It was everything I needed.
It just had no personality.
Well, it did when I’d done it up, made it a place I liked coming home to, a place I liked to spend time in, mostly because I spent a lot of time in it.
But bare bones, it had no personality.
Now, it was almost back to that, seeing as it was weird walking into my place because I hadn’t been there in weeks. It was also weird walking into it because a lot of it had been boxed up in preparation to move. Nothing on the walls. Ready to be void.
Shaking off the weird, I looked to Benny to see he was throwing the door closed behind him, but his eyes were on the boxes stacked three deep, resting against the dining area wall.
He didn’t look happy.
“I’ll just be a minute,” I told him, and his gaze cut to me.
“Grab what you wanna wear to dinner tomorrow while you’re at it,” he ordered.
I gave him a look to tell him how I felt about him ordering me around and then I stomped down the hall to show him how I felt about him ordering me around. I did the last without looking at him, because when I gave him the look, he stopped looking ticked and started grinning.
Once in my walk-in closet, I slapped hangers across the rail, looking for a dress that wouldn’t make Benny hard (knowing this was a fruitless endeavor; I was me, I was about impact, and apparently, he really liked me and my impact) and wondering why I agreed to have dinner with him.
I wondered, but I knew.
He was being persuasive in the way only Ben could be, which was bound to be successful.
In other words, he was fighting his own good fight and he was a lot better at it.
A date with Benny.
I couldn’t say no.
I wanted to. I even fought it. But I caved.
I also wanted to make my boundaries clear by not lying in bed with him and watching TV.
But did I manage that?
No.
Instead, I not only lay in bed with him, I lay cuddled in bed with him, Benny playing with my hair, which felt so nice, I couldn’t describe how nice it felt. I even eventually fell asleep against him watching TV, Benny playing with my hair.
The good fight was not working, being quiet, giving in to get my way in the end. Because giving in meant being around Benny who was showing he was a lot more than gentle, could take direction, do the dishes, and make a great pizza.
He was protective. He was honest. He had control. I mean, seriously, what went down with Nat? It was a miracle he kept hold of his shit through that. I’d been in my own tizzy, but I’d watched him and I knew what it took for him to do that. It took a lot. He still kept his shit.
And my usual fight of being loud and full of attitude didn’t work either because Ben thought it was “cute.”
I was screwed.
And I knew just how screwed I was when I found the exact dress I was going to wear to dinner with Benny tomorrow night. And then I found and grabbed the shoes.
A dangerous dress.
Straight-up treacherous shoes.
I still grabbed them, carefully folded the dress, and put it and the shoebox in my wheelie overnight bag.
I also grabbed other shit that did not say, “Back off, Benny Bianchi,” but said, “Do you mind if I have a drawer in your bathroom?”
God, I was on such rocky ground, it was like experiencing an earthquake.
I just couldn’t find it in me to fight my way to solid ground.
Making matters worse, I grabbed a dress for that day that was out of necessity, since I really didn’t have anything that wasn’t about flash and impact and I had no choice.
But that didn’t mean it wasn’t one of my choices that had more impact than most. It was just more subtle.
I was totally insane and totally going to hell.
Knowing this didn’t mean I didn’t move to my bathroom to change.
Asheeka had been over that morning and Asheeka had done the whole shower thing.
This was, of course, after Ben woke me, got me to the bathroom, was sweet, gentle, and gave me a lip touch.
The good news about this was that finally I’d woken up with less pain. It was there, but it wasn’t as bad.
I always woke up a little hazy, even before I’d been shot, and I kept the haze for a while. But today, it was better, more like my normal hazy. I knew it and I knew it made Benny feel relief, not only because he showed it with grins and lip touches, but he’d told me flat-out.
Asheeka took off to get to church and Benny put me in his SUV.
But he didn’t take me directly to my place. He took me directly to Glazed and Infused where he bought two dozen donuts.
This was not just for Cal, Vi, and the girls.
This was because Ben knew I loved donuts. My sweet tooth knew no time restrictions so it reared its ugly head in the mornings (and the rest of the day).
He was fighting the good fight and he was so much better at it.
He also bought two coffees and opened the box the minute we got back into his SUV.
I wasn’t proud of it, and I was trying to forget I did it (even though it happened less than half an hour ago), but I ate three of those donuts on the way to my apartment.
What was done was done.
Now I was doing worse.
It was September but still warm, so I’d grabbed an oversized, royal-blue tee tunic dress with three-quarter sleeves and a short skirt that fit tight. The top was blousy and fell off my shoulder, the waist cinched in so the tunic top could flow slightly over the skintight skirt. It was the kind of dress that made a girl feel good wearing it because she knew a man might get hard seeing her in it.
I was no longer on dangerous ground.
I was playing with fire.
The problem with this was that I liked Vi, I loved Cal, and I was looking forward to seeing them both when I wasn’t running for my life or bleeding (near) to death. I was also looking forward to meeting Vi’s daughters, seeing the family Cal found himself after years of drifting through life when shit went down in his that was too painful to even think about, and that shit didn’t even happen to me.
