50

Sophie
Date number two is a dream date as far as dates go. Fairytale perfect. Almost ridiculously so.
Joey had four designer brand dresses delivered in exactly my size, along with matching Jimmy Choo and Dolce & Gabanna heels and a couple Chanel bags. The courier who showed up with the haul told me they were all paid for, but if I wanted to exchange anything for size or style, I could do so at Mr. LaTorre’s expense.
Damn. Talk about impressive. I can’t figure out why he’s trying so hard. It doesn’t even make sense.
When he showed up, he brought flowers. Took me to a fancy dinner near Times Square before the show. And of course, the front-row tickets for the show were incredible.
Now, as we drive home, I’m wondering why I feel so comfortable with him. How this could be so easy.
I’m the type of person whose mind can go in circles about a situation until I drive myself nuts. That’s how I’ve been over this thing with Joey.
Part of me was excited about our date. Not just seeing Hamiltonwhich is always a guaranteed good timebut seeing Joey again. Putting on one of the designer dresses to impress him. My mind’s all revved up. And I’m in conflict with what I’m resisting.
I don’t want to fall for Joey. I really don’t. Seriously. I’m not going to get involved with a Made Man. I’ll put in my three dates and then be done with him.
To make sure that happens, I resolve not to have sex with him this time. I’ll just have to explain to Joey that I’m not interested in a relationship.
So I steer the conversation back to the reason I can’tand won’tever consider him as a long-term thing.
“How old were you when you realized your dad was the don? Or that there was something different about your family?” I ask.
Joey shoots me a surprised look. “Huh. Interesting question. I don’t know. I think I always knew. Maybe Al drilled it into my head.”
“He’s a lot older than you, right?”
“Yeah. Fifteen years. We’re actually half-brothers. His mom died of breast cancer when he was four. My ma was his live-in nanny from Italy. You can see how that turned out.”
“That’s kinda hot.”
Joey’s eyes crinkle, and he slides a glance my way. “What about you?”
I turn and stare out the window. I’m purposely dredging up everything bad about the mafia. I want to remember why this won’t work. Why I’m never getting involved again.
“I’d heard some of the girls at St. Mary’s Academy say something about it. They called me a mafia princesswhich of course, I wasn’tand I didn’t even know what that meant. I thought the Family was just family. I mean, Marie was my aunt. I figured I was related to everyone.
“But one night I got up to pee, and I heard someone downstairs. I went down to the cellar. My dad was at the big sink, soaked in blood. The water was running, and the basin was full of bloody water.
“I thought he was hurt, you know? I gasped and asked what happened, and he barked at me to go back to bed.
“Of course, that just freaked me out more. I started crying, and he realized I was scared. He took off his stained shirt and showed me it wasn’t his blood. That’s when I got scared in a different way.”
I glance over at Joey to see if he understands. He reaches for my hand across the center console and squeezes it. For some reason, now that I’ve started the story, I want to remember the whole thing. Tell the whole thing.
“It’s funny, but I wasn’t upset that he’d committed a crime. That he’d hurt someone. Probably killed them. He was my dad. And kids are selfish, you know? All I was worried about was that he might get caught and taken away from us. So I tried to help him wash the blood out of his shirt. I wanted to protect him. Keep him out of trouble. Of course, he wouldn’t let me. He told me everything was fine. That he knew how to take care of things, but I shouldn’t tell my mom. He sent me off to bed.”
I try to swallow. “I had nightmares for years about him going to prison.” My eyes burn. “Is that funny? That I was more worried about my dad going to prison than about whether he was a murderer?” My voice chokes over my words. “And then he did go to prison. And my mom and I didn’t really forgive him for abandoning us before he died. So that sucked.”
“Sophie.”
I search Joey’s face, hoping he can lend some insight to this secret I buried inside me for all these years.
“Your dad was a good man.”
My belly quakes with a swallowed sob. I guess I never reconciled what I’d seen that day with the loving man I called my father. “He was good to me,” I manage to say.
“Right. Made Men are soldiers, Sophie. They do what they have to do to protect the Family. Just like any soldier, there’s a code they live by. They follow a chain of command. They don’t harm the innocent. I’m not saying there’s not some blackness on all our souls. There is. But don’t let it blotch your memory of your dad.”
I study Joey’s profile as he drives. The curl of his lashes. The strong planes of his face. “How much blackness is on your soul, Joey?”
His head swivels, and he regards me with an unfathomable gaze. “More than I’d like.”
My heart thunders in my chest. I want to weep and run away at the same time I want to throw my arms around him and see if he can’t somehow help me find my home with all this.
“What if I can’t live with that?” I breathe.
He blinks. The street lights illuminate the shadows of his face in flashes as he drives under them. “You can’t deny who you are, Sophie. Where you came from. The people who loved, love, you. Loving a soldier doesn’t taint your soul. It strengthens it.”
I want to ask him how, but it’s all too much for me. I turn my face away, look out the window. Try to breathe.
