Coming Home (Morelli Family 6)

Suddenly uneasy, I straighten. I’m definitely skirting a line here, and given my experience with the Morelli men of my acquaintance, I should watch my step. When his gaze meets mine again, there’s a little more calculation in their depths, reminding me again of Mateo. I assume that’s why my stomach hollows out like an elevator shaft whose car just plummeted to the ground.

“What if there was a way I’d be willing to help you?” he asks.

My eyes widen. “Really?”

He nods slowly. “Maybe.”

I lean back over the counter again, closer to him, eyes still wide. “Tell me. I can get you virtually anything once I’m home.”

And that’s how Vince finds us when he walks in.

He scowls as his gaze jumps from me leaning over the counter, to Rafe. “What the fuck is going on in here?”

I push up off the island, unconsciously putting space between myself and Rafe.

Rafe requires no recovery; he just takes a bite of bacon and leans back in his chair. “I found something that belongs to you, little cousin. Wandered right into my yard.”

The look Vince slides my way tells me he is not impressed. I go for sheepish and shrug.

“You tried to escape? Seriously?”

“I would’ve done us all a favor if I succeeded,” I tell him.

Rafe hops off the chair now that Vince is here. He’s finished all but his last slice of bacon, so he grabs it to take with him. “Adequate breakfast; thank you, Mia.” Then glancing at Vince, he tells him, “I wouldn’t leave this one unattended. If you need to go somewhere and Uncle Ben’s not here, call me over; I’ll babysit.”

Vince sighs, pushing a hand through his dark hair. “Thanks for bringing her back.”

“Anytime.” Then he turns and leaves without another word.

Chapter Twelve

Vince

This pisses me off.

Mia was asleep when I left, so I didn’t think I had anything to worry about. Also she’s Mia, so I didn’t think I had anything to worry about. What if she would’ve done something like that and wound up at a different house?

I stalk over to the counter and yank open a drawer, pulling out the scissors.

Mia takes a step back, looking a little nervous. “What are you doing?”

Instead of answering, I grab her by the shirt and bring the scissors toward her chest. She tries to pull back, eyes wide with horror, but then she stills, not wanting to get stabbed.

“What the fuck, Vince?” she yells, as I cut the shirt right off her body.

“We’ll see if you go running around the neighborhood without any clothes on,” I tell her.

“Vince,” she whines, clearly distressed as I take the remnants of the shirt off her, balling it up and tossing it in the trash can. “Goddammit,” she says, glaring at me.

“Thanks for making me breakfast, by the way,” I add, glaring right back.

“You weren’t home. And also, make your own fucking breakfast, asshole.”

Now she turns and stomps away, back toward our bedroom.

—

It’s not a good day.

Nothing is going quite the way I wanted it to.

I almost bought Mia some clothes today, too. She made me feel bad yesterday, asking if I brought her here just to humiliate her. I didn’t. When she curled up beside me with the same shirt and jeans on because she didn’t want to change into any of the things I bought her, I thought maybe I was being too mean.

While I was out this morning, I had an idea. Maybe I could take her out tonight—somewhere low-key, off the radar. Afterward I could take her shopping and let her pick out a few outfits. Give her a nice night out, get her some actual clothes—just a little taste of how things can eventually be.

Then I come home to find she actually went and tried to fucking run away. It didn’t even occur to me she would try a thing like that. She never tried shit like that before.

I guess this is different.

It still pisses me off.

Then I walk in to see she’s socializing with and apparently cooking for Rafe—just the sort of asshole I need to keep Mia away from.

By the time evening rolls around, I’m calm again. I haven’t seen much of her today. I’ve kept an eye on her, made sure she didn’t try to run again, but mostly I’ve left her alone.

Now it’s time for her to get her sulky little ass in here and make dinner.

She’s out on the balcony attached to our bedroom, looking out at the expanse of land behind our house, toward Rafe’s property. It startles her when I open the door and step outside with her.

“It’s time to make dinner,” I tell her.

“I’m not hungry.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re making dinner.”

“Am I a maid now?” she asks, a bit acerbically.

“We don’t have a maid. There’s a cleaning lady who comes a few times a week—she speaks no English, so don’t even think about it—but we’re on our own for meals. That’ll be your job for now.”