs. “Maybe I’ll wake up and be your prince.”
My prince. He already is my prince. Maybe that’s not saying much, maybe that’s just proof that I haven’t dated any men of quality. Or maybe I just desperately want him to be my prince. I want to believe there’s a happily-ever-after for the two of us. Love will conquer all and all that sap.
But for now, it’s enough. Knowing he wants to wake up and be my prince is everything.
And I also love him for accepting my tears. Never once has this guy told me not to cry, and I’ve been told that my whole damn life by nearly everyone in it.
Armando tells me to cry more. To cry for him. Cry his tears.
It makes them like a tribute. Gives them meaning. Makes them pass through me more easily. I dry my cheeks with my fingers. “What are you watching?” I say to bring things back to normal.
“Old Parks ‘n Rec episodes. Come here.” He takes my hand and my bowl of food and pulls me to the couch. “What do you want to watch?”
I curl up beside him, and he puts his arm around me, tucking me into his side as he opens Netflix and scrolls through my recommendations.
“Married to the Mob,” I blurt then regret it because now he’s going to think I want to marry him. I’m sure my subconscious produced it because I’ve been mulling over the consequences of dating someone in the mafia.
“Oh Christ,” he mutters but looks it up.
“We don’t have to watch it,” I backpedal.
“Nah, it’s funny. And Michelle Pfeiffer’s hot. Just don’t ask me if anything’s realistic.”
“I won’t,” I promise, but I want to. I want to know everything there is to know.
Even more because he won’t tell me. But I also love that he keeps the lines so clear.
Shadow mews and jumps up on the couch then promptly curls up in Armando’s lap as he pulls up the movie. He sets the remote down and rubs under Shadow’s chin.
“Hi, buddy,” he says as Shadow starts purring loudly. “You are the coolest cat, you know that?”
I smile and join in on petting Shadow. “Sorry I was bitchy.”
“Don’t apologize.” He kisses the top of my head like a real boyfriend. “I fucked your life up, I know.” He lowers his head and brushes his lips across mine. “I appreciate you letting me stay here.”
And just like that, I forgive him for everything.
Chapter Twelve
Armando
The next few days, I’m better about communicating with Hannah. I text her at the end of the day to tell her when and where I’ll see her. Or what’s for dinner. I was a dick that night she called me out, and I deserved a tongue-lashing. But Hannah gave me grace, and for that, I appreciate her even more.
It doesn’t kill me to treat her like the queen she is. At least for now, while we’re doing this. It’s not a relationship because there’s a deadline on it. I find out who wants me dead, get rid of them, and I can move back into my own place.
I wish I had something more to offer her, but I don’t. I got nothing for anybody at this point. I’m not fit for any kind of relationship.
I stop at the mortuary on my way to Hannah’s. I’d called my mom in Arizona to ask, and she gave me the name—Angel’s Wings, run by a guy named Angelo. Of course he’s Italian. Don G wouldn’t give business elsewhere if there was a compaesano available. Plus, I imagine there are advantages to having a mortician in your pocket. Hiding evidence or whatever.
I push my way into the quiet lounge. There are candles burning in front of a cross and pamphlets on grieving. A thirty-something woman in a tasteful blue dress comes out to greet me. I wonder if she’s related to Angelo. This doesn’t seem like the kind of business you hire outsiders for. No one wants to work in a mortuary, right?
