Page 256 of Alessio

He often wondered, how, at eighteen—although now, just a month or so shy of his twenty-third birthday—had he found his person. He knew some people went their whole lives without ever finding that person that was meant to be only theirs.

He found his early.

Corrado was still there, too.

God.

And he loved him.

Loved him fucking stupid.

Loved him enough to still be here even when shit held Corrado back, and forced them into his strange place where they were something, but they weren’t at the same time. Where they shared women in bed, and had a whole life together behind closed doors, but out in the world … they weren’t anything. Where they dictated this thing between them with rules that had followed them from damn near the beginning, but neither of them said three little words to cement it.

I love you.

But that was too deep.

Corrado didn’t do deep.

So, Alessio lied.

“I was thinking one of us needs to take the black Porsche out, and open it up,” he murmured, swallowing the emotions in his throat, “it’s been a while since it’s been taken out.”

Corrado glanced over at him, and if he knew he was lying, he didn’t say. Not that he ever brought up that kind of shit; it might open a can of worms that he wasn’t willing to face yet, and Alessio had a bad habit of letting Corrado have what he wanted.

Even if it hurt him.

“Yeah, all right,” Corrado replied.

Crisis averted.

As per usual.

The ringing phone on Corrado’s nightstand saved the two of them from saying anything more. Corrado rolled over, and snatched the phone while Les pushed out of the bed, and started grabbing the few clothes he’d discarded earlier. A shirt, his pants …

Corrado had nothing on.

He tossed his clothes over, too.

“Thanks,” he mouthed, answering the phone at the same time. “Marcus.”

Alessio stilled, shooting a look over his shoulder. Not that it was unusual for Corrado to get calls from his family because that was all too normal. Usually a couple a day, really. If not his mother, then it might be the man’s twin, his father, or any one of his other three brothers.

All of which Alessio knew.

And well.

It was one of the reasons why this thing between them didn’t make any fucking sense, not that Corrado liked it when he pointed it out. Alessio wasn’t hidden from Corrado’s family like he was a dirty secret to be kept. He sat at their dinner table—he attended their parties, and celebrations. They knew him.

And he suspected, they knew why he was there.

But no one asked.

So, no one told.

He just didn’t understand.

Why?