“It’s incredibly weird to say something like that to your sister.”
He bursts out laughing. “I’m just fucking with you, Kar. Relax.”
“Whatever. Please never mention my sex life again.” Or lack thereof.
“Ah, come on, I’m just teasing. Everyone knows Papa will cut the throat of anyone stupid enough to put his hands on you.”
I give him a sharp look. I’m about as virginal as a girl can possibly get, though not because I don’t want sex or because I’m afraid of it or something, but because my overbearing Papa and brothers make sure no man gets too close to do anything.
“That attitude has been really great for my social life.”
“That’s the curse of the mafia princess, I guess. You can have whatever you want, so long as Papa approves.”
I roll my eyes. “Are you done yet?”
“Done and done.” He sips the whiskey. “Go on, go talk to them. I won’t tell. Live a little while you have the chance.”
I hesitate, crossing and uncrossing my legs. Gavino’s right—I am insanely sheltered. The men in the Famiglia treat me like a disease and go out of their way to avoid me—that, or they’re overbearingly polite.
Everyone except for Nico.
That asshole goes out of his way to make my life a living hell and he somehow gets away with it.
I suppose it’s because I haven’t told Papa all the horrible shit Nico says. If I did, Nico wouldn’t come around anymore, and I’m not sure I could live with his murder on my conscience.
So I take his teasing and let him live to see another day.
But now I have a reason to talk to the soldiers. Especially Rinaldo. He’s tall and handsome in a clean-cut way, so different from all the other mafia guys around me. He’s around my age and popular in the Famiglia, and I’ve heard my brothers say he’s going to be the next Nico, at least in terms of power and ruthlessness.
Rinaldo is the sort of man Papa would approve of, and he’s not bad to look at.
I suck in a deep breath and hop off my stool.
Gavino laughs. “You’re really doing this?”
“I’m really doing it.”
“Good luck. Fifty bucks say they refuse to even look at you.”
“You’re on.” I grin at him and stride of, heading toward the lane filled with young, dangerous mafia men.
I keep my chin held high even though a sharp pang of nervous energy pulses down my skin.
What am I even going to say?
Hey, Rinaldo, you’re cute and popular, want to marry me? It’ll be a win-win for both of us! That seems a little pushy. Maybe, Hey, Rinaldo, let’s make grandbabies for my papa! Yep, that’s worse.
I’m still mulling over my opening line when a shadow appears at my hip. “Where are you headed to, princess?”
Nico’s voice. I grimace and stop walking as he looms in front of me, his arms crossed over his chest. He’s the opposite of Rinaldo—he’s covered in scars and ink, and his charisma seems to suck the energy from a room. He’s handsome, but he’s like a glacier, massive and gorgeous and freezing cold.
Rinaldo’s like a volcano: all heat and explosions.
“I thought I’d start putting out feelers. You know, searching for the future Mr. Right.”
He smiles tightly. “You won’t find him here.”
“Why not?” I gaze over at the lane. Rinaldo bowls his second ball and knocks over the pins for a spare. He flexes and laughs and glances over in my direction—and I swear he winks at me.
I feel a weird chill run down my spine and I’m not sure if it’s excitement or fear. Why would I be afraid of him though?
“Some of those men are dangerous, princess.”
“They’re in the Famiglia. They’re not dangerous to me.”
He waves that off. “You’re not interested in any of those children.”
“They’re all my age.”
“And you’re a child.”
“Nico, you’re only a few years older than me. Don’t act like you’re some old man.”
“I’m more experienced than all of them combined. But that’s not the point. You’re looking for a husband, not for one disappointing fuck, and that’s all you’ll find with them.”
“Asshole. Get out of my way.” I go to walk past him, but he snatches my wrist and holds it.
A tense tingling rolls down my arm. All the years we’ve known each other and he rarely ever actually touched me before. I think back to him grabbing my finger, and even that minor brush of our skin was a revelation. His torture tends to be psychological—constant bickering and teasing and joking. But never physical. It’s like he’ll say anything to piss me off, but he’s terrified to let our bodies touch. As if in touching, it would break down some invisible barrier, and all hell would break loose.
His fingers are hard on my wrist and his skin is callused and rough.
“Let me go,” I say through my teeth. “Gavino’s watching. You want him to report this to Papa?”