Her cheeks flushed as Dante observed the shirt, cringing like it hurt him to look at it. "Didn't take you for a Mets fan."
"What did you take me for?"
"Someone with class."
He draped the shirt over his shoulder before walking into the living room. Gabriella followed, watching as he staggered a few steps, swaying. Her heart nearly stalled when his knees buckled. Ten seconds and he was going to slam right into the floor.
Darting forward, she grabbed him before he fell. Oh crap, he's heavy. She managed to get him to her couch, dropping him on it. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes, as he ran his hands down his face, the softest whispered apology escaping his lips. "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize," she said, sitting down on the coffee table in front of the couch, her knees pressing against his. "You lost blood, so it's not surprising if you're feeling weak. Besides, no offense, but you look like you could use some beauty sleep."
He peeked an eye open. "You calling me ugly?"
"Maybe."
Absolutely not. She could think of a few words to describe him—reckless, fearless, most definitely cocky—but ugly didn't come close to registering on that chart. Even looking like Casper the Less-than-Friendly Ghost, there was something captivating about him, something charming in his smile and kind in his eyes. She couldn't quite explain it, because he was far from being her type. She'd always dated architects and athletes, not the kind of guys who got stabbed on Friday nights.
She'd purposely avoided dating those guys.
She dwelled on that as he leaned forward, moving around enough to finally tear his bloody shirt off. He dropped it in his lap and exchanged it for the one she'd given him. Her gaze flickered to his bare chest when he pulled the clean one on. It was instinctual, a reaction to having a half-naked man in her living room.
She averted her gaze, not wanting to be caught ogling him. Control the friggin hormones, girl.
"I was five," he said, his voice quiet. "My shirt caught on fire."
Gabriella met his gaze. "What?"
"Car blew up. I was close to the blast. That's how my chest got all fucked up."
She frowned. He thought she was reacting to his scars. "I wasn't… you know… and I actually knew that. I know what happened."
"Of course," he said. "You live like a block from there."
"I didn't live here then," she said. "I grew up in Jersey, but something like that… word travels. They said you were lucky to survive."
"I'm not lucky." He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees, his face mere inches from hers. "I almost died. I should've died. But I didn't. I survived because I'd been busy that night looking out for my little sister. That's all I ever did... look after her. But here I am, years later, with nobody to look after. Doesn't get much more unlucky, does it?"
Gabriella didn't know what to say. She had so much she wanted to say, so much she wished she could tell him, but her voice didn't seem to work. Maybe it was fear that silenced her, or maybe it was self-preservation, but when her lips parted, all she could do was exhale.
Dante's eyes scanned her face, like he was seeking the answer to his question, before his gaze settled on her mouth, like maybe he thought he'd find what he really wanted there. Gabriella's breath hitched as he licked his dry lips, inching closer so slowly she wasn't sure he was actually moving.
Was she imagining it?
But then he tilted his head, and Gabriella's heart raced. Her hands trembled in her lap, her fingertips tingling with the urge to do something. Push him away. Pull him closer. She wasn't sure which, because both options were horrifying. This shouldn't be happening, but geez, how something inside of her wished it would. He shouldn't even be there. She shouldn't have let him in. But there he sat, just a breath away from her.
The bad, bad boy with the horrible reputation. When she looked at him, she saw a broken man who couldn't heal from all of his wounds. His pieces no longer fit together like they should. She could close the gashes in his body, but what about the gaping holes in his soul?
Dante inhaled deeply as Gabriella's eyes fluttered closed. Her hands clenched into fists to keep them from shaking, and she tiled her head to match his. He was so close she felt his warmth and tasted his breath on her tongue. She waited for him to kiss her, wondering if his lips would be soft, but seconds passed with nothing happening until she heard his voice. "Do you smell that?"
Her eyes opened right away. The tips of their noses nearly touched. "What?"
His eyes narrowed as he pulled back. "It smells like something's burning."
Something's burning. "Oh crap!"
