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“Giudecca.”
“Like Antonio Moretti.” The mafia boss of Venice famously lives in Giudecca. His wife, Lucia, just opened an art gallery there. I saw a fawning article about her in one of the magazines in the gym’s lobby.
“The padrino prefers we live close. It’s easier that way.”
Easier for what, I wonder, though I don’t ask. “Is he a good boss?”
“Yes,” Tomas says. “Very much so. It makes for a very pleasant change.”
“A change from what?”
I don’t think he’s going to respond, but to my surprise, he answers my question. “Back in Valencia, I used to work for a man called Alonzo d’Este. He was… not a good boss. On my first day, I wanted to impress him, so I prepared a presentation about how he could improve his investment strategy and triple his returns. Alonzo flew into a rage. He took my critique as a personal affront.” He exhales in a long breath. “It was not the best working environment.”
“Why didn’t you leave?”
“I should have. But I thought I was in love with Alonzo’s assistant, Estela. It wasn’t until that blew up in my face that I quit.”
He said he moved to Venice five years ago. Estela—I even hate her name—should be firmly in the past. There’s no need for my stomach to sink the way it does when he mentions another woman.
“What happened?”
He shrugs. “I asked her to marry me, and she turned me down. I thought we were in love with each other, but she told me in not so many words that she was slumming with the help. Her father was an enforcer for one of the Colombian cartels, and she was only working for Alonzo to learn the business. She intended on marrying cartel royalty, and I was too much of a nobody. After that, the idea of working alongside her didn’t appeal, so I looked around for another job, and Antonio offered me one.”
I stare at him, my heart aching. Tomas is gorgeous and smart, witty and capable. He’s someone you can count on in a fight, someone whose word is his bond. I can’t think of why any woman would turn him down. “Estela clearly has the brains of a pea.”
The look in his eyes is affectionate. “That almost sounds like another compliment, Ali.”
“Don’t hold your breath for the next,” I respond automatically. Barbs and insults and sharp banter—that’s been the nature of our relationship so far. Why do I feel like I’m standing on the precipice of something new?
“Do you ever miss Valencia? How often do you go back?”
His shoulders tense. “I haven’t,” he says, his voice clipped. “Not since I left.”
He’s been away from his home for five years. He misses it—I know he does, even if he doesn’t admit it to himself. I can see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice.
But he’s stayed away because he’s still in love with Estela.
My heart feels like it’s been tossed into the smoothie machine. I take a deep, steadying breath. “It didn’t bother you that you’d be working for the mafia in Venice? Or did you already work for the mafia in Valencia?”
He chuckles. “Officially, there’s no mafia in Valencia.”
“And unofficially?”
“Unofficially, Spain is where the mafia, the bratva, and the cartels hang out and learn from each other. Mallorca is filled with villas belonging to the Russians, the Colombians, and the Italians. Alonzo d’Este wasn’t connected to any one organization; he profited from them all.”
We’ve reached our destination. I come to a halt outside the gym and fumble in my purse for the key. I’m not ready to say goodbye. Not yet. Almost four hours after it happened, I can still feel his kiss on my lips. “How will you get home? The vaporetto won’t start running for another hour.”
“I have a boat.” He looks up at the lightening sky. “What time does the gym open on Sunday?”
“Eight.”
“Tell me you arranged for someone to open.” He glances at my face, and he shakes his head. “No, of course you didn’t.” He follows me into the lobby and waits for me to open the door to my stairwell. “Sleep in, Ali. I’ll open the gym for you.”
It’s the first time he’s called me Ali, in a tone that is exasperated and affectionate all at once. My heart does a funny little flip when I hear it. “You should make that offer only if you mean it,” I warn him. “Because I’m going to take you up on it.”
“I mean it.” He brushes his finger over the cut on my cheek. “Put something on this.”
His touch sends a surge of desire through my bloodstream. “You keep telling me what to do,” I whisper. “I don’t like it.”
