Page 32 of Heart of Sin
I’ve insisted on staying at my penthouse in the Vittoria for her birthday. The ocassion’s worth nothing but the best, despite her protests.
Eventually, we dress. I take Tasha shopping. I buy her whatever the hell she wants. A bachelor like me, years into my career in the mafia, I’ve got the cash to blow even if I’m not the flashiest guy.
But today’s different. Tasha comes from a background that’s rough. I know what that’s like firsthand. To this day she still carries the weight of her family on her back. Why not treat her if I can?
“Sexy as fuck,” I groan when she struts out in a pair of fuck-me style pumps. I don’t even need to see the price tag, though I know they’re expensive as hell.
My eyes scan over her, starting at her gorgeous face and admiring every luscious curve of her hourglass figure.
Worth every damn penny.
“One condition. You’re wearing those for me later.Onlythose.”
She smirks. “I knew you were plotting.”
“Kitty cat, I’m only human. Gimme a break.”
I curl my arm around her hips, and we spend another hour or two browsing more shops. Tasha insists we take a break from the shopping spree and drags me into a photo booth. Unexpected, but something that turns out to be fun for us.
It’s no secret I’m a huge guy—when you’re 6’5” and 240 lbs, you don’t fit in regular people spaces sometimes. The photo booth’s one of those spaces, but we make it work. I cram myself inside, my broad shoulders touching the booth wall-to-wall. I sit Tasha in my lap and snap away.
Normal pics. Ones where we’re smiling, trying to look like an attractive couple.
Then come the silly ones. Tasha makes a fish face. I blow out my cheeks and tug on my ears and cheeks. We both do the stink eye. I cheat and do bunny ears. Then Tasha cheats and kisses me on the cheek as the camera flashes and I’m trying a fake tough guy face.
We exit the booth with bellies aching from laughter and a long strip of photos. Tasha snatches most of them before I even realize it.
That’s when it occurs to me why she wanted to do this in the first place—the photos are for her secret scrapbook. I know this because I catch her slipping them in her purse. My heart warms up at the sight. When she glances over in paranoia, I pretend like I haven’t noticed, checking my phone.
She smiles and reaches for my hand. “Want to grab some ice cream?”
“Ice cream sounds good,” I say, chuckling.
“What’s funny?”
“Nothing. Just glad you’re enjoying your day, birthday girl.”
She tucks herself into my side and we set off, my arm slung around her shoulders. My answer’s true, but also covering up the other reason—Tasha ‘I-don’t-date-or-do-relationships’ Henson has let down her walls, and she hasn’t even realized it.
She’s my girl and I’m her guy.
Work is hell. Vic puts his foot down on time off. No more trips out of town for the time being as some tensions rise in Jersey between our family and one of the crews the Lovato has in our surrounding area. For the next few weeks, I’m unable to visit Tasha.
But we talk most days and nights. We rearrange our personal schedules where we can for video calls.
I’ve secretly started planning a vacation for us. Two weeks in the Caribbean. Warm weather, sandy beaches, Tasha in tiny bikinis. The definition of paradise.
Friday nights we usually do special video calls that double as virtual dates. Kinda corny, but it makes us feel close and keeps things fun.
We’re supposed to eat together and then have drinks before maybe even moving on to the sexy part of the date.
I call Tasha at 9 p.m. my time, like always, settled at my kitchen counter with my meal. It rings and rings to no answer.
She’s usually pretty good about time. If anything, I’ve been the late one thanks to Vic and his assignments.
I dial her again.
Her line rings for several seconds on end until it goes nowhere and then disconnects. My brow creases and I cut a glance at the clock in my kitchen.