7
DAPHNE
I’d been admiring the back end of Antonio Drago swaggering in a tailored suit since I was a sophomore in high school, proof if God wanted teenagers to abstain from s*x, puberty would start at age twenty. Years later, and the sight of his formidable, hard-muscled body in the hotel hallway made a wanton feeling of warmth seep through my veins until all of my limbs were liquid heat.
We were all wrong for each other. I’d known it forever.
He was a brute with blood on his hands. I was a book nerd who kept to myself in school. But it wasn’t black and white.
He was gentle with me, watchful. Perfect example. The way he stopped ahead of me and turned back. “You coming?” He held out his hand, which dwarfed mine. “Come on, walk next to me.”
Vengeance was not a private property of mafi
