by Chelle Bliss
“He’s not that kind of designer, bella. His focus is on developmental education and urban community centers. You think I’d send some bougie asshole into your center to make it look ridiculous?” He glanced toward the kids when the a cappella singing grew louder. They’d begun to add claps and a few foot stomps to provide more rhythm. “I want your kids to feel comfortable.” He faced me again, a small smile stretching his mouth. “And I want you to be happy.”
Damn you, Johnny Carelli.
Why did he have to say things like that? I dropped my arms but balled my fists, trying to keep from reaching up and hugging him. It would send the wrong message to my kids…and to him, but saints preserve me, that was the nicest thing he’d ever said to me.
“Johnny…” I tried, a little embarrassed when my words came out clogged and thick.
“Bella,” he interrupted and took my hand. “I’d do anything for you. Anything at all.”
I could only stare up at him. My mind went blank of anything but the glint in his eyes and how dark the pupils were. My God, he was beautiful and his mouth looked so soft, so inviting. He was a scoundrel, and he drove home that point by choosing that exact moment to tuck the center of his fat bottom lip between his teeth. Something I’d seen him do a thousand times as a kid. Something that never failed to elicit an automatic primal reaction from my body.
I swallowed, pulling my gaze upward, and without really knowing why I did it, I took a step toward him. Like I was drawn by something I couldn’t name, wanting him with a fierceness I hadn’t felt in ten long, long years.
“I…want…” It was all I could manage before I remembered where and who I was. Then I stepped back, blinking, bumping into the receptionist’s desk in my hurry to put space between us. The action was so fast that the bouquet of flowers began to topple, and Johnny lunged for it, shooting out one of his long arms to catch it.
He held himself close, with one hand on the vase of flowers, the other near my arm on the desk. “Got ’em,” he said, looking at me, his breath heavy and warm over my forehead as he spoke. God, he smelled good. So good, in fact, that I had to close my eyes, helpless to do anything but inhale that rich, decadent scent of his expensive cologne. “You good, bella?”
“Yes,” I answered, opening my eyes when I felt the soft touch of Johnny’s thumb smoothing down my cheek. “What are you…” I frowned, straightening where I stood.
“Sorry.” He stepped back. He didn’t put much space between us, but it was enough that his scent didn’t make me feel drunk. “You know,” he started, the humor back in his voice, “you never told me what the second thing was.”
It took me a moment to understand his meaning, but the memory of the last time we saw each other came back to me and so did my hurried explanation of why I’d fallen for him to make an excuse for saying he had no honor.
“I didn’t.”
Johnny’s smile was wider now and more relaxed, as though he was happy I was playing along with him.
“And I’m pretty sure I never promised I would.”
He jutted his chin, motioning to the flowers. “Those were pretty expensive, and I did rescue them. Humor me. What was the second thing?”
He laughed when I shook my head. “You are in need of constant affirmation, aren’t you?”
“What can I say? I’m a needy guy.”
“Oh, that is without a doubt.” Again, I crossed my arms, pretending I was more annoyed with his question than with him before I released an exaggerated breath. “Fine, if you must know. It was…your eyes.”
Johnny squinted, as though he didn’t trust my answer, head cocking to the side. “My eyes?”
“That’s what I said.”
“My dark, boring eyes? Dario says I have shit-brown eyes.”
Helpless to hold back, I laughed, remembering Johnny’s cousin and how often the kid I knew would say and do whatever struck him. He never gave much thought to anything at all. No wonder he’d landed in prison.
“No,” I told Johnny, remembering all those stolen nights away from my uncle, away from both our families and the lives and responsibilities forced on us. “Dark and fathomless. Endless. I remember wanting to stare forever into those dark eyes to see just how lost I could get in them.”
He watched me for a few seconds, mouth opening and closing like he wasn’t quite sure what he wanted to say or how to get the words out. Finally, he inhaled and spoke on a soft, exhale of, “Why, bella?” His voice was gentle, tone a little breathless.
