Blood Always

15

“They’ve heard of it, and they think it’s overrated.” “Nonsense. There’s nothing like knowing something’s coming—the suspense and excitement—it’s the best feeling in the world.” We had been talking about millennials, so why had her words conjured the image of Matteo in my head? It had been almost a week since the barbeque without any word from him. After his fervid insistence that he was going to coax out all my inner demons, I had expected a relentless pursuit. I found myself checking my phone more than usual, just to find no missed calls or messages. My behavior was ridiculous because I had no desire to hear from him. Keep saying it, and maybe then you’ll believe it. “Well, you have a whole month to anticipate my wedding.” At least one of us would be. “Fine. But before you go, don’t think I forgot what day it is.” Her voice softened, bringing on a dreaded sense of awkwardness. “Happy birthday, Maria.” “Thanks, Mom, but it’s just like any other day. You know I don’t do birthdays.” “I know, but I do, and I want to celebrate the birth of my first baby girl. You coming Sunday for dinner?” “You know I always do.” “Good, I’ll make a cake. And before you argue, no singing or candles, just the bare minimum.” I sighed, pressing my palm to my forehead. “All right. I’ll see you Sunday.” “Love you, Maria.” “Take care, Mom.” With a sigh of relief that the conversation was over, I flopped back on the couch and tossed my phone on the cushion next to me. I could finally get back to my annual birthday tradition of pretending it was any other day. Unlike many women my age, I didn’t hit the club or go to dinner with my bestie. Hell, I didn’t even have a bestie. Instead, I did one of the most cathartic things I could think of, aside from kicking Tamir’s ass at the gym. I cleaned my guns—it was what any halfway decent mafia princess would do. The summer sun still lit my apartment at seven in the evening. I laid a protective cloth over the kitchen counter and set out my cleaning supplies, along with my nine-millimeter and my thirty-eight. I had several more guns, but these were my favorites to work with at the range, and therefore, needed the most frequent cleaning. There was something about the smell of guns—ash and oil—that calmed my nerves. I loved the feel of the cool metal against my skin and the solid weight of a weapon in my hand. If there was ever a time someone could accuse me of being OCD, it would be because of how clean I keep my guns. But it had little to do with cleanliness and everything to do with how the process made me feel. Tranquil. Powerful. Unstoppable. Guns weren’t well-suited for every situation, but there was nothing like a good pistol. For more everyday wear, I had other less bulky options, but I always, always had a weapon on me. I only made it halfway through my routine when a knock sounded at my door. Picking up the Glock I had yet to disassemble, I moved to the door and peered through the peep hole. Matteo De Luca stood impatiently waiting on the other side. Lowering the gun, I yanked open the door. “What the hell is this?” I blurted, gaping at the bouquet of flowers and a bag loaded with takeout containers. “It’s called a birthday, Maria. And today happens to be yours.” He pushed forward into my personal space, forcing me to allow him inside. I closed the door behind him and made a show of setting down my gun. “So, you thought you’d drop by unannounced and sing me happy birthday? As you can see, I’m not exactly a fan of uninvited visitors.” “Put down your quills, little porcupine. I’m not here to attack you. Grab a vase so I can set these in water. I’m starving.” The bouquet was comprised of greenery and half a dozen white roses smattered with red splotches, making them look like they’d been through a m******e. Their imperfection was stunningly beautiful, but I couldn’t bring myself to utter the words. Besides, he’d probably just grabbed the first thing he saw on his way over. I would be an i***t to assume anything more. Handing him a vase, I watched as he extracted the thorny stems from the plastic with his agile fingers. f**k. Even his fingers are sexy. They were strong and deft, nails cut short for function and scars that spoke to a handson approach to life. I would bet the pads of his fingers were rough and calloused, making me wonder what they’d feel like as they traced my curves. I needed to get my s**t together, or I’d need a tissue to wipe the drool. “They tried to refuse to sell me these because the thorns hadn’t been removed yet. I insisted that made them even more perfect than they were already. Blood and thorns, the combination was perfect for my Maria. Scissors?” I was wrong. He had put thought into the flowers. Not only that, but his assessment had been unnervingly accurate. I wasn’t even going to think about how my stomach flipped at his ‘my Maria.’ Matteo’s eyes slid my way and caught me momentarily off guard. “Scissors?” His voice was a velvety purr against my skin, the sensation snapping me to attention. I retrieved the utility scissors and began removing the four cardboard food containers from the bag they arrived in. My eyes were desperate to stray to his tattooed forearms and the sinewy muscle that flexed and bunched as he cut off the ends of the thick stems. From what I could tell without stripping him bare, Matteo De Luca was the modern-day statue of David. If aliens arrived from above and demanded to be shown the most perfectly sculpted example of the human form, Matteo would be the unanimous choice. His shrewd eyes were the mossy green of a dense forest, tempting me to lose myself in their depths. His angular brows belied his unruffled exterior. They warned of the turbulent waters that coursed just beyond the shallows. Another hint at his darker side was a slight notch in his nose—perhaps the result of a break during a fight. It was the only kink in his otherwise refined profile. He was still dressed from work, a white button down rolled up at the elbows. A treacherous part of me yearned to pull his arms close so that I could examine each of the inked drawings dancing across his skin. But it was best to keep my hands and mind occupied before I did something I’d regret. “You’re lucky I like Chinese,” I mused as I examined the contents of each box. “I hoped you wouldn’t—more for me.” Was he … playing with me? I felt like I’d been tumbled by a series of waves, unable to tell which direction was up. It was the same every time I was around him. Did he do it on purpose, or was that just one of his special gifts? I set two plates at my dining table and assembled the containers between us. “Next time, bring sushi. You’ll have every bite to yourself.” Matteo sat next to me at the round table, immediately diving into the food.