Gabriella jumped up, nearly falling over his legs as she darted for the kitchen. The closer she got, the stronger the smell grew, assaulting her nostrils. Grabbing potholders, she yanked the oven door open, a blast of smoke slamming her right in the face.
She gagged, fanning it away, as she grabbed the pan, tossing it on top of the stove. The smoke detector across the room screeched, a little too late to be of any help. She turned the oven off, slamming the door closed.
"Un-friggin-believable," she muttered, tossing the potholders down on the counter near her phone. She'd been so distracted by Dante that she'd forgotten she had food cooking.
Annoyed, she spun around, about to dismember the offensive smoke detector, when she slammed right into something in her path. Gasping, she stepped back, stunned to be face-to-face with Dante, having not heard him follow. She stammered, unable to get a word out, when he cradled her face with his large hands, his thumbs stroking her flushed cheeks as he stared into her eyes. It was only a few seconds, but it felt like a lifetime—a lifetime of anticipation before he smashed his lips to hers.
The kiss was rough and needy, his mouth moving eagerly as he drank her in. His teeth nipped at her lips, his tongue mingling with hers, as he kissed her like she was the air in his lungs, the blood in his veins. He kissed her like he meant it. He kissed her like she'd never been kissed before. He kissed her until she was breathless, until her knees went weak, as he backed her up against the kitchen counter.
A minute felt like an hour, the world a fast-forward blur. The smoke detector was still screeching when he pulled away. Her chest ached and lips tingled, her eyes watering from the lingering smoke. She gaped at him, stunned, as he blinked rapidly. Time stopped as the world hit pause.
She saw it coming before it happened.
His hold on her face loosened, his hands slipping from her skin. In a blink, his legs gave out and he hit the tile floor.
BAM
Out cold.
Gabriella snatched her phone off of the counter before dropping to her knees beside him, rolling him over onto his back. She grabbed his wrist, feeling his racing pulse. "Dante? Can you hear me?"
No answer.
"Idiot," she said, letting go of him to scan her phone, about to dial 911. "I swear there's something seriously wrong with you."
A hand reached up, covering her phone. "That's the second time you've called me that."
Her eyes darted to him, relief rushing through her. He was awake again, so at least he hadn't gone into shock. "If you don't want me to call you that, stop acting like one."
"Not my fault," he said, trying to sit up, but she forced him back down, sternly pointing him in the face, warning him to stay put. He obliged as he draped his arm across his sweaty forehead, drawing his knees up. "If anyone's to blame, it's you."
"Me? How do you figure?"
"You're the medical professional," he said. "You should know better than to seduce someone in my condition."
"Seduce? Ha! I did no such thing!"
"Then what do you call the way you were kissing me?"
"Kissing you? You kissed me!"
"You kissed me back."
"I, uh…" She scoffed. "Whatever."
"There's no excuse for that," he said, his lips curving into a smile as he raised his hand, tapping her on the nose with his pointer finger. "You siphoned the air from my lungs and the blood
right out of my brain. You ought to be ashamed."
"I am," she said. "We're both idiots."
"Ah, don't be so hard on yourself." He caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. "I think it was worth the headache."
"You've got a headache?"
"I'm assuming I just hit my head pretty hard."
"You did, which is yet another reason I think you should go to the hospital."
"The hospital can't help me," he said, his hand shifting from her cheek to run his fingertips across her lips. "I trust you to give me CPR if I stop breathing."
He sat up then, ignoring her this time when she tried to stop him, and managed to get to his feet. Gabriella watched as he staggered out of the kitchen, following to see him flop down on the couch again. He laid across it, running his hands down his face.
"Is there seriously no one I can call for you?" she asked. "Other than 911?"
"Please don't call 911."
"How about a cousin? Someone?"
"Are you forgetting nobody visited me in the hospital? Actually, that's a lie. Someone did come. Gavin Amaro. He was nice enough to stop by and tell me my sister was dead and that my father had been the one to kill her."
