Mafia Casanova

“Three!” I called back.

“Two, one!” he yelled, earning a smile from me.

I rolled my eyes and turned to Romeo, then nearly passed out from the sight of blood.

It was spread past the collar of his shirt and seeped down the front. His skin looked perfect as usual, but his clothes were a complete and utter mess.

I stumbled back. “That’s a lot of blood.”

His easy smile was gone, replaced with a cold look that had me backing up slowly. “Be thankful it’s blood and not lipstick.”

With a gasp, I covered my mouth, speaking through my shaking fingers. “How dare you!”

“This blood.” He advanced toward me, his teeth clenched. “Stays with me forever, Eden. I don’t kill because some sick part of me finds joy in torturing good people, people that just…” His eyes flashed. “He was one of our own. So before you start judging me, know that everything I do is to protect you, to protect this family, and if that includes fucking answers out of someone, I’ll do it. That’s my job, the only thing I’m good at, so I’d appreciate it if you got off my dick and showed some gratitude.” He gave me his back and stomped down the hall past Naz’s room.

He’d just killed someone, so why did I feel like the horrible person? I slowly followed after him.

Romeo was in the master bathroom. His shirt was already off and tossed on the floor. His ridiculous chest was on full display, tattoos and all.

Of course, his six-pack had magically morphed into an insane eight-pack that my eyes were drawn to with no say on my part. He clung to the edge of the sink, his biceps flexing.

I couldn’t look away.

I should.

But he was beautiful, and I was in the wrong. I stupidly pointed at the shirt by his feet on the white tile floor and said, “I can probably get the blood out.”

Gradually, he turned his head, his eyes zeroed in on my mouth before locking on my eyes instead. “Blood and white shirts don’t really mix, Red.”

Hearing him say my nickname was familiar, comforting. If I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine a scenario just like this.

Both of us home after a long day, talking in the bathroom, getting ready for bed.

I gulped and broke eye contact. “I can at least try.”

“Don’t,” his voice softened. “It’s not worth you going to all that work when I can just buy a new one. Besides, it’s my fault for not wearing black.”

My head shot up, and I stared into his face. “Was that a joke?”

“Maybe.” The corners of his mouth turned up.

“I don’t like it.” I crossed my arms.

“You’re going to have to be more specific.” He turned his body, fully facing me. “Are we talking about the blood? The toothpaste? The missing lipstick—”

“I’d rather it be blood.” My voice trembled. “Does that make me a horrible human being? Am I a monster now that I’ve confessed?” And why couldn’t I stop talking? “The lipstick, it’s…it wipes off easier than blood, and still, I prefer that bloody shirt.” I pointed to the floor. “I’ve never told you. You’ve never asked. It’s always just been this thing that existed in my head, and maybe I’m exhausted, maybe I’m just having a nervous breakdown after all the stress, the funeral. But I hate it. I fucking hate it.”

He moved slowly like he was afraid if he moved too fast, I’d bolt.

Which was probably accurate.

Then again, Romeo knew me well.

Too well.

He reached out, his fingertips grazing my arm as he pulled me further into the bathroom, lifting me onto the countertop. His hands dug into my hips, my legs straddled his body.

“Wash it off,” he whispered.

“Wh-what?” Our gazes locked. “The blood?”

“The lipstick.” He handed me the wet washcloth, droplets of water slid down my wrist. I held it close to his face in confusion.

“There may not be any on my neck right now, but I still feel it, it’s worse than the blood, you’re right, while I’m trying to seduce, they’re trying to mark, to claim me, and even though I’ve only ever belonged to one person, it feels like theft, every fucking time.”

Tears welled in my eyes.

Was this really happening?

Don’t trust him.

Don’t.

Why wasn’t he pushing me away now?

Was it pity?

Grief?

“Here.” He touched the side of his neck, and when I didn’t move, he grabbed my hand and pressed the rag against his skin. “And here.” He moved my hand across the front of his neck, where the skin was clean. “Over here.” He ran the rag down the front of his chest.

The rag slipped from my fingers, and my palm was now pressed against his naked skin.

His breath hitched.

Jaw clenched.

He moved so close I could feel the heat of him between my thighs; the air was so thick that it was hard to breathe.