Lorenzo: A Grumpy/ Sunshine, Dark mafia Romance (Chicago Ruthless Book 3)

Dante fastens his cufflinks and studies me with concern. “You sure you’ll be okay? We can stay home.”

I roll my eyes and look into the face of his eight-month-old son, Micah, who’s nestled in the crook of my arm and drooling while he chews on a teething ring. “Your daddy thinks I can’t handle some little punks like you and your big brother and sister?” I bounce him and he giggles.

“Gabriella and Marco are sound asleep,” Kat says as she walks into the room. “You sure you don’t want me to try and put him down too?”

“We’ll be fine. We’re going to watch some wrestling. Aren’t we, kid?” I wipe the puddle of drool from his chin with a sweep of my thumb.

He goes on happily gnawing on his chew toy like a contented puppy.

“Thank you, Loz.” My brother’s wife rests a gentle hand on my shoulder. I catch the scent of her sweet perfume, and it stirs up long forgotten memories that I force back down. She gives Micah a soft kiss on his head.

“Dada,” he coos in response.

“Ma-ma.” She corrects him, enunciating the syllables. Kat keeps hoping he’ll repeat that word, but he’s stubborn like the rest of the Morettis.

“Dada,” Micah repeats, and Kat sighs.

“That’s my boy.” Dante grins and kisses his son goodbye.

“We’ll be back after breakfast.” Kat smiles, but I don’t miss the concern in her expression. Dante must have told her about the state I came home in today. He tells her everything. She never judges, but their worry is palpable, and it makes my skin itch. I wish I was an easier person to care about, but this is who I am.

“Take your time. We’ll be fine. Enjoy the show and the hotel.”

“Oh, we’ll be enjoying the hotel,” Dante says, his grin devious.

“Stop.” His wife’s cheeks flush red. He wraps his arm around her, silencing her with a kiss.

Sometimes seeing them together forces me to remember how good it felt to have a love like that, and just like I always do, I bury those emotions deep in the hopes of never feeling them again. Otherwise I would be crushed under the pain of it all. If there’s one thing I’ve learned since my wife’s death, it’s that those memories bring nothing but grief. Better to concentrate on my anger at not having her than any of the love or happiness that we shared. That’s the only way I can keep putting one foot in front of the other. The only way I go on surviving for the people who need me. Because the thought of my family having to suffer even a fraction of my torment is the only thing that stops me from giving into the darkness completely.

A deep voice rouses me from sleep. “Boss.”

“What?” Sitting up, I wince at the sharp pain that jolts through my neck and jaw. My recently acquired habit of sleeping on the sofa rather than facing the loneliness of my bed has been rough on my body. I hoped that replacing the bedroom furniture would allow me to sleep in there, but it didn’t.

“There’s someone at the gate.”

I check my watch. “It’s 2:00 a.m. Tell ’em to fuck off.”

I stretch my neck out and the sharp pain turns to a dull ache.

“I would, but …”

My scowl has him flinching back. “But?”

“She says she’s Mrs. Moretti’s cousin.”

My breath stalls in my lungs. Anya’s cousin is here? She lives in Russia and didn’t even come to her fucking funeral. “Her cousin is here? Now?”

“Yeah. That’s what she said. She asked for Kat.”

Closing my eyes, I let out the breath I was holding. Of course he’s talking about that Mrs. Moretti. After two years, I still think of my Anya when I hear that name. “Tell her to come back tomorrow.”

“I would, but …” He scrubs at the stubble on his chin. God, who the fuck is this guy? Is he new? He’s really testing my fucking patience.

“But what?” I snap.

“I told her Mrs. Moretti wasn’t home, and she said she has nowhere else to go—”

“So tell her to wait in her fucking car.”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

“You have a fucking problem with that?”

“It’s just … she’s kinda beat up, Boss.”

I sit up straighter. Kat only has one living relative. Mia, I think. I vaguely recall meeting her at Kat and Dante’s wedding. She left early. “What do you mean, beat up?” My short tone matches my patience.

He frowns. “Like someone hurt her real bad. Her face is a mess.”

I jump to my feet. What the fuck is going on? “Who hurt her?”

“I-I don’t know. I didn’t ask. She just asked for Kat and said she has nowhere else to go.”

