“That’s a shame, Lena,” he says. “But don’t worry. This won’t be the last time I do a nice thing for you.”
I love you, I almost scream, which is downright absurd.
Everybody would agree that makes no sense.
How can I possibly love a man I only recently met?
But I’m starting to think I might.
I’m starting to think I loved him from the first moment I saw him.
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
Luca
“What made you want to be a tattoo artist?” Lena says, forking some potatoes and arching her eyebrow at me.
It’s been difficult to focus ever since we sat down, ever since she showed me a glimpse of her chest in that billowing shirt. Her jeans are tight, too, most likely a result of Olga having to guess her size.
It makes the carnal fury constantly simmering inside me difficult to contain and tame.
And yet it’s worth it to get closer to her, see her smile, and hear her laugh.
“What?” she says. “Is my question too complicated?”
I smirk. “No, I was just thinking…sitting here with you, it’s like there’s not even a war happening.”
She flushes, her lips twitching upward in the cutest way.
“Are you dodging the question?”
I chuckle as I cut into my steak.
“Because it’s not usual for an Italian Mafiosi to have tattoos or be involved in tattoos in any way?”
“No, it’s not,” I say. “My mom was a tattoo artist. Not many people know this because she never had a chance to pursue it properly….”
I clear my throat, pushing away the pain.
“I’m sorry,” Lena says softly. “I didn’t mean to bring up family stuff.”
“Oh,” I say quickly. “Speaking of family stuff, your aunt is alive and well. She’s staying at your house – no, not your house. You’re never going back there.”
I caution myself to slow down, not to give too much away. I don’t want to rush her into something that may make her feel uncomfortable.
“Anyway,” I go on, “I just realized I hadn’t said.”
Her cheeks glow in the fluttering candlelight. “Does it make me bad that I didn’t even think of that?”
“Not at all,” I say passionately. “That woman made your life miserable. You don’t owe her any sadness. Or pain. Or anything.”
She sighs, nodding. “You have no idea how good it is to hear that. She used to play the aunt card all the time.”
“She was going to sell you, Lena,” I snarl, the thought making me want to crush something.
“So your mom was a tattoo artist?” she says quickly, changing the subject.
I sense the sadness in my woman’s voice, the conflicted agony. It must’ve been so confusing for her to have this person, this family member who was supposed to support her…but all she did was use her.
“Yes,” I reply. “She never worked publicly. She was too embarrassed by her work. But she had a private studio at the rear of our property, and people would come. They’d come to get tattooed or marvel at her work. She was an incredible illustrator, so accurate with a pencil, but with freedom in each stroke.”
Lena gazes at me, her eyes alert. “That’s so awesome.”
I nod. “She had excellent use of color, whether with paint or the tattoo gun. She wasn’t an old woman when…when they killed her. She could’ve overcome her shyness and made a name for herself.”
“Did she teach you?” Lena asks softly.
Wordlessly, she reaches across the table, taking my hand in hers. I return the pressure, holding on tightly.
“Yeah.” I can’t help but smile at the memory. “My dad wasn’t a fan. He said I’d be too busy ruling our family to become a tattoo artist. He was right, too, just not in the way he meant. But I kept practicing. I kept drawing and painting. I love art, Lena. And as crazy as it might sound, you’re the first person I’ve ever spoken to about this.”
Her hand gets tighter. I can feel the affection blazing through her.
“That doesn’t sound crazy,” she murmurs. “I get it. Your men might not understand.”
“Plus, I never found a subject as beautiful as you,” I say.
She laughs, letting my hand go and waving hers. “Come on. You must have women throwing themselves at you all the time.”
“In the early days, I did,” I tell her. “Before I let it be known, I wasn’t interested.”
“But you are now…interested, I mean?”
I lean back in my chair as though the question is a physical strike. There’s no way for me to explain just how interested I am without venturing into dangerous territory, without letting it all come thundering out of me.
I’ll tell her about the house we’re going to own, the children we’re going to have, how bright our life will be after all the darkness.
But if she wants to be as free as the bird on her ankle, surely I can’t cage her. I can’t block her in.