Ruthless Monarch

His brow lifts. “What did you have in mind?” Even in the dark, I can hear the sexual innuendo in his words.

“We can play a game,” I offer lamely.

“What kind of game can we play in the dark?” He smirks, and what a smirk it is.

I’m not sure if it’s from the lighting or the baritone of his voice, but I swear my pulse is racing.

“We can play Twenty Questions,” I blurt out, and he laughs. I guess it did sound funny how fast I said it. Like I’m excited and completely nervous and tripping all over my words.

This man turns me into a mess when he looks at me the way he does.

“You want to play Twenty Questions?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Okay. Let’s play. But first some ground rules.”

“Don’t ask anything about the business,” I say in my best Al Pacino accent. Like I’m some mafia tough guy.

“Exactly. I would hate to have to put—”

“Stop.” I raise my hand. “I hate that part.”

He laughs again, and the sound is magical. Matteo Amante should laugh more often.

“Okay. You go first. Ask away.”

I lean back on the couch and try to think of something. “What’s your favorite color?”

“That’s the big question you got?”

I shrug.

“Black.”

“That’s not really a color. More like the absence of light.”

“Hence, why I like it.” His voice sounds like warm honey as he speaks. I want to spread it all over and lick it.

Where the hell did that come from?

Jeez.

This is crazy.

“Your turn.”

“What did you want to be when you were a child? I know now you want to be an agent or editor or something to do with books, but what about when you were a child?”

It takes me aback when I realize he remembers what I said to him. It’s like he stored it away, and that thought warms my heart.

“I wanted to be a vet.”

“Did you have pets growing up?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I look down at my hands. “I wasn’t allowed.”

“If you could have any pet, what would you have?”

“It’s my turn to ask the questions.”

“Answer the damn question, Viviana.”

The way he says my name so aggressively should scare me, but it does the opposite. Instead, I can’t help but look at his mouth, wishing I had the courage to cross the space between us and kiss him.

“Viviana . . .” He says it again. I think he must know what it does to me.

“I always hoped my parents would surprise me with a puppy.” I look off to the other side of the room. “Every year, I thought this would be the year they did it, but as each year passed, I eventually gave up on the dream.”

“I’m sorry.”

I turn back to him. “I thought you don’t apologize.”

“For my actions, no. But for this . . . yes.”

“But-but you had nothing to do with it.”

“I’m still sorry your parents suck.”

I look at him again.

Looking for a lie. Looking for anything to make me think he’s disingenuous, but I see nothing but the truth in his green eyes.

“You’re a better man than you let on, Matteo.”

“Don’t tell my enemies,” he says, and it feels like he hit me in the stomach.

“Next question,” he says before I can think any more about the pain spreading throughout my body.

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. What did you want to be? Did you always know you wanted to do this?” I gesture my hand around the room, not that it really implicates “run the mafia,” but I think he understands my point.

“Yes and no.”

“Elaborate, please.”

“When I was a boy, I looked up to my father. I thought he was a very important man, and I wanted to be just like him. Then, when I was around eleven, I realized what exactly he did . . .” He stops speaking for a minute, his hand reaching up and running through his hair. “At the time, my uncle, Salvatore’s dad, was in charge. Things were different then. The business was different.”

He doesn’t need to say more. He made a comment once implying what Salvatore believed in, and although he's not saying it, I have to imagine the old saying holds true “like father, like son.” His eyes are downcast as if the memory hurts him still twenty-seven years later.

For some reason, I want to comfort him. I want to take away the pain he feels. I want him to know he can talk to me. It’s strange this feeling that weaves its way through my blood as if I want to protect him, which is ironic.

I don’t listen to the objections screaming inside me. Instead, I move closer until our legs touch. I take one hand in mine, holding it, and then I lift it to my mouth, placing a kiss on his knuckle.

“What-what happened?” I stutter, scared to ask, scared of the answer, and most of all, scared of what it will mean if he does tell me.