Page 71 of Corrado

No.

He was done talking.

For one, this wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have. And for two, because even if he did want to have it, he didn’t know where to begin. Not without admitting he didn’t know if he could ever be something with Alessio.

Maybe a part of Corrado was just broken.

Or wrong.

Who knew?

“Corrado!”

He let the slam of the bathroom door answer Alessio’s shout of his name. Maybe he’d get the hint, then, and back the hell off. Corrado hoped for too much, because as he was tugging off his shirt while turning on the shower taps in the large bathroom, Alessio came right in.

Like he’d been invited.

“We’re not done here,” Alessio said.

Corrado made a harsh noise under his breath, shrugging off his pants, and yanking off his socks. Fine. If that’s what Alessio wanted—an answer to his damn question—then he would get one. “No, okay? No, I didn’t even know that guy existed until you made it into a thing. I was too busy thinking it would have been a far better day had you been here to show me around the city.” He stood straight, fingers hooking around the waistband of his boxer-briefs to shove them down before he could step into the shower. “There, is that what you wanted to hear?”

“You think that’s what this is about?”

“No, I think you want something from me that I’m not even sure I can give, Les. Why can’t I give it to you? I don’t know, so don’t ask. But if you’re looking for that, you’re not going to get it.”

“I—”

“Get out so I can shower.”

Alessio stood firm. “No.”

“Fine.”

Fuck him.

Corrado shoved his boxer-briefs down, and stepped into the shower, closing the frosted glass door behind him to keep Alessio out. Not that it really would if the man wanted to come in, anyway. He didn’t need Alessio to be done with the conversation to keep doing what he wanted to do. He was sure that frustrated the hell out of his companion, but whatever.

Even beneath the spray of heavy, hot water from a shower head that was the size of a dinner plate, Corrado could still hear Alessio when he spoke. “I keep thinking it’s your pride that does shit like this, but I don’t know anymore.”

Staring at the brown and beige tiles, Corrado willed his ears to stop working. If for just a second because he didn’t want to know he was fucking this up. He didn’t want to know he was hurting someone he cared about.

Someone he loved.

Because he wasn’t ready to say that.

It couldn’t be real.

Once it became real, then he had a whole bag of other shit to unpack, too. Like the people in his life who would say he was wrong and weak for loving who he did. Like the people who would shame his father, his family … their entire legacy because he loved another man. That culture—the mafia—was caustic when it came to people like him, and it wouldn’t matter that he wasn’t in it. It wouldn’t make a difference because there were still expectations for him, and his family, regardless if he was made or not.

He knew it.

He heard them his whole life.

People like him?

They were shamed.

Shunned.