Page 91 of Enforcer
In fact, I think it’s the one he had two days ago when I passed him in this doorway, bags in hand.
“Tesoro?” he asks, his voice graveled and rough.
My belly warms and flips uneasily.
Fuck.
Being away from him and returning has made me realize how much I’ve come to crave him in the quiet moments of my day.
Even if I try not to.
“What has happened to you?” I ask him.
I decided against texting back because I left him onreadfor so long that I figured a text wasn’t warranted.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he jokes, straightening against the door he still holds open. “I look fucking fabulous, I’m sure.”
“Did you just wake up? It’s five in the evening?!” I ask him.
His eyes widen. “No, it’s not. Goddamnit!” He turns, leaving the door wide open, rushing toward the massive clock on the wall near the couch in the living room.
“Motherfucker!” he shouts, and I step inside and close the door behind me.
“What’s wrong? You miss an appointment?”
“You could say that, yeah. I’ll be right back. I have to make a call.”
He steps out onto the balcony, shoving his hand through his dark hair as he calls whomever he stood up by sleeping too long.
There’s an empty whiskey bottle on its side atop the piano, and music notes scribbled on a page in Dante’s haphazard handwriting as if he’s been composing something all his own.
I move closer, fixated on hearing the piece in my mind, even though I can’t read music.
I don’t hear him come in, which isn’t unusual—the man moves with the stealth of a fucking lion.
“Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, tesoro?” he growls in my ear.
“No. Just waiting for you to come back.” I turn around as he tries to cage me to the piano.
He straightens, looking down at me with desperation leaking from his eyes. “Why are you here, Alyssa?”
His voice is strangled. I’m certainly the reason for the bottle on the piano, but part of me wants to know if I’m the muse he’s writing some tortured song for, too.
I can’t handle knowing emotionally, however, so I don’t ask.
“Because I didn’t text back,” I get out as he reaches up and tucks some of my wind-blown hair behind my ears.
“You didn’t,” he whispers. “Did you come to apologize?”
“No. I came to answer the message.”
“In person? Do you understand how texting works? I could teach you to use your phone if you’d like.”
One corner of his perfect mouth tips up in a playful grin, and my mouth waters at the sight. He’s a craving I never knew I could have but know I’ll never kick.
“I know how my phone works,” I sigh. “Would you rather me return home and text you back?”
He shakes his head, cupping my face on either side and nearly stalling my breathing. “No, minaccia, I want you to answer the message and put me out of my misery.”