DeLuca (Mafia Romance)

“Don’t do shit like that,” I said, my voice hard. Straightening I went back to the task at hand, pouring oil into the pan to sauté the onion for the sauce. If I kept moving, maybe he wouldn’t see my hands shaking.

“Shit like what?” Enzo asked, leaning a hip on the counter beside me and crossing his arms over the broad plane of his chest.

I glared at him as I added the garlic to the pot, which just earned me a smirk. Having a giant, half-naked man in the kitchen while trying to cook was not as fun as it sounded. I worked around his bulk in silence while his eyes tracked my every move as I continued to build the sauce adding crushed tomatoes and spices.

“We ever going to talk about it?” Enzo asked peering over my shoulder as I stirred the sauce.

“Talk about what?”

“About what happened,” he said.

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” I hedged for what felt like the millionth time. I didn’t know what exactly he wanted to talk about, but I could bet that it was something I most definitely did not want to discuss. “Please move. I need to start on the meatballs,” I said grabbing a bowl and dumping ingredients in with more force than necessary.

Enzo sighed heavily, “About everything. Hell, about anything. We haven’t talked about anything important in years!”

My head whipped around towards him. “Aren’t I the woman here? I’m the one that’s supposed to want to ‘talk’-not you,” I grumbled.

“How very modern of you,” Enzo deadpanned, and I couldn’t help it, but I laughed.

“The past is the past, Enzo. I’d rather just leave it there, if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind. I’m sick of acting like we barely know each other when we’re the two people in the world that know each other the best. I want to be able to talk to you and not worry about what I say,” he urged.

“So you want to move on?”

“Yeah, I guess. I just want us to get back to normal. It’s been a long time. You can’t possibly still be mad at me.”Têxt © NôvelDrama.Org.

I froze, my hands stilling in the bowl as a lump formed in my throat. My nose started to tingle, but I sniffed and squeezed my eyes shut willing the tears back. After a moment, I cleared my throat and whispered, “I was never mad; I was hurt.”

Enzo’s eyebrows slammed down over his eyes, “What?” he asked incredulously.

“You heard me.”

“No,” he said firmly, shaking his head emphatically from side to side.

“Excuse me? No?”

“Yeah, no. That is bullshit! In case time has warped your memory, I’ll give you a refresher. You threw me out of your apartment. You didn’t want anything to do with me when I got back. Not the other way around.”

“You promised someone that you wouldn’t be with me. You humiliated me, and you left me,” I said moving to the sink to wash my hands.

“You threw me out!”

“I was upset. We’d just spent the night together, and then you told me you’d already promised Eddie that you’d never be with me so we had to keep it to ourselves!” I rallied back.

“You’re the one that said we were scratching an itch. You’re the one that acted so fucking callous. What the fuck was I supposed to do? You acted like it was fucking nothing-like I meant nothing!” he roared, backing me into the counter.

Tears sprang to my eyes. I hated that just being around him caused every one of my emotions to hover at the surface, waiting for the absolute worst time to make an appearance.

“It wasn’t nothing,” I whispered, my voice cracking on the last word.

“I didn’t know that. All I knew was that I had to think of something to protect myself, because you’d just ripped my fucking heart out and shit all over it!”

I reared back, my face a mask of shock. He was still looming over me, panting with the effort of barely-controlled rage. My head spun and my vision tilted sideways.

You’d just ripped my fucking heart out and shit all over it.

You’d just ripped my fucking heart out.

It was like someone coming to you and telling you that the color you’d always known as blue was actually yellow. For the past six years, I’d held on to one truth: Enzo never wanted more. He’d never loved me like I loved him. But now, the same man was standing in front of me telling me that I broke his heart. It didn’t make sense.

“I tried to call you,” I blurted out. “After, I mean. I wrote to you, I called, and nothing. Why?”

“I needed time,” he said evenly.

“And I needed you,” I whispered, pushing away from the counter and forcing him to take a step back. I wanted to run, I wanted to take off and find somewhere to hide out, but I couldn’t; he’d just follow me. So instead, I did what I did best. I pretended.

“What does that mean?” he asked coming to stand directly behind me at the stove.