Chapter 1-3
849 Words
Gio
I can’t believe I just told the Milano girl I have nightmares.
It’s not something I’ve said aloud before. Who the f**k would I tell, anyway? Junior would tell me to man up and get over it. Paolo would probably punch me where the bullet went in and then say, “See? You’re fine.”
And my ma? She doesn’t even know I got shot. We keep the women out of our s**t show.
But no, I haven’t been the same since. And it’s not that I didn’t heal—although even that was touch and go for a while there. But I can’t stop thinking about dying now.
Everywhere I look, I see people who could die today without being prepared. A guy crosses the street without looking and boom! He gets hit by a cab. Or some poor sot has an aneurism and croaks while out getting the mail.
No chance to say goodbye. To wrap up loose ends.
That could’ve been me.
And everywhere I go, I also see potential shooters. I’m looking over my shoulder for the bratva assholes, even though I know the saga’s over. They kidnapped my sister, but she married the bastard, and we’ve made an easy truce.
That doesn’t stop me from thinking every hand in a pocket is reaching for a g*n. Seeing shadows jump off the walls at me.
I came here today to check on the girl. That part was true. But I also wanted to come back to the place. Face my demons. Make sure I didn’t break out in a cold sweat when I was outside the door where I got shot. Didn’t act like a f*****g p***y just because I took a piece of lead for my family.
Good news: I didn’t.
Bad news: I’m not sure what I’m living for.
I mean, I have this second chance.
I didn’t die. I’m a dead man walking. So why does my life suddenly feel so f*****g empty?
I sit and watch Marissa bustle around, closing the place up. She’s young—whole life ahead of her. She’s still living for something.
Rather fervently, too.
I suddenly want to know what it is. I want to know all her deep, hidden secrets. Her desires. She darts a few looks at me. I make her nervous. A little self-conscious. But I also make her blush, which makes my d**k twitch.
She’s beautiful but hasn’t figured it out yet. Or downplays it because she doesn’t want the attention from men. She’s young, smart, and extremely capable. She can’t be over twenty-five, and she’s been running this place for several years. I seem to recall her grandmother bragging that she went to culinary school.
Lotta good it did her. She’s still stuck in her family business, doing the thing that’s expected of her.
Just like me.
I get up and leave my plate on the table for her to pick up. If she’d been nicer, I would’ve brought it up to the counter, especially considering she’s trying to close the place, and I’m the asshole still here. But she kept my hundred and played b***h.
So, she can pick up after me.
I stroll to the door, forgetting my swagger for a moment when the scene on the sidewalk replays for me. The smell of my own blood fills my nostrils. I see the face of Ivan, the bratva asshole who set us up. The murder in Junior’s eyes when he pulled his g*n. I hear Paolo’s panic when he catches me.
A touch on my arm brings me back. I look down into wide sea-blue eyes.
Just like in the nightmares, only this time her face is soft.
She doesn’t say anything for a moment. There’s compassion in her gaze. She understands me. “I tried to warn you.” Tears pop into her eyes. I wonder if her nightmares are like mine only the other way. Does she see me getting shot over and over again, night after night?
I loop an arm around her waist and pull her in for an embrace. “I know you did.”
Fuck, she’s enchanting.
“Thank you, Marissa.” I will her to receive my sincerity.
She hesitates, then brings her arms up around my neck, like one of the dreams. She smells like coffee and sweet cream. I want to lick her skin to see if she tastes as good as she smells.
“I’m glad you made it, Gio. I thought you were dead.” Her voice is low and husky. I’ve been telling myself she’s too young for me, and she is, but everything about her registers as a woman who knows what she’s about.
“Yeah. Me, too, doll.” I drop a kiss on the top of her head and try to ignore the softness of her breasts pressed up against my ribs.
How much I want to kiss her—which isn’t like me at all. I’m more into f**k ‘em hard and smack their asses when they walk out the door.
Kissing isn’t really my gig.
But she saw my death. My near death. The moment that changed everything. She was part of it. So, I’m imagining some kind of connection.
But that’s stupid.
I shouldn’t go assigning meaning to things just to try to understand them.
I got shot.
Period.
It’s over.
Time to start living again.
- Writer
