Twisted Emotions (The Camorra Chronicles 2)

“What song is that?”

My fingers jerked against the keys and the piano released a low whine in response.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Adamo said as he stepped into the room through the open French doors.

I relaxed and smiled. “It’s okay. I startle too easily.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets and nodded toward the piano. “You can keep playing. I like to listen.”

Had he listened to me play before? I settled my fingers lightly on the keys and began where I’d left off when he’d startled me. He moved closer and propped up his elbows on the wing. A bruise bloomed on his left cheekbone, and his lip was busted. I didn’t think I’d ever seen him without a busted lip.

“What happened to your face?”

“My brothers practice fighting with me.”

“When will you be inducted?”

He looked down at his bloody knuckles. “In two months. August. On my fourteenth birthday.”

“But you don’t want to?”

Adamo shrugged. “I’m a Falcone. The Camorra is my destiny.” His brows drew together. “But I don’t want to do most of the things expected of me.”

“Kill people.”

“That,” he agreed, a dark look passing over his face. “I already did. Kill someone. Shot him. I’m a good shot.”

I nodded and stopped playing again.

“I don’t enjoy killing, and I don’t want to torture people or hurt women,” he whispered.

“Then don’t,” I said and realized how stupid I was. Adamo couldn’t choose his path, not as others could.

He pressed out a laugh. “I have to.”

“What would you rather do?”

His eyes lit up. “Race cars.”

“You can drive a car?”

“Remo let me drive his car when I was eleven, and I managed to sneak into a few races since then. I crashed two of his cars. He was majorly pissed, and now he keeps a closer eye on me so I can’t do it anymore.”

“Is that why you are sulking around the gardens and listening to me play?” I asked with a smile.

“I’m supposed to watch you.”

I burst out laughing then quieted at the indignant look on his face. I still found it funny that the youngest Falcone was supposed to be my bodyguard. “Sorry.”

“I’m a good shot and a decent fighter, and it’s not like someone is going to attack our mansion. It’s the safest place in Vegas.”

“Because people are terrified of Remo.”

“And Nino,” Adamo added then curled his lips in disgust. “Since he fought his first official cage fight, Savio’s even cockier than before. He thinks he’s as scary as them, but he’s not. Not even close.”

“Agreed. Nobody does scary as well as Remo and Nino,” I said. Luca had been terrifying, but maybe because I’d known him from a young age, I could deal with his brand of scary better than that of the Falcones.

“Yeah,” Adamo murmured and then became serious, his brown eyes hesitant. “Is Nino nice to you?”

I pursed my lips. Nice wasn’t really a term I’d use for Nino. “He is …”

“Present,” Nino drawled, making me jump and Adamo as well.

I turned toward his voice. He was leaning in the doorway, tall and cold, muscled arms crossed over his chest. For once he wore a shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing his tattoos.

“You should be doing homework or work on your knife skills,” Nino said, pushing off the wall and striding toward us.

Adamo jutted his chin out, but he didn’t protest. “Bye, Kiara,” he muttered before he walked out of the French doors.

Nino propped his hip up against the piano as he always did, and my eyes took in the way his pants accentuated his muscled legs, the way his shirt clung to his torso. “And am I being nice to you?”

I nodded, but I couldn’t stop looking at him and remembering his suggestion from this morning.

“Would you like to go to our bedroom and explore?” he asked calmly.

Despite the heat in my cheeks, I nodded. Nino straightened and held out his hand for me to take, and I did as always. His fingers curled lightly around me but in a way that suggested I could pull away any time. With a deep breath, I got up from the bench, startling slightly as his thumb pressed against my wrist. Why did he always do that?

My eyes trailed over his muscular, inked forearm as I followed him upstairs. The moment we stepped into our bedroom and my eyes landed on our bed, my pulse began racing in my veins.

Nino peered down at me. “Fear or arousal … or both?”

“What?” I asked confused.

He pressed his thumb against my wrist. “Your pulse picked up.”

“That’s why you always touch me there?”

“It’s a good indicator of your mood and helps me figure out your emotions combined with your expression and breathing.”

I laughed then quieted when he led me closer to the bed. Nino raised one eyebrow.

“Both,” I admitted.

He sank down on the bed, tugging me along so I’d stand before him. “It would be good if we could manage to reduce one and increase the other.”