“Fuck,” I mutter, slipping on my shoes. “This is all I fucking need.”

“Should I tell ’em to open the gates, Boss?”

“Yes,” I reluctantly grumble.

He tries to hide his smile by dipping his head and hurrying from the room.

I stalk through the house, my head pounding and my hands balled into fists. Kat and Dante have one fucking night away in two years, and that’s when her cousin decides to show up. This is just my luck all fucking over.

By the time I get to the driveway, there’s an old green Mustang pulling to a stop a few feet away. Folding my arms across my chest, I wait for the damsel in distress to get out and run crying to the safety of our mansion. If she thinks she’ll get any sympathy from me, she’s sorely mistaken. I’ll show her to the guest room and leave her for Kat to deal with tomorrow. I don’t have the time or the energy for emotional women.

The car door opens, revealing one long tanned leg, followed by another. She’s wearing a bright yellow dress—the color of sunshine. She turns and spots me, and I frown. Cue the tears, right?

Wrong. She gives me a smile; a huge ass smile that lights up her entire face. Even from here, I can see the dried blood on her lip and eyebrow and the colorful welt covering most of her cheekbone. Assessing for further damage, I allow my eyes to travel the length of her body. Down her neck and the fingertip-shaped bruises partially hidden by her honey-blond hair. Her collarbone. More bruises. My lingering gaze comes to a halt at her chest, where her tits strain against the taut yellow fabric.

“You must be Lorenzo?” Her voice, sweet like nectar, cuts through the quiet night. The guard who alerted me to her arrival returned to his station at the gate, and the others are making their rounds, patrolling the perimeter. She and I are alone. My pulse thrums against my neck, and I swallow harshly.

“It is Lorenzo, right?” she asks again, and I finally manage to tear my eyes from her chest.

“Yeah.” My voice comes out an octave higher than usual, and I’m fucked if I know why.

She walks closer. “I’m so sorry about this, but I literally have nowhere else to go.” The breeze ruffles her hair, carrying the scent of jasmine and lemon through the air between us. “You might not remember me, but I met you at Kat and Dante’s wedding. You and your lovely wife. Anya, right?”

The sound of her name makes me sway on my feet. Nobody says her name. Nobody talks about her for fear that they will unleash the rage that’s lived inside me since I lost her. I’d forgotten the power of her name. Forgotten how it’s like music to my dark soul.

“I was so sorry to hear about her passing.” She continues to approach me, seemingly oblivious to my distress. “She was a beautiful person. We spoke about her illness.”

I frown at her, unconvinced. Anya never talked about her cancer with anyone. “You did?”

She gives me a sympathetic smile. “I think it’s sometimes easier to talk to strangers, you know? Although I can talk to anyone. I talk too much. I always have. I’m a babbler.”

“Yeah, I got that,” I mutter, turning on my heel and walking back into the house.

Not bothering to wait for an invitation, she follows me inside. “Will Kat be back tomorrow?”

“Yes. After breakfast. I’ll show you to a guest room and you can see her when she gets home.”

“Oh, I need to grab my bag.” She giggles lightly. “I was so excited to get here and finally pee that I forgot to get it out of the trunk.” She’s certainly very happy for a woman who looks like she went a round with a heavyweight champ not too long ago.

“I’ll have one of my men fetch your bag.”

“Thank you. And that bathroom?” Gazing up at me, she chews on her bottom lip.

I frown. “What?” My brain feels like it’s misfiring. Maybe it’s having my sleep interrupted? Or maybe it’s listening to this strange woman talk about my wife like she knows her.

She laughs again. “I need to pee,” she reminds me.

“Oh. Sure. Down the hall. Second room on the left.”

“Thank you so much.” Already darting away down the hall, she calls the words over her shoulder, and I watch after her, curious about how she ended up here and why. It’s no leap to assume she got those bruises from a man. A man with big, meaty fists if the size of that black eye is any indication. If I recall correctly, she’s married. Is she running from her husband?

Leaning against the wall, I wait outside the bathroom. I can’t exactly leave her wandering the halls now, can I? My niece and nephews are asleep, and for all I know, she could be a serial killer who smells like lemons and jasmine.

