Page 102 of Wicked Roses
Emotion wells up inside me until I throw myself onto him, arms wrapping around his neck. I bury my face into his chest and indulge in the warmth of his body heat. His solid frame that’s always there to support me. His arms circle around me in return. We don’t let go for so long that Pepa purrs and nudges at my hip.
Salvatore’s returned me my most cherished possession—Nana Rose’s necklace that she gifted me before she passed. The necklace has been repaired like new, as beautiful and delicate as ever. Wearing it again for even just a few minutes uplifts my spirits.
Happiness fills my heart, overwhelming me to the point I can hardly speak. Once again, Salvatore has proven he’ll do whatever is necessary to set my world right. Every moment since my necklace was torn from my throat and stolen from me has been wrong. It’s been torture for me, as though I’ve no longer been myself.
With the rose pendant returned to me, I am.
He gets me.
I can’t keep my hands off him. My thank you comes in another enthusiastic round of sex. I ride Salvatore until we’re both shattering from powerful orgasms that make us see stars.
The rest of the holiday is spent like this—relaxing in his loft as we make Christmas our own.
* * *
“You should sleep in,” Salvatore says, kissing my cheek. “Enjoy your last few days before you return to work.”
I smile from where I lay in bed, propped up by pillows, Pepa beside me. “Maybe. You know I start getting restless if I laze around too long. I should go for a run.”
“Nobody runs the day after Christmas, Phi. You’ve got this whole loft to yourself. Relax and enjoy it.”
“That sounds like an invitation to redecorate.”
My suggestion earns a look of foreboding from him. The loft is still his man cave, all leather furniture and blank walls of exposed brick. Salvatore lives like he’s moving out at any moment. Few personal touches and signs that it’s his place.Hotelsare more homey. If the clean, musky scent of his aftershave didn’t linger in the air I’d question if he lived here at all.
He’s always been like this—his apartment at Sky Tower so many years ago had been the same. Even for a minimalist like me.
Salvatore kisses me again, opting for my lips this time. “New rule. No redecorating.”
“A houseplant and candle or two wouldn’t kill you.”
“You’ve known me for half your life, Phi. You know I don’t like living things.”
“I’m a living thing.”
“I’ve made an exception for you—andyour cats.”
Pepa nestles deeper into my side as if she understands she’s included.
Salvatore orders me to relax one last time before he leaves. I’ve insisted he spend the day with me, but he says he has urgent matters he has to handle at the club.
Once I’m alone, I decide rather than stay in bed, I’ll move into the living room. I put on a rerun ofHousewives of South Valleyand pad into the kitchen wearing one of Salvatore’s button-down shirts. It falls halfway down my thighs and the sleeves are so long I have to roll them up, but it smells just like him.
Something tells me he’ll like the surprise of me wearing it when he gets home.
My headful of thick curls are pinned up in a head wrap. I’ll use the morning to deep condition since I’ll be spending the day in the loft. For as much as Salvatore bitches about ‘living things’ and ‘redecorating’, he’s let me invade his bathroom cabinets. Most of what’s in them belong to me—hair and skincare products.
We haven’t talked about what’s going to happen when I eventually move out... or where we stand once I return to the real world. So far, we’ve managed to exist in an alternate reality in a lot of ways. We haven’t discussed the future or how we’ll possibly reconcile our polar opposite careers.
It’s no surprise we’ve avoided it.
Reality often shows us how doomed we are. Though we have strong feelings for each other, he’s a mafia crime boss. I’m an assistant district attorney. We couldn’t be more ill-fated. The election is happening next year. How can I possibly run for district attorney when my mafia boyfriend is one of the most dangerous criminals in the city?
Yet, I don’t know how I’ll choose.
My stomach roils whenever I think about it. I calm myself with another sip of espresso.
The lazy vibe in Salvatore’s loft comes to an abrupt end. Thunderous footsteps rumble in the hall outside, reminiscent of a stampede. I’m barely registering the sudden commotion when the front door flings open and a group of men file inside.