Twisted Fate (Dark Heart 2)

“What happened to make you go out running? You go a little stir crazy?”

She shuts her eyes again, and her lips curve slightly. “Something like that.”

“Gotta rest when you’re not feeling well, la mia rosa. Stay in bed.”

She gives me another smile, and I stroke my hand over her forehead again. “Is it wrong I’m glad you didn’t?”

I keep messing with her hair, her forehead, and she doesn’t answer. She’s asleep by the time we get to the bridge. It’s a slow drive into Queens. As we’re passing Fort Totten Park, she peeks her eyes open, squinting around before her gaze settles on me. There’s this moment where a cute grin overtakes over her face. Then she seems more ponderous. She sits her chair up and looks down at her chest, which is covered with my hoodie.

“Curious to see where I live, rosa?”

She gives me a tiny smirk. “I already know it’s in Kings Point.”* * *EliseI wonder if he knows about the camera I had in his yard. When I say “Kings Point,” his lips twitch like he’s going to say something, but when his gaze dips back to mine, his handsome face is at polite neutral.

Despite the headiness of this adventure—I’m covered with his hoodie, and he’s taking me to his house—my eyelids feel weighted. I shouldn’t have run, I guess, but I’ve been cooped up at home for four long days, and I was tired of being alone with my thoughts. Needed to do something to feel…capable. Like I can handle my new, insane situation.

When I saw him as I stood behind the lemonade stand, every cell in me went still. It was such a shock, but in a way, it felt so unsurprising. Of course he would find me this morning, when I’m feeling so alone and afraid. Of course he would sweep me up and spirit me away. And I would let him.

I close my eyes and keep them closed for what feels like a long time, playing silly film reels only I can see. Maybe they aren’t silly. Maybe they’re just crazy. My skin feels like it’s burning, and my mouth feels too dry. When I peel my eyelids open, I’m confused at first by the thick line of green I’m seeing out the upper quadrant of the car’s windows.

The leaves.

Because it’s summer, and the trees are lush here.

I peek at Luca, stunned anew by being in his car. I’m admiring his familiar profile when the car slows and his hand comes to my forehead again—long, cool fingers pushing lightly on my temples and the spot between my brows. He nudges his knee under his black leather steering wheel, uses his other hand to press something near the ceiling. Then his hand returns to the wheel, turning the car sharply left, and we drive through a black, iron fence.

His gaze flits down to me, and he gives me the sweetest smile, and he’s so handsome; I’m basking in his presence in a way that’s almost hard to comprehend. He gives my head a little stroke with two fingertips.

“Sleeping beauty,” he murmurs. I wrap my hand around his, bringing it to my cheek as I sit up more and blink at the sprawling property before me.

We’re rolling down a long, narrow driveway that runs straight for a few hundred yards and then veers slightly left into a double garage. Beside the driveway is a long, manicured lawn, the green grass rolling like a red carpet before the house, which is a stately, brick two-story with a roof that looks like gray stone or…are those wooden shingles? I squint and decide they are wood.

The door is white; the window frames are done in white. The windows are curved at the top, like slight arches, and I can see a brass knocker on the door as we move closer. The grass is cut in rigid lines, which likely means he doesn’t cut it himself. I look at the shrubs and the stone path leading to the front door. It looks somewhat Hamptons, somewhat quaint despite its obvious—if understated—elegance.

“This is yours.” I smile up at Luca.

“So the bank said.”

This is the house the mob bought, I can’t help thinking.

He reaches up toward the ceiling again, and one of the garage doors lifts. And then we’re rolling in. An automatic light blinks on, and I see two large bikes mounted on the wall in front of the car’s hood. He touches my shoulder, as if his hand is saying goodbye to my body, before climbing out of the car, walking around the car’s hood—he wiggles his brows as he passes in front of me—and opening my door.

He helps me out, and when I wince—I turned my ankle slightly as I jogged to his car—he flashes me a gentle smile before he scoops me up, so he can carry me like a bride over the threshold. He holds me with just one muscular arm as he presses his finger to some kind of touch-screen lock.