Sitting on Salvatore’s lap during meals was a little strange in the beginning, but I’ve gotten used to it. It started a month ago, right after the skirmish with the Irish. At first, he would insist I sit on his lap when we were having breakfast. Then it was dinner, as well. Now, it’s every meal. When I asked him why, he said that he still hadn’t forgotten that I told him I was going to leave if he got shot again, and this was my punishment. It doesn’t seem like a punishment. In fact, I quite enjoy being so close to him in this way. His explanation was transparent bullshit, of course. Salvatore has problems recognizing his own feelings, so it’s no wonder he has equal difficulty in expressing them.
“You’ll call me every hour,” he says and squeezes my waist.
“You know I will.” I place a kis
