Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 84446 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84446 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
“But you’re honest,” I said, shrugging. “I think maybe that might be a good thing for me to have while I… figure things out.”
“I am honest. To a fault a lot of the time,” she agreed.
“I think maybe you could use a friend too,” I said, sensing that someone with walls like hers would never feel comfortable enough really letting people in the organization in. Not even Dav. Though, that didn’t seem to be from lack of trying.
“I’m not a ‘go get a pedicure and brunch’ kind of woman.”
“Me either,” I agreed. “My feet are ticklish,” I added, getting a little laugh out of the severe woman.
“Fine,” Cinna said, nodding. “We can be friends.”
“Can I have your number then?” I asked, proud of how forward I was being. There was just something about Cinna that kind of reminded me, well, of the men in my family. Who were closed off and emotionally inarticulate as well. “In case I have any questions about, you know, the family or the neighborhood.”
“Sure,” she said, reaching for her own phone to take my number as I found mine. “I should probably, as his capo, suggest you ask your husband,” Cinna said. “But, well…” she went on, waving out.
“Yeah,” I agreed, feeling good at having the number for someone in this organization in my phone. Even as my heart sank, realizing I didn’t have Renzo’s number.
“You want me to get you anything?” she asked.
“I’m okay,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m just going to take some acetaminophen and try to go back to sleep.”
“Alright. I’m downstairs if you need me,” she said, then was gone.
I didn’t, in fact, go back to sleep.
I just turned off the light, then tossed and turned, wondering where Renzo was.
Until, near the morning, I heard voices in the living room below. Cinna’s and a deeper rumble.
A few minutes later, I heard heavy footsteps making their way up the stairs.
He walked in then, heading right toward the bathroom, leaving the door open, so the light spilled into the bedroom.
I sat up as I heard the water click on.
I don’t know why, but I found myself climbing out of bed, and making my way to the doorway.
And there he was.
Renzo.
His shirt splattered with blood.
Gaze sliding upward, I saw more blood on his neck, his face, down his arms, and pouring off his fingertips under the tap.
I didn’t have to wonder whose blood it was.
Maybe I should have been horrified.
A normal woman likely would have.
But this was the life I was raised in.
It was often violent and brutal.
Without being able to rely on the law, justice had to be meted out by these men.
I knew what was going to happen the moment I gave Renzo a description of my attacker.
So it wasn’t horror or disgust moving through my system as I looked at the evidence of Renzo’s revenge. It was something a lot softer, sweeter.
I must have moved, because Renzo suddenly stiffened, looking over at me.
“Go back to bed, mouse,” he said, his gaze lingering on my bruise. “You don’t need to see this,” he added, whipping off his bloodied shirt, then turning his gaze away, trying to hide the blood on his face from me.
I didn’t go back into the room.
Instead, I turned to the linen cabinet, grabbing a washcloth, then moving next to him to wet it in the other sink before turning to him, and reaching out to force him to face me.
“What’re you doing?” he asked, shaking his head at me.
“Shh,” I demanded, lifting my hands, careful to pinch the washcloth with my fingers, so my palms didn’t hurt, then reaching to start wiping the blood off of Renzo’s face.
He was uncomfortable at first, his whole body almost vibrating with tension. But as I gently wiped at his skin, he started to relax, even soften, as he looked at me.
I wiped off his face, then his neck, and his arms, before leaving the washcloth in the sink under the running water to clean most of the blood off.
“Thank you,” I said, watching as confusion moved across his stupidly handsome features.
“You don’t need to thank me,” he said, voice small, but rough. “You should be blaming me,” he added.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because everyone in this neighborhood should know you’re off-limits.”
“This kind of thing happens,” I said, shrugging. “Even if most people know who I am, there would be others who wouldn’t.”
“It will never happen again,” Renzo said, his words a vow.
“I believe you,” I said, voice soft.
“This is worse,” he told me, his hand raising, the knuckles raw, and gently teasing his fingers over my cheek.
“It will probably be even worse in the morning,” I said.
I’d seen my brothers after many fights in the past. It always looked worse the day after, or even several days after.
To that, Renzo’s lips curved up.