“Because, Johnny.” I looked him in the eyes, lost now in the memory, in the same color, the same depth that had never failed to intoxicate me. For a second, I forgot where I was or why I was admitting anything to him. “I thought maybe if I got lost and you got lost, we’d find a way to anchor each other.”
The second the admission came, I realized I’d said too much.
It was too honest.
Too real for the moment.
The heartache was always there, waiting for one of us to uncover it.
I’d managed a decade with it buried in a shallow grave. It was always just below the surface. From the expression on his face, I got the impression that wound had been exorcised, buried so deep, only God could resurrect it. And with one small admission, I’d done what only the Almighty could.
“Bella,” he started but stopped when I looked away from him.
Too much. Too real and we both knew it.
“Well,” he tried again, clearing his throat. He pulled my attention back to him by grabbing my hand, forcing me to look up. I was sure he’d kiss my knuckles. He had the night after our dinner with the Garcias. But it seemed Johnny was upping his game. He was sweetening the pot. “I hope you enjoy the flowers, Sammy. They aren’t nearly as beautiful as you.” Then he leaned forward, touching his lips to my cheek. Maybe he would have stayed there, just kissing my cheek, pressing his chest to mine, his palm to my back, moving us together like it was the most natural, necessary position for our bodies to be in. Maybe he would have gone in for another kiss, making a play for my lips. But just as I looked up, a loud roar of laughter sounded at our side, and my kids released a resounding squeal of noise that sounded like a perfectly pitched chorus of “Woo-hoo!”
Johnny stepped back, laughing at their catcalls and a few refrains of “Oh, Miss S!” and one even louder, “He don’t look like Jesus!” before they were pushed back into the conference room.
“You should go,” I told him, my face flushing hot as the kids went on hooting at us through the glass wall.
“Yeah,” Johnny said, pointing at a few of the boys. “I think I will.” But before he left, the man took my hand and kissed it, squeezing my fingers before he turned to leave. His steps were swift but calm. His stride was easy, but his back was stiff, his shoulders tight, and I felt somehow guilty for making him look so on edge.
He was almost to the door before he stopped, glancing at me one last time. “You know, Sammy, you weren’t the only one who found an anchor.”
And then he was gone, leaving me with nothing but the hooting and hollering of those teasing, giddy kids and the memory of something I wasn’t sure could ever be repaired.
6
Johnny
Sofia, my sister Cara’s high school friend, ran Così Buono like it was her home kitchen and not a five-star restaurant. The food was the best in the city, the wine was the richest, and there was always a private table waiting for our family anytime we wanted to celebrate. Tonight, we had a reason.
Dario was home.
I sat with Cara and her husband, Kiel, along with our cousins, around a large table at the front of the place, drinking too much wine. Smoke, or Dimitri, as my aunt and uncle named him, and Dario argued with their sister Antonia about which of them had been the first to successfully sneak out of their father’s palatial mansion without any of his guards or their perceptive mother ever finding out.
“It wasn’t you, mimma,” Dario told his little sister, his voice low with gravel in it
that hadn’t been there five years before when he’d been sent to Rikers. Doing time had worn him down a bit, but now Dario was back. And, God willing, being back and staying out would take the edge from him.
This dinner, Smoke had told us, might be the start of it. He wanted things to be normal for Dario.
Guess that meant making him feel as though he hadn’t spent a day away from them.
Antonia was doing her best with that. “You chooch, it was me,” she told her brother, the frown showing everyone around the table that she was offended by his statement. But she said it with a laugh in her tone, something she always did. “I’ve got the scar on my leg to prove it!”
My little cousin was beautiful, like all Carelli women, and no one ever really took her seriously—until they were across a desk from her, negotiating a contract. Something I found out a few weeks back when I tried to sweet-talk my way into a lower rent for the space Sammy needed while her center was being renovated. Antonia had turned me down flat. “I love Sammy, but friends or not, family or not,” she’d informed me, “business is business. Pay me what I ask, or I’ll rent the space to someone else.”
