I hesitate, and I hate that part of me wants to know where this leads. Maybe it’s loneliness. Or desperation. Or the way he looks at me like I’m the last good thing in a poisoned world.
I rinse off the last plate, dry my hands, and follow him.
He takes my hand and leads me outside. I try to ignore the fact that he’s holding my hand casually, like we’re some sort of couple, as we head over to our usual spot.
There’s something refreshing about being with Marco, something that makes me guilty that he’s not the one I think about at night. He never tries to hide me. He doesn’t act like he’s ashamed of being seen around me. He doesn’t insult me in public and kiss me minutes later in my room.
Instead, he sits with me in the courtyard where anyone around could see.
Francesco has a fiancée.
I shake it away, feeling betrayed. I should not be making excuses for that man, especially if theexcuseis that he’s engaged to someone else.
Seriously, what the hell is wrong with me? Being around Marco is much better. Much more peaceful.
“What if Olga sees us?” I say as we settle onto the bench. “You won’t get into trouble, but I will.”
An annoyed expression crosses his face. “We are not doing anything wrong. We are just talking…”
“When I should be working.”
“She just doesn’t want me talking to you.”
“She threatened me.”
Marco pauses for a minute, and I see him struggle to keep his expression light.
“She can threaten all she wants. She’s just jealous that I don’t kiss her ass the way she does with my father.”
I shake my head, but the edge in his words makes me smile. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Why?” His gaze flickers with genuine curiosity, as his lips curl up in a half-smirk. “She has no life, Lia. She spends all her time running after my father, while the rest of us are actually living. She’s sexually frustrated, and I don’t blame her. She clearly has nothing else going on for herself.”
Maybe it’s the way he says it so seriously without the usual glint in his eyes, I burst into laughter.
It’s moments like this that make him harder to resist. His words are sharp, but there’s a playfulness in them, a confidence that somehow makes him even more dangerous. I’m drawn to it, despite the warning bells in my head telling me it won’t end well.
With me and him, or me and Francesco.
“What is being in the mafia like?” I ask him casually, even though there’s nothing casual about my question.
I’ve realized over time that I could take advantage of our… friendship to get intel from him on how I could possibly run away from here. I’m being careful, though, asking unsuspecting questions here and there, because I know that despite Marco’s jovial nature, he still has his demons.
He shrugs. “It’s all I’ve known, so it feels… normal. Being in the mafia is my normal.”
He’s deflecting. I know it. But he won’t tell me anything useful without a little push.
“Must be hard, not knowing anything else,” I prod, trying to angle for a response.
Marco tilts his head, considering me. “It’s not so bad,” he says finally, but I can tell he’s not really answering. He’s not as open as he pretends to be. Not with this.
I let it go, because I know then that I won’t get anything useful from him easily. If I want to escape, I’ll have to be smarter. I’ll have to do it alone.
That realization settles heavy on my chest, right as he leans closer.
“You know,” he says, voice dipping, “you ask a lot of dangerous questions for someone who plays the innocent card so well.”
I give him a flat look, pretending I’m not sweating under the weight of his stare. “I don’t play innocent.”
