Dead Man's Hand (Vegas Underground 7)

“Yes,” I say simply.

More shock and betrayal registers on both their faces, like they were hoping I’d offer some explanation that sat better with them.

“Marissa, after all I’ve told you about the Tacone men—” My grandfather breaks off when he sees me shoot a pointed look at Mia.

“Mia, time for your bath,” my grandmother says, hustling her out of the room. Mia’s eyes are wide, and I’m certain she’ll be straining her ears from the bathroom.

“Nonno, Gio’s not like that. He’s not his dad. Or his brother. Brothers. He’s a really great guy who plays piano and treats me like a princess.”

Nonno rolls his eyes. “For now he does. Just wait until you step out of line or he wants something more than you want to give. Then it will be threats. Violence, even.”

I can’t breathe. My chest feels too tight. My stomach too rock hard to make room for the expansion of my lungs. “No,” I say. “I don’t think that’s true.”

“Is it about the money?” Nonno says and I see the exact moment he realizes what I’ve done. He staggers back a little, face going pale. “Mio Dio. You didn’t… No.” He shakes his head in disbelief.

It’s like the shooting all over again, where time seems to slow. I can see the bad coming, but I’m powerless to stop it. “Mia?” His voice cracks.

All I can do is nod. Admit it.

“No… no. How much?”

“It doesn’t matter.” I try to make my voice come out strong and sure, but it wobbles.

“What was the bargain?” It’s barely more than a whisper. “For you?”

“No!” My eyes burn. Of course it seems like I whored myself out. Sold myself to the devil. This was the moment I was trying to avoid. This terrible, crushing feeling of shame. Doubt that I mean anything to him at all, other than as a possession. “No, I’m his personal chef. I deliver his meals once a week, that’s all. And that’s how I found out… I like him.”

“You like him? You like him? You don’t like a Tacone. You watch your back and hedge your bets and make very sure you never cross one. You need to end things with him right away.”

I lift my chin. “I’m not doing that, Nonno. He’s not what you think. And you’ll come to see that.”

I grab my things and stomp out to take the L to Michelangelo's, even though I have an hour to spare.

I’m shaking all over, sick to my stomach. Totally unnerved.

I’ve never rocked the boat with my grandparents. I’m the overachiever. The one who steps in and takes the burdens. The one who never screws up or causes drama.

Right now I’m imploding. My need to be wanted, to be enough, for all to be right in the world is in conflict with my attraction to Gio.

No, it’s way more than an attraction. I can’t pretend we’re about good sex or even the arrangement I made to borrow that money.

Gio and I have something real.

My grandparents are just going to have to accept that.

Gio

The minute Marissa gets off work, she comes crashing into my arms.

Thank fuck.

But also… fuck. Because she’s upset and exhausted, and I’m not sure I know how to fix this. At least not yet. But I will.

I hold her, kissing her hair and rubbing her back.

“I’m sorry. That was super awkward at my grandparents’, and—”

“Shh.” I push her away enough to cup her face and lift it. I kiss her downturned mouth. “It’s all right for me. How was it for you?”

Her shoulders sag. “Awful. My nonno thinks I’m whoring myself out to you and that you’re dangerous.”

Anger rips through me, but I draw a deep breath to contain it. “You’re not my fucking whore. You’re my girlfriend. At least I want you to be. Did you tell him that?”

She blinks rapidly and drops her forehead against my chest. “You always say the right things, Gio.”

“Believe what I say, Marissa,” I stress, because I’m not sure she does. I lost her back there at her grandparents’ house. Even though she’s here, in my arms, that fissure of doubt I’ve been working so hard to close just became a giant chasm.

“What can I do for you, angel? I’d do anything.”

She sighs and pulls away and that’s when I know I’m right. “I just need to go home tonight.”

Fuck.

She doesn’t mean my home.

And she would have to ask for the one thing I don’t want to grant her.

Freedom.

“Yeah, okay,” I say, dropping my hand into my pocket to pull out my keys. “I’ll drive you.”

“Thanks.” Her shoulders slump as she shrugs on her jacket.

I splay my hand over her lower back and escort her out of the restaurant. “You’re tired, angel. Give it a good night’s sleep and things will seem better in the morning.”

She pokes me with her elbow. “That was the cheesiest line you’ve ever fed me.”