“Friends,” I say and hesitantly shake his hands.
I feel like the handshake is more than us drawing a line under our love and calling a truce of past horrors. This is sealing his fate – don’t feel, don’t deviate, kill Zane Maverick. The mantra crosses my mind on loop, constantly vying for every brain cell to nestle its sickly poison into me. As our hands separate and he settles a little, I cannot help but feel that Zane just unwittingly signed his own death warrant. He has no idea what he’s in for. He’s about to dance with the devil and enjoy every spin, dip, twist, and grind with her. I won’t let him know a thing; I won’t let my heart guide me this time. I will amuse his eagerness to have me back, lure him in, draw him close, and then issue the fatal finale to our love story.
Or so I naively fucking tell myself.
“You know,” Zane tears into my intense concentrated reverie. "You were always an anomaly to me, Amelia," he states dryly, bringing me back to the moment.
I cock an eyebrow – is he fucking joking right now? "Why's that?" I decide to entertain him and his wayward thinking.
"Because you're this strong Italian woman and yet you don't hold that black beauty mystique. It’s something I always used to think about when I watched you sleep. You're from this strong Italian heritage, your father is like the fucking twenty-first century Godfather, and here you are all blond and big green eyes. What happened to black hair, olive skin, and a thick, rich Italian accent?"
"Sometimes you've just got to worry about the underdog, Stud," I reply, my tone seductive as I grab onto his collar and pull him close. I reach up, readying to whisper into his ear. "Forse ti amo ancora, but don't underestimate me. I'm trouble." I make sure my lips brush against his cheeks as I pull away to look into his eyes. I deliberately told him I might still love him in Italian so he didn’t think I was easy. "The underdog is rather sexy."
“Fuck yeah, she is,” Zane growls lowly, the sound coming straight from his chest. He leans forward, his hand coming back up to thread through my hair and he draws me close. “I’ve missed you so fucking much, Amelia. I doubt you’ll ever know, but I’ve missed everything about you, everything you made me.”
My breathing becomes shallow, and I’m lost in the bright blue of his eyes. The pools drown me, sinking me further into the indulgent emotions he makes me feel. The pull between us is intrinsic, undeniable, and unforgettable, and the moment his lips reach to kiss mine, I know I’ve sinned a thousand times over. Even more so as I fall against Zane and pander to the desire that swirls up from the depths of my yearning. I feel a moan escape me as, for once, I feel like my life is about to begin righting itself. The noise only makes Zane continue, and his grip tightens on my hair. The pain that screams across my scalp is delightful, and I feel my breathing beginning to falter. When we break away, I’m in shock while he sits grinning at me like a fool.
“That was wrong,” I utter in the very same moment that my eyes water and I curse my weak heart. “I’ve got to go.”
I open my purse and throw a ten-dollar bill out, before snatching up my jacket and fleeing. I walk out of the bar, placing my clutch bag under my arm, and begin to turn left to go to my car. I walk a few feet before my hand is grabbed. I'm spun in a dizzying dance and dragged away so quickly the only thing I realize is my back being pushed against a jagged wall as my jacket and purse crash to the floor beside me. Zane is looking at me so intently, my heart pounds fiercely against my chest, threatening to escape and reveal me as the hopeless romantic I once was. But I can't let that happen. I am not made for fairytale endings in this life. Happily ever afters do not exist for the Abbiatis.
“Zane,” I pant, barely able to comprehend what’s going to happen from this bittersweet reunion. I’m supposed to be here with a killer’s intent, not a lover’s curiosity.
"How dare you think you can just leave that bar without giving me a proper goodbye." His voice is gruff, tainted with over a year’s worth of anguish. It doesn’t matter that he caused it; he’s still a victim of his own actions as much as I am. "Am I worth that little to you? Regardless, am I worth that little?"