Deliverance (#2) | ✓

eight: take your pick

The next morning, I went to work like everything was normal. Like I didn't leave a damaged man asleep on my couch. Like I didn't find out that the man who's fucked over my life is roaming free. Like I don't have the biggest secret that would fuck everything up if that piece of information got into the wrong hands.

No, I smiled at my customers, laughed with them as usual, ignored Nathan's advances as if it was a regular day. And as soon as the clock struck five, I made my leave and went back home — at least that's what it is for now.

Too many thoughts riddle my mind as I enter the apartment to see Luca buckling the pants he wore last night. His chest is bare, shirt hanging over the back of the couch and the clothes I gave him last night folded on the coffee table.

Oh. Despite my tumultuous and dangerous thoughts based on yesterday's events, I still catch myself staring at his skin. He has tattoos in multiple places, the most prominent one being 'Martina' right on his left peck.

My eyes travel down to the six pack he hides behind oversized hoodies and the v-line with a happy trail tracking under his pants. I try to ignore his arms — one with a sleeve of ink and the other littered with stick and pokes.

I clear my throat and close the door behind me, "You're still here."

He looks up at me through hooded eyes and nods, "I had to clean up a bit from my mess and I made you dinner as a thank you for last night."

I stare at him a moment longer and turn to look at the kitchen that has two pots on the stove. I was so focused on him that I didn't even notice the smell of good food wafting through the air, "You ... you didn't have to do that, Luca."

"I wanted to."

Those three words are enough to make me tear up. Everything has just built up and I need a minute. But I can't take one. I can't take a minute to breathe because what I've been trying to avoid for a year and a half is now coming after me and what I've been trying to protect for as long as I possibly can.

"Um," I clear my throat and sniffle softly before looking at him again. "Are you free tonight? I don't really feel like having dinner alone."

He pauses in his movements, his muscles practically staring me down, then nods, "Of course."

•••

"My mother, Martina, died in Italy three months ago." Is the first piece of personal information I've received from Luca in the week and a half we've known each other. I sip my water in silence, watching as he traces his pasta with his fork. "She was among the many who knew that I am a fucked up individual but among the few that still loved me for it." Silence. "My brothers and sister are in that category."

I try to think up a question to get to know more about him, "How many brothers do you have?"

"Three." He says, "I am the second oldest."

I tilt my head in curiosity, "How old are you?"

He scoffs in amusement, "I'm twenty-seven. And you?"

"Twenty-three." I reciprocate, "So, what brought you to New York?" I cast my gaze out to the city itself. We'd brought dinner out to the balcony where we sit on the floor, a table between us.

"Change of scenery." Though I stare out over the skyline, I can feel his eyes on me. "Needed a distraction. Take your pick."

"And how's that working out for you?" I finally meet his eye.

He frowns as he scans my face, "It's not."

I purse my lips at his words and glance down at the meal he made, "Thank you for sharing with me. I know you don't really trust me yet—"

He shrugs, "I trust you enough."

"And you're not a fucked up individual, you're just ..." I pause trying to find the right words, "In pain. Eventually, you won't feel it as much. I'm not saying the feeling is gonna go away completely though." My heart races as I think of my own fucked up situation, "Nothing ever does."

He furrows his brows as he watches me. I know there are so many questions he wants to ask but he knows I'm not ready yet. That's the thing with us apparently — we know how to wait.

"Remi..." He says, the night sky casting a shadow on his olive skin, "I'm sorry about last night and if I made you ... uncomfortable with my actions."

I shake my head, "No. You didn't. It's okay."

"You ..." He sighs as if this is the hardest thing he's ever had to do — be vulnerable, "You were crying last night." I look away, hoping that wouldn't be what he would bring up. "You don't have to tell me why, just ... from one person in pain to another, I want to know that you're okay."

I pause, my constant blinking keeping my tears away as best they can. I clear my throat in thought — am I okay? I shake my head. What sense does it make to lie about it, "No, I'm not okay but I will be."

The short lived conversation is interrupted by a knock at my door. With the sound bringing me from my thoughts, I send Luca an apologetic glance before rising from my seat. I don't know who could be at the door but I have a slight idea.

When I open it, I come to see I'm right. I exhale at the sight of her, "Talia."

The dancer clutches her work bag, a look of concern on her face, "He's out and coming after you, Remi."

Just as I'm about to push her outside and close the door behind us so Luca doesn't hear, the man himself makes himself known, "Who's coming after you?"

if the name talia sounds familiar, look at the fourth book in the series 👀😏

the way im writing this book and it's going by kinda fast lmfao like the storyline but im not ab to slow it down 😭