And I was Francesca Concetti. So I wasn’t going to do it in jeans or yoga pants.
This was the least sexy thing I had that wasn’t one of my business outfits (and those had short, tight skirts too).
There was nothing for it.
Even with the mental war I’d waged over the dress, I didn’t consider not strapping on the stiletto-heeled bronze sandals.
This was because, unless I was working out, I didn’t do flats. Ever. Not with jeans (of which I only owned two pairs and wore them rarely). Not with shorts (all of which were the dressy kind; my brand of casual was also about flash and impact). Certainly not with a dress.
I might have been shot, but a lot worse would have to happen to me before I’d consider giving up my heels.
Strangely, straightening from the bed after putting on my shoes, with my hair big, makeup on, in a dress that looked hot but was comfortable, and my usual heels, I felt better than I had in weeks.
Finally, I felt me.
I closed my suitcase, put its wheels to the carpet, and rolled it out, walking down the hall with more pep in my step than I’d had in ages, calling, “Okay, done with that. And I saw we’re running out of Fanta Grape, so on the way home, we should stop by…”
I trailed off and stopped dead when I hit the living room/dining room area and saw Ben in the corner of the living room, standing by a set of shelves that I had not yet packed.
He turned to me and then he stopped dead, but I didn’t really notice it because I saw what was in his hand: a heavy, expensive, beautiful glass frame that I knew contained an eight-by-ten photo of me with the Bianchis at Christmastime years before.
We were all in front of the tree. Carm was home with her husband and kids so we were all scrunched together to fit in the frame. Manny, Theresa, and Carm’s husband, Ken, were even kneeling in order to fit us all in
.
Everyone was smiling so big, it wasn’t hard to read every one of us was laughing.
And we were.
The thing about that picture was, Vinnie Junior had claimed Carm’s little toddler girl and was holding her in his arms, her little girl leg tucked to his chest, her little girl hand to his throat, his arms tucking her safe and tight to his tall body.
This left me free.
And I remembered that Christmas. I remembered taking that photo. I remembered that it seemed entirely natural that Benny and I would find each other, and we did. I could not say if I was the one to make the move, or he was, it was that natural. We just gravitated to each other.
So in that photo, everyone scrunched together, I had my front tucked to the side of Benny’s front, my arms tight around his middle, head on his shoulder. He had one arm around my waist, the other arm tight around my shoulders, and you could even see his fingers at my top, squeezing in.
If anyone looked at that picture who didn’t know, they would easily think I was Benny’s, not Vinnie’s. Carm and Vinnie Senior were between us. I was nowhere near Vinnie.
But I was tucked tight to Benny.
That was the only photo of Vinnie I kept out on display. A photo that included all of the Bianchis.
And I kept it out on the shelves in my living room that stood beside my TV.
This meant I saw that photo every day.
My eyes flew to Benny’s and I started, “I—”
I didn’t get another word out.
If I had it in me to guess, I still would not have been able to guess what I would read in his expression when he saw that picture.
But when I looked at his face, I knew he wasn’t thinking about the picture.
And I let go of the handle of my bag and was able to retreat three steps when he set the picture aside and rushed me, acting on what he was thinking.
It was only three steps because he caught me, turned me, and I had no choice but to press against the wall because his body wasn’t giving me one.
I looked up to see his face right there, a look in his eyes that made my stomach dip in a way I’d never felt in my life.
“Ben—”
His hands came to me, one at my hip, the other at the side of my neck, and he cut me off to ask, “Are you serious right now?”
“I—”
His voice was a growl that made my knees get weak when he stated, “’Cause I’m serious right now.”
Suddenly, I loved that he was serious, even though I wasn’t entirely certain what he was even talking about.
“Baby,” I whispered and I had no fucking clue why.
“Yeah,” he whispered back, his fingers on both hands digging in, his face getting closer. “You’re serious right now.”
That was when he kissed me.
No lip touch this time. He kissed me. Fingers digging in, mouth opening up, tongue thrusting inside, kissed me.
I didn’t make that first protest. Not even one.
No.
I tasted the hot, sweet magnificence of Benito Bianchi, felt his hands on me, smelled his aftershave. My hands lifted to his neck and slid up, diving into his thick, fantastic hair, and I held him to me.
When I did, Benny tangled his tongue with mine in a delicious way that made my toes curl in my sandals. He slid one hand in my hair, the other one over my ass to cup it, hauling me into him.
I pressed closer.
Benny kissed me harder.
God, he felt good. He tasted good.
I hadn’t had a kiss since the last one Benny gave me.
I was drunk then, but I still remember it was good.
This one was better. Much better. Too much better. Too dangerous.
Too amazing.
I had to have more.
So I pressed closer and whimpered that need into his mouth.
This had the unfortunate result of Benny breaking the kiss, his hand moving from my ass so he could wrap his arm around my waist, his other hand gliding down to wrap around the side of my neck again. He dropped his forehead to mine.
“Jesus, shit,” he muttered, and I opened my eyes to see his closed.