“Toni, I’m telling you,” Dario tried, leaning on his elbows as his sister glared at him. “You think Papa didn’t know? Or Micky and Nick? They told Papa the second you and Cara here hit the city.” He nodded to my sister, winking at her when her mouth dropped open. “Papa had Micky and his boys following you two that whole weekend.” He nodded at the waitress when she poured him another glass of wine and immediately drank half the contents. He glanced at Smoke, looking to his older brother to confirm the truth. When the man nodded, not seeming the least bit sorry to disappoint his kid sister, Antonia slapped her hand to the table, making a noise that sounded like a laugh and a scream all at once.
“Son of a bitch!” she said, bouncing back against her chair, ignoring the laughs she got as she and Cara leaned across Kiel, mumbling about whatever shit they’d done that they were only now discovering their fathers had long known about.
“Yeah,” Dario said, not bothering to stifle his laugh. “They knew about the boys from Long Island with the ten-inch—”
“That’s enough,” Cara interrupted when Kiel leaned forward, trying to hear what Dario was saying, despite Antonia tossing her napkin at him to keep him quiet.
“It was a long time ago,” I explained to my brother-in-law, who only grinned, taking the kiss my sister gave him as she excused herself from the table to run to the bathroom. Antonia sulked with her own glass of red, shooting mock glares at her brother, who kept a grin on his face.
“This is good,” Smoke said to me, a whiskey tumbler hanging loosely from his fingers. Of all of my uncle’s kids, Smoke was the smartest and, I had to admit, the coolest. Uncle Sonny was younger than my father, and he’d never been interested in the level of involvement in the family business that Papa ran. He preferred a simpler life, running more legitimate businesses. Though, there were elements in his dealings that did require things that most folks might frown upon. Smoke handled the bulk of those dealings now that Uncle Sonny was retired, and since Dario was out, he’d probably give Smoke a hand.
“The fighting?” I asked Smoke, spotting Cara talking to Sofia at the hostess desk through the glass doors separating our private dining room from the rest of the restaurant.
“All of us being together,” he said, his gaze shooting to his two younger siblings as Antonia moved between Dario and Kiel to share my brother-in-law’s phone. I heard “Keleu” and knew they were looking at pictures of my baby nephew. “It’s been a long time since we were all together.”
“When will Dante be back?” I asked, wondering if the youngest of Uncle Sonny’s kids would even be welcome back in Bronxville. He’d been an idiot, trying to run drugs out of Dario’s legitimate bar. But Dante was a spoiled kid, always had been. Instead of making him do the bid, Dario took the blame, serving the time that belonged to his kid brother.
“Hmmm,” Smoke said, swirling the whiskey in his glass before he downed it. He barely got the tumbler back onto the table before the pretty blond waitress replaced it, shooting an eager smile to my younger cousin as she walked away. He appreciated the way she did that, but then he answered me. “Papa’s caved to Mama. Dante lands next week from Pistoia after five years working at our uncle Anthony’s vineyard.”
“Think it helped?” I asked, calling off the waitress when she asked to top off my nearly full glass.
“I think five years in the hot Tuscan sun fertilizing soil, pruning vines, and picking grapes for virtually no money at all, eighteen hours a day, under the supervision of a man who doesn’t believe any man under the age of twenty-five should be doing anything but learning how to work a vineyard, is bound to teach humility.” Smoke took another swig of his whiskey then shrugged, glancing at his brother and sister as they watched a video on Kiel’s phone of the baby. “If it doesn’t, then there’s no hope for that asshole.”
“We all do stupid shit when we’re kids, man.” God knew I had. Sometimes I thought there’d be no making up for the destruction I’d left behind when I lied to Sammy. As I watched Sofia and my sister through the doors, I thought maybe I didn’t deserve forgiveness.
“There’s a big difference between fucking an off-limits girl,” Smoke said, and I jerked my attention back to him, “and fucking over your blood.”