When she emerges a few minutes later, she gives me another wide smile. Her injuries look worse in the bright light of the hallway, her swollen eye giving way to a purple contusion that covers the entire right side of her face. A drop of blood wells from the cut in her lip. She must have wiped it in the bathroom and caused the wound to reopen. Her tongue darts out to lick the blood, and for some reason, I look away.

“Would it be too much trouble to get a little something to eat? All I’ve eaten today was a bag of Skittles and some beef jerky.” She looks at me with wide hazel eyes—or are they green? It’s hard to tell in the glare of the light. “I can fix something myself if you show me the way?” she offers.

Fuck! I shake my head to clear it and motion in front of me. “I’ll show you the kitchen.”

She falls into step beside me. “Thank you so much. I can’t imagine what you must be thinking having me turn up on your doorstep like this.”

“That you’re running from your husband?” I offer with a disinterested shrug. My tone is clipped and harsh, but if she takes any offense, she doesn’t show it.

“Yup. You read me right,” she says with a soft laugh. “I guess you’re good at reading people in your business.”

I arch an eyebrow at her. “And that is?”

She shrugs. “Mafia stuff.”

I stop and stare at her. Did she really just say that out loud? “Mafia stuff?”

“You’re Cosa Nostra, right? Sicilian Mafia?” she says, turning around when she notices I’m no longer walking beside her.

The corners of my mouth lift into a faint grin. “People don’t usually say it so bluntly. Not to my face.”

She tilts her head, chewing on the inside of her cheek as she stares at me with a look on her face that I can’t quite figure out. Is she fronting or is she really as unaffected by this encounter as she appears to be? “Oh, right. I’m sorry. I thought it was like your job title or something.”

Swallowing an unexpected laugh, I move past her and push open the kitchen door, motioning for her to go ahead. “Do you always say what you’re thinking, or is it a nervous thing?”

“Oh, almost always,” she says, walking past me into the kitchen and leaning up against the massive wooden table. She studies me curiously. “And I’m not nervous.”.

I narrow my eyes at her. Who the hell is this woman? “You’re not? You’re in this house, alone, with a man who does Mafia stuff, and you’re not even a little nervous?”

“Not even a little.” She grins, and her eyes, appearing brown in the softer light of the kitchen, burn into mine.

I take a few steps toward her. Goosebumps prickle her forearms, but she keeps her gaze locked on mine. “Maybe you should be nervous, Mia.”

Her face lights up like a Christmas tree. “You remember my name?”

“I-I, uh—”

“Anyway, Kat told me you’re a really good guy. Plus, I saw you with your wife. How you acted, you know …” Her eyes fill with tears, and she swats them away.

I swallow the hard knot of emotion lodged in my throat. I’m going to regret this, but I can’t pass up the opportunity to see our relationship through someone else’s perspective—it’s like getting back a piece of Anya, a piece I never had while she was here. “How did I act?”

“The way you looked at her. Like you would hang the moon for her.” She sighs softly. “Every woman deserves a man who looks at her like that. Everyone deserves someone who adores them. Someone who would die for them.”

This woman—this stranger could see all that? Fuck, I still adore Anya. I would’ve died for her one hundred times over. Given half a fucking chance, I’d die right now just for one more moment with her. I cough to clear my throat, but it doesn’t help. My voice comes out rough. “You got all that from a few hours in our company?”

“Love like that can’t be masked. A few moments in your company would have told me the same.” Her stomach growls loudly, and her cheeks flush a delicate shade of pink. “Any chance of that food?”

“What? Yes, of course.” I was staring again. What the fuck? “We have some leftover risotto, or there’s meat and fresh bread?”

“Risotto would be perfect. Thanks.”

I’ve never seen a woman take as much joy in food as Mia does. She closes her eyes to savor each mouthful and lets out a soft moaning sound every time she takes a bite. Our cook Sophia does make an incredible risotto, but still.

I watch her intently, fascinated by this woman who seems to have every reason to be terrified and depressed but might just be the happiest person I’ve ever met.

In stark contrast to the way she scarfed down her risotto, Mia daintily dabs at her mouth with her napkin when she’s done. The bruise on her face has grown darker and her right eye is partially swollen shut. Kat will check her over in the morning, but the sight of her battered features has my ever-present rage bubbling to the surface.

“Who did that to you?”

Her eyes flicker to mine. They’re hazel again now. “My husband. Like you said.”