God, he was beautiful—close, far, eyes closed, annoying me, being gentle with me, being protective of me, after kissing me.
Always.
I slid my hands down to where I could press my palms in the muscle of his neck under his ears, but I kept my fingers in that fabulous hair.
His eyes opened.
More beauty.
“I hurt you?”
And more beauty.
“No,” I whispered.
“That dress, baby,” he whispered back as explanation for the kiss.
“It’s the least sexy one I have.”
His eyes closed again and he repeated, “Jesus, shit.”
Seeing as I’d lost my mind with that kiss right then, I wanted to smile. I felt it fighting inside to get loose. And I wanted this because it felt so fucking good to know all I had to do was put on a hot dress and I could make Benito Bianchi lose control.
It wasn’t a healthy thought. It wasn’t even rational, considering my frame of mind about all things Benny and me.
But I had it.
I beat it back, but just barely.
“You said you wouldn’t kiss me until Monday,” I reminded him, and his eyes opened.
“I didn’t know that on Sunday I’d get that dress.”
“I really don’t do jeans,” I shared.
“Just sayin’, tesorina, I’ll wanna kiss you, even if you’re in jeans.”
“I’m getting that sense,” I muttered, my gaze drifting to his lips.
“Baby,” he called, and I again focused on his eyes. “That picture.”
With those two words, I was torn painfully out of my happy just-been-kissed-by-Benny-Bianchi zone and thrown into my usual zone. A zone I didn’t like much normally, but hated right then.
I dropped my chin and pressed my forehead to his chest, saying, “Don’t.”
“You were mine, even when you were his.”
He was right. It was whacked. It didn’t even make sense.
But I’d always loved Benny. We were tight. We got along. Of all Vinnie’s family, I was closest with Benny. It made me happy being around him.
I was Vinnie’s, but with each passing week as Vinnie did stupid shit, I was also drifting away.
And I was Benny’s. Then when we lost Vinnie, I fucked up and he pushed me away.
I closed my eyes tight and slid my hands down to his chest, curling my fingers in his tee.
“I gotta say this.” He was speaking into my hair.
“I’m not ready.”
His fingers at my neck gave me a squeeze. “This has to be said, cara. I get you’re vulnerable right now. That kiss came as a surprise…to both of us…but what I gotta say isn’t about that.”
“What do you gotta say?”
“I’m pissed at him.”
That was such a surprise, I tipped my head back and looked into his eyes. “What?”
“Vinnie. I’m pissed at him. Spent years pissed at you so I wouldn’t feel the way I feel right now about my brother. I look at that picture…” He shook his head. “What came back raw, after seein’ it clear what I did to you, why I did it, so I wouldn’t feel how I’m feelin’ about him right now…I look at that picture and I’m fuckin’ pissed he didn’t feel what I felt when we took that photo—Christmas, family, laughin’—and know he had everything in his life he needed.”
I let his tee go and my hands slid right back up to curl around his neck, hating every word he said, at the same time, but for a different reason, loving them.
And he was sharing. Honest. Putting it right out there.
It was my experience not a lot of men shared—not about their feelings, certainly not what was behind them. Vinnie hadn’t. He bottled everything up. He never talked to me about important shit, which meant I never understood when he did stupid shit.
Benny sharing to
uched me…deep.
Digging in there…deeper.
“Ben,” I whispered.
“Should have my ass kicked, not givin’ this emotion to him at the time. But I didn’t. So, not only did it mean I fucked up and hurt you, it feels like I lost him all over again.”
I held on tighter and got up on my toes to get close and kept whispering when I said, “Honey. Stop.”
“How?” he asked.
I didn’t have a clue.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But there’s no purpose to you being pissed, Benny. He’s gone. You can’t change anything.”
“I know that, babe, and it doesn’t help.”
“Then how’s this?” I went on. “You get it. You get what’s in that picture is everything in life you need. And Vinnie making that lesson clear, you’ll never forget it. It sucks how he gave you that lesson, Ben, but at least he gave you something and you cannot deny it was important.”
He held my eyes as his hand at my waist slid up and he started idly stroking my side.
It felt nice. Casual. Natural. Benny.
And the ground under my feet continued to rock.
I just didn’t care.
“She’s sweet, spicy, and smart,” he muttered, his lips tipping up slightly, his words and the lip tip telling me he was letting go of the heavy.
I gave a slight shrug.
“That was a great Christmas,” he said quietly.
“Yeah,” I agreed just as quietly.
“Miss those cookies you make, the ones with the dough around the Hershey’s Kisses.”
“Chocolate-filled snowballs.”
“Yeah.”
Yeah.
Oh yeah.
I knew he liked them. I knew this because, if he heard word I was making them, he was over, sitting on a stool at the bar, shooting the shit with me while I made them. And he’d also eat them warm, the second I finished rolling them in powdered sugar and putting them in the tin.
And I knew right then this was why I made them every year.
Two batches.
Sometimes three.
I was so going to hell.
“We’re connected,” he pointed out the obvious.
“I know.”
The Promise (The 'Burg Series) Page 12