I had no idea how he knew about Sammy and me. I thought Cara had been the only one who knew anything about us, but Smoke was smooth on his worst days. Hell, he got the name Smoke by boxing in college, because in under two rounds, that’s exactly what he’d do to his opponents—smoke them. Later, when he went to work for his father, he earned a reputation for picking up info that gave him an upper hand. He was a guy who knew shit, and that shit led to him smoking the competition. Besides, if memory served, Smoke spent an entire summer his senior year of college in the city interning for some Wall Street big shot. He’d dated Sofia back then, and Sofia was Cara’s best friend. Like an idiot, I’d told Cara about Sammy and me. Two and two almost always made four in our family.
“Maybe you’re right,” I told my cousin, hoping, for Dante’s sake, that he’d actually learned his lesson. His parents may be forgiving, maybe even his sister and brother Dario were, but by the way just mentioning the kid had made Smoke’s jaw clench and his grip tighten on his tumbler, I got the feeling his forgiveness would be harder to earn.
Smoke shrugged, dismissing the topic by taking another drink, but then his attention caught across the room. And I followed his gaze, narrowing my eyes when I spotted Liam Shane standing a little too close to Sofia and Cara at the hostess stand. That asshole was always sniffing around women who hadn’t invited his attention. It had gotten him in hot water with his uncle Ian, head of the McKinney family, but that hadn’t stopped him from making messes for his uncle to clean up. He’d already knocked up a young girl back in Ireland and was rumored to have a wife somewhere that no one could find.
Next to me, Dario shot the man a glare, and I got the feeling there was something more to that look than just Shane standing too close to Cara. My cousin curled his fist, looked ready to jump from his spot, but Smoke cleared his throat, catching Dario’s attention, and he grabbed his wine, downing what was left of it in one swig.
I made to stand, ready to have a word with the bastard about leaving, but it seemed my brother-in-law was quicker. Kiel shot out of his chair, a quick smile on his face, and made it to his wife and her friend, forcing his hand out to Shane for a shake. When the guy took too long to take it, Kiel clapped him on the shoulder, escorting him out of the restaurant with two of Sofia’s beefier dishwashers following behind him.
“I like this husband of Cara’s,” Smoke said, and I glanced at my cousin, grinning.
“Si. He’ll do.”
My cousin’s smirk widened, and he moved his head again, motioning back toward the front of the restaurant. “Your night just got better,” he said, eyebrows arching up like he thought I
should pay attention.
I turned, spotting Cara walking back in, pulling on Sammy’s hand as she reluctantly trailed behind her while Kiel ushered both women into the private dining room. I didn’t even think about what I was doing. I stood, jabbing Dario in the shoulder, ignoring my cousin when he looked up at me. “Move over, si?” I said, walking over to greet Sammy. “Bella.” She didn’t flinch when I leaned down to kiss her cheek or argue when I led her toward the table, right to the seat Dario had vacated.
“Samantha Nicola,” my cousin said, his deep, gravelly tone lifting almost an octave as he watched her sit down, her cheeks turning pink. She never liked being the center of attention.
“Dario, it’s good to see you.” She turned toward him, kissing his cheeks like they were old friends, and the tease in my cousin’s tone vanished. She greeted him like she always had when we were kids, not like some felon who’d been locked up in one of the roughest penitentiaries in the country. He seemed to appreciate that. “I told Cara I didn’t want to interrupt…”
“And I told you,” Cara said, “you aren’t interrupting. We’re all friends and family here.” She called over a waitress and pointed to Sammy. “Can you grab the order she placed in the kitchen and bring it to the table? She’ll eat with us. Oh, and bring her a glass. She drinks red too.”
“Well, I really don’t…”
“You know how stubborn Cara is, bella,” I told Sammy, leaning toward her to be heard over the loud conversation that had started back up when Antonia challenged Smoke about how often he got caught sneaking girls into his room.
To which, the man told his little sister, “I’ve never been caught doing anything.”
“Just like her brother,” Sammy said, finally turning her head to look at me. There was a slow, sweet grin on her lips as she moved her gaze over my face.