Those words shocked Gabriella. "He told you that?"
Dante closed his eyes. "So no, there's still no one you can call for me. I've got nobody left. Just give me a few minutes to pull myself together and I'll leave."
"You don't have to," she said, stepping over to him. "But there's something I should tell you."
Anxiety ravaged her as she awaited a response from him, but one never came. She placed her hand on his forehead, feeling his warm skin, before running her fingers through his hair. He stirred a bit but his eyes remained closed, a soft snore escaping his parted lips.
Asleep.
She didn't want to leave him alone in his condition, but she was too exhausted to be of much use. Fishing a blanket out of a hallway closet, she draped it over him and turned off the lights before heading for her bedroom, leaving the door open.
Sleep proved to be evasive, as she tossed and turned, straining her ears for noise from the living room. Eventually, she drifted off, waking around sunrise. She strolled out of her bedroom to check on Dante, her footsteps stalling a few feet from the couch.
The living room was empty, the blanket folded on the table.
No Dante.
Chapter Ten
It was a warm afternoon in the New Jersey suburb outside of Elizabeth, a soft breeze blowing, rustling the scattering of trees along the property. Gabriella sat in a chaise lounge chair in the backyard of the house she'd grown up in, one of those cheap plastic get-ups, her legs spread out along it. Her black flip-flops lay discarded in the neatly trimmed grass to her right, her bright red toe polish gleaming in the sunlight. It was the only stitch of color on her that afternoon: black sundress, black sunglasses, and black wide-brim sun hat.
Black soul, too, according to her superstitious grandmother.
'You look like you're in mourning!' she'd declared when Gabriella showed up forty-five minutes late. 'You'll never find a husband looking like that!'
Never mind the fact that Gabriella hadn't been looking for a husband. Her grandmother wouldn't understand that, though. Her family, for how unique they were, tended to be conservative when it came to relationships, but getting married wasn't exactly her priority.
Nor was it even something that interested her.
"So, are you gonna tell me why you were late?"
Gabriella glanced up, meeting her mother's stern gaze, grateful to be wearing sunglasses. They felt like a shield, a protective barrier to keep her mother from digging too deep. Victoria Russo was a no-nonsense woman, the kind that went toe-to-toe with men twice her size, a product of her upbringing. And while Gabriella had been raised to cower from no one, her mother was one of those rare folks who scared the day lights out of her sometimes.
She shrugged, figuring it was best to be honest. "I really didn't want to come, so I almost didn't."
"Well, I'm glad you came to your senses. You would've been missed."
"That's under debate." Gabriella looked over her shoulder, back toward the house, where most of the guests gathered. "Half of these people don't even remember I exist. Unless you're packing a penis in your pants, your existence means nothing. Can't measure it to prove my worth, therefore I must not be worthy."
Victoria stepped over to her, reaching down and grasping Gabriella's chin, pulling her face up to look at her. "What's wrong with you today?"
"Nothing."
Her response was immediate. It was also a big, fat lie. She'd woken up the day before to find Dante gone from her apartment, and there had been no sign of him since. She wasn't sure when it happened, or even how, but somewhere along the way she started to really care about the guy. Worry consumed her. Was he well? Alive? Had he passed out in an alley somewhere and ended up in another hospital? Or geez, maybe he made it to the morgue this time…
A lot was wrong with her.
She was losing her friggin mind over a guy.
A guy who had no regard for his own safety.
A guy who once told her he felt dead inside.
"Your father's in the house," her mother said, not buying her 'nothing' nonsense. "Why don't you go say hello?"
Gabriella knew better than to argue. "Yeah, maybe I will."
Standing, Gabriella snatched up her flip-flops before trudging through the back door. People packed the house, all of them family in some way, although Gabriella only recognized maybe half of their faces. They ran the gauntlet of Italian surnames, mixed through marriages, with a few notables missing.