After a long stretch of silence, I ask, “Why were you so nice to me at my dad’s funeral?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I felt a connection with you. I recognized something similar in you. The pain of our existence. The toll of La Cosa Nostra on a kid who never asked to be a part of it. I hadn’t lost my dad yet, but I always had that feeling I was born to the wrong family. That I didn’t belong in this life.”
I peer at him through the darkness. A band of light shines across his eyes, giving him the look of a reverse mask. A man who lives in the shadows but still carries light.
There’s something blindingly heroic about Joey despite what he is. Or perhaps because of it.
“Do you remember you gave me a pack of gum when my dad died?” he asks.
“Oh, God.” I flash a smile. “I’m kind of embarrassed about that. I had a crush on you after my dad’s funeral, and you’d given me a stick of gum. I don’t know why I thought”
“It was the nicest thing anyone did for me that day.” The corners of his lips turn up. “Literally the only thing about my father’s funeral that didn’t make me feel like I was drowning in cement.”
The patch of light slides across his face like a caress as he turns onto my street. Something about it makes me ache with love for him. It’s probably the remembered ache of being a teen with a crush. Of wanting something I couldn’t have.
Now I can have him. He’s here, interested in me.
Wouldn’t I be crazy not to just let myself enjoy the experience?
He parks his car, and I hesitate. Am I letting him stay the night again?
As if he reads my mind, he says, “I won’t stay the night. But I am gonna walk you in.”
Ten minutes later, he has me pinned against the living room wall, his hands roaming up inside my shirt. My body comes alive every time he touches me. Every time I’m near him. I may think I don’t want to get involved with Joey LaTorre, but my body has an entirely different idea. And I know from massage therapy that the body doesn’t lie. What I don’t know is what exactly mine is saying to me.
I try to draw a line in the sand as he kisses up the side of my neck. “Joey…I don’t want a relationship, okay?”
His teeth clamp over my earlobe, and his thumb dips in my mouth, and I find it hard to remember why.
“Okay, so no relationship,” he purrs in my ear. “I can live with just sex.”
I squirm, but it’s to grind my pelvis against his leg, rather than to pull away. “I didn’t say I wanted sex,” I pant.
“Really? Because I think we have mad chemistry.” His lips move down my neck, the flick of his tongue in my ear sending zings of electricity straight to my core. “I promise I’ll make it worth it. No strings.”
“So you do just want sex?” I’m breathless, my body not matching my words as I rub my thigh up and down his leg, arching into the palm he molded over my breast. “We can scratch the third date?”
“No, baby. It’s not just about sex for me.” His two hot hands roam under my shirt to stroke up and down my back. “But I’m okay if that’s all it is for you.”
His words shock me from the inside out. Something about the cocksure guy being willing to settle for whatever bone I throw him weakens my defenses. Not that I should believe anything he says.
“I don’t usually do this.” I open my thighs wider to allow his searching fingers access. My knees buckle when his fingers find my swollen sex and expertly spread my moisture over the whole of my plump folds.
“I know.” He loops one arm around my waist, holding me up as his other hand coaxes a soft moan out of me.
“What,” I gasp, “do you know?”
“You’re a good girl. You don’t want anything to do with a bad boy like me. Except bad boys can be exciting… don’t you think?”
I orgasm against his hand, my hips bucking as I lose my footing and fall completely back over his arm.
“That’s it, Sophie.” His fingers continue to slide in and out of my sex, then over my clit as the spasm rockets through me.
When the climax ends, I sag against him, wanting to simultaneously laugh and weep. I should find my own feet and hold my own weight, but it feels so good to be suspended, arching wantonly over his arm. I can’t remember when I’ve felt so sexy or desirable. And he was right-it was totally worth it.
I straighten at last. “Whew!” I meet his gaze a little sheepishly. “I suppose I owe you now?”
He gives me his slow, predatory smile and wraps his other arm around my waist, pulling me against him. “I’ll wait until our third date.”
Dear God, this man’s confidence makes me go weak. New prickles of desire sweep upward from my center core to my throat.
“Saturday.”
I start to nod helplessly then remember my date with Bruce. “I can’t-I have plans, with, uh…” I don’t want to bring Bruce into it. “-my friends. How about Sunday? I’ll make you dinner.”
He grins, clearly pleased with that idea. “I’d love that.” He brushes his lips across mine, kissing lightly as his thumb traces over my cheekbone like I’m precious to him.
Disconcerted with my reaction to it, I pull away, flushing. “Next Sunday, then.”
He smiles as if he knows exactly why I turned skittish. “What time? Five o’clock?”
“Sure.” I walk toward the door.
He trails me to it. “Good night, bella.”
“Good night. Thanks for tonight. I mean, the musical. And the other thing. Yeah. Thanks!” Dear God. I need to get a grip.
He looks over his shoulder as he walks out and winks, and eggs drop from both my ovaries.
Damn. I’m in big trouble. Joey LaTorre is way too charming.
And I’m way too susceptible to his charm.
Hot sex is one thing, but I can’t get into a serious relationship with him. I’ll explain that clearly on Sunday. When his hands aren’t on my skin. His scent isn’t surrounding me. Before he makes my body hum and my throat hoarse from begging.