Gemma: A Mafia Forbidden Romance

The truth is, I can’t get him off my mind. I jumped at the chance of meeting him here, knowing it was wrong, that it could be a trap.

If this is a trap, at least I’m going down as a brave bitch.

“Maybe,” I say. “But I think more than dinner is going to happen tonight.”

His deep blue eyes lift up, they’re looking at me with a mixture of shock and awe. He presses his elbows on the table and leans across close enough for me to feel his hot breath on my skin, smell his unique scent of pine and cigarettes. “Yeah? What’s gonna happen tonight, Princess?”

My lips lift into a sly smile. “We’re gonna finish what we started.”

He kisses me then, the action happens so fast that the table jolts and the salt and pepper shakers tip over. His lips press against mine, parting them and opening me up to him. He devours my mouth, claiming me, and I let him. I give him everything, meet every stroke of his tongue. When his hand comes to the side of my face, I let him hold me there.

A cough next to us makes me jump, and it’s only then that I realize we’re still in this shoddy restaurant in a small town between Boston and Providence.

“Excuse me.” The waitress says, her face is red and I feel the heat rising on my own cheeks.

“Sorry,” I mutter as she places glasses of water down on our table.

Liam doesn’t look like he has a care in the world. His eyes are still focused on me and a smirk plays on his lips.

“Bet she doesn’t see that a lot here.” He chuckles once the waitress walks away.

My blush, still present, shows my embarrassment.

We order food, and I don’t taste a thing as I eat. It might as well be paper in my mouth that I’m chewing. We sneak glances at each other over the table and he doesn’t ask a single question about my family.

What kind of music do I like?

Do I have pets?

Where did I go to school?

What was my major?

We have small talk, like we’re two normal people on a date. Like we met online or we’re two acquaintances meeting up for the first time in a long time.

Just Gemma and Liam.

Not a DelGado and an O’Connor.

I tell him about my cat, Waldo, and how I named him after the Where’s Waldo? books.

He tells me about whiskey, the flavoring, the brands, his eyes light up when he talks.

I tell him about my useless degree and he chuckles.

He tells me how much time he spends at the gym and I gawk.

He tells me about his siblings, and neither of us mention that my family was a part of the hit that killed his oldest brother.

I tell him that my mom is dead, and neither of us acknowledge his family's part in her death.

The thing is, we’re not normal, far from it really.

We’re pawns in a long tradition of crime, pain, and murder.

When we finish dinner, my wine glass is empty, and he drank every last drop of his whiskey. The waiter sets a check on the table.

“Charge it to my room,” Liam hands it back to her dismissively. “405.”