One being the whole reason any of them were there to begin with. A birthday party with the birthday boy skipping it.
"There's my girl!"
Gabriella's attention turned to the source of that voice when she stepped inside, seeing her father sitting at a table in the kitchen, accompanied by a few other guys as they played a game of Texas Hold 'Em. Alfie Russo, card shark extraordinaire, was a car dealer by trade, specializing in high-end vehicles for a select clientele, playing a role in a scripted show most people thought was reality. He sold bright colored Ferraris to the filthy rich while driving a plain black Ford Crown Vic. Whatever they asked for, he it got for them with a smile, no matter how insane or absurd he thought it was. He had one heck of a poker face.
God, she wished she'd inherited that.
"Hey, Daddy," she said, stopping beside him, eyeing the thick stack of crumpled cash on the table in front of him. "I see you're winning."
"Always," he said with a grin.
Laughter rang out from across the table. "That's because the bastard cheats."
Gabriella glanced over at her Uncle Johnny, the table in front of him pretty much cleared. Her father did cheat. That was common knowledge. He cheated at cards. He cheated on his taxes. He'd probably cheat on his wife, too, if she were the kind of woman to tolerate it.
Newsflash: she wasn't. She'd cut him up and serve him at the next potluck if he even thought about touching another woman.
"That's crazy," Alfie said, waving that assumption off. "I just play by my own rules."
"You cheat," Johnny said again. "You can't just make up rules as you go along."
"Says who?"
"Says everyone."
"Pfft, and who's going to stop me?"
Alfie laughed, tossing his cards down on the table, face up. Gabriella glanced at them, doing a double take. He had four of a kind, except two of them were exactly the same, both the Queen of Spades.
The men grumbled, tossing their own cards down, as Johnny flicked a card right at him, hitting him in the chest with it: the real fourth Queen.
"So, how you doing, baby girl?" her father asked, not at all ashamed as Johnny crumbled up and discarded the extra spade before sorting through the deck, making sure no other cards had slipped in. "How's that job of yours?"
"Good," she said, shrugging.
"What are you doing these days?" Johnny asked, cocking an eyebrow. "Last I heard you were still off at school in Caldwell."
"I graduated," she said. "Went into nursing."
"She's a city girl these days," her father told Johnny. "Working at a hospital out your way."
"Is that right?" Johnny's eyes flickered to her as he shuffled cards. "Which one?"
"Presbyterian."
"Presbyterian," someone else chimed in, one of the faces she didn't recognize—a cousin of a cousin of someone's brother-in-law or something. "Isn't that where they treated Galante's son?"
Way too many eyes darted straight to her with that question. She stood there, silent, and just shrugged a shoulder. No way was she approaching that topic with those people. HIPPA violation aside, she wasn't interested in breeching his privacy to appease their nosiness.
"Kid got put through the ringer," Johnny muttered as he dealt the cards out to the men. "The kind of hell he went through... I don't think it's the kind you ever come back from."
"Nonsense," a new voice cut through the room. "He seems to have bounced back just fine."
The men didn't give the newcomer a glance, while Gabriella looked at the doorway. Guess the birthday boy decided to come, anyway. He stood there, dressed in a black suit, his dark hair flecked with bits of gray. Gabriella wouldn't call him family. She'd never thought of him that way. He certainly never considered them to be anything more than strangers, like they were living a game of Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, loosely connected through circumstances.
Gabriella's mother had five brothers and two sisters, one of which married the man in the doorway. The family tree she'd scribbled out in elementary school said that made him an uncle, but in her mind, he was just some guy they all called Bobby.
"Is that right?" Johnny asked. "You seen the kid lately?"
"Two nights ago," Bobby said, strolling into the room. "He showed up at my bar."
Someone let out a low whistle, but Gabriella didn't look to see who it was. Her gaze trailed Bobby as he grabbed a chair and joined them at the table.
"You didn't kill him for that, did you?" Johnny asked, snatching up all the cards to start over, to deal Bobby in.
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