I knew it. That fucking bastard. “Why?”

“Why?” The bitter laugh sounds unnatural coming from her lips. “You think there’s ever a reason to do this to someone you’re supposed to love?”

I silently curse myself for my careless choice of words. “No, but I meant did something provoke him?”

“Umm …” She presses her lips together as though deep in thought. “This morning it was because the cereal was too soggy.”

My brow furrows. “What?”

“I poured the milk too soon, therefore rendering his cereal inedible,” she says with a resigned shrug.

“So this was a common occurrence?”

“If you call once every other month common, then yes.”

“And it was always your fault, right? You made him act that way?”

“You know the script?” Her smile is sad but genuine.

I heard it many times with my own parents, but I don’t tell her that.

She stares at me so intently that I feel hot under her gaze. “And now you’re wondering why I stayed so long.”

“I never said that.”

“I’d ask me that if I were you. Ten long years I stayed with him. Hoping …” She shakes her head. “But hope’s a dangerous thing, right? Sometimes I think it’s the most powerful force in the universe.”

“You do?” My words drip with derision.

“Yes,” she says, straightening her spine. “We can live without most things, even love. But without hope, well, we have nothing left worth living for.” I frown at her, and she laughs softly. “I take it you don’t agree?”

I shrug. “I think life is full of hopeless situations, but people keep going without it.”

“They keep going because of that little ray of light in the darkness. That’s hope,” she insists.

My skin prickles with annoyance. “No. There isn’t always a ray of light, Mia. Sometimes there’s just darkness and nothing beyond it.”

She leans forward and gentles her tone. “But there’s a ray of light to be found in even the darkest of situations.”

Spoken by a person who hasn’t had their entire world crash down around their ears. The sound that rumbles out of my chest makes it clear I disagree, but she starts talking again before I can argue.

“It’s true. Sometimes you have to look real hard to find it. But it’s always there, even if it’s just the tiniest speck of light. And when you do find it, well, then it’s your job to nurture it until it grows bigger and the light begins to outshine the darkness. Eventually, light will be all that’s left.”

“That’s your philosophy, is it?” I snap, annoyed by her steadfast positivity. If I’m forced to listen to much more of it, she’s going to see just how little light I have inside me.

“It’s the only one I have,” she says in a softer tone.

Feeling the need to change the conversation before she can piss me off with more of her hippie bullshit, I place my palms on the table in front of me and lean forward. “So why did you stay with him?”

If she’s bothered by me shifting the conversation back to her abusive marriage, she doesn’t show it. “Same reasons everyone stays, I guess. First because I thought he could change. I thought I could change him.” She snorts a self-deprecating laugh and shakes her head. “Then I convinced myself it wasn’t so bad. That the good times outweighed the bad. The sex was incredible.” She arches an eyebrow.

I take a sip of my coffee to distract myself from thoughts of her having sex, because for some reason that I can’t identify, the thought of the asshole who gave her those bruises putting his hands on her in any way makes me see red. “You really don’t have a filter, do you?”

That makes her laugh again. “Sorry.”

“Please go on,” I say, annoyed at myself for interrupting her.

“Then when the bad times got more frequent and even the sex became … well not bad. I just didn’t want it, you know?”

Every cell in my body vibrates with tension and anger. What I wouldn’t give right now for a few minutes alone with that motherfucker. Who the fuck treats their wife that way? Her voice brings me back from the ledge, and I’m left wondering why her situation is provoking such an intense physical reaction from me.

“Well, I finally decided I had to get out before he killed me, but I didn’t think I had anywhere to go. About a year ago, I was talking to Kat and she made an offhand comment about how I was always welcome here, and I realized that I was wrong. I did have somewhere to go. Kat’s my family, and she’s there for me just like I’d be for her. I hate to be a burden to any of you, so I won’t hang around for long, but I knew I was running out of time and that if I didn’t get out of that house of my own free will, I’d be leaving in a box.”

I fight the urge to lean across the table and brush away the tear running down her cheek. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone else so willing to bare their soul to a complete stranger. Talking with her is the most intimate thing I’ve done with a woman in a long time.

“So, I fixed up that old Mustang and left this morning. Sixteen hours and two gas and bathroom breaks and I’m here.” The smile that lights up her face makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

I need to break this connection between us, but I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from her.