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Again, an oddly thoughtful gesture, even if there was ‘blood scrubbing’ involved.

“Thanks. I appreciate it.” I close the bag and set it down by my feet.

“Of course.”

Somehow, his gaze softens to dusky winter night.

For a mob boss, he’s a decent one, I suppose.

Not that it changes what he does for a living.

Tearing out illicit organs, for one. And who knows what else?

Murder, theft, contraband guns, drugs, racketeering?

What even is racketeering?

“You still want to make a book run now that you have your novel back?” he asks.

“Well… kinda. There’s this one book I’ve been wanting since last year in hard cover,” I blab. “Wishing Hearts Volume Four: Kingdom of Curses. Have you heard of it?”

“Do I look like a man who reads fantasy?”

That’s a hell no.

“But you should! It’s a great series. I have the first three books. The author, Miss Lumi, uses this cool style where she has her characters talk to ice demons. But nobody else knows they’re there except for the reader, because ice demons are invisible, you see. It’s like having this weird imaginary friend.”

“Fuck that,” he mutters coldly. “Definitely not my thing. What ever happened to the ones with talking swords? At least that’s entertaining.”

I know I just light up like Christmas as I ramble on about my imaginary worlds and his face turns to stone in the weirdest way.

I also notice how normal it feels a few minutes in.

It’s automatic, like I’m talking to any old acquaintance. Not the most handsome and lethal man I’ve ever met rolled into the same gruff man.

“But, um, enough about that. What do you read?” I chew my lip.

“I don’t have much time for books. When I do, it’s business or psychology, usually. Both very relevant to my line of work.”

Right.

All business, all murder, all the time.

He pulls into a parking space in front of my favorite secondhand bookstore, Word Vibes.

“Are you coming in?” I ask as I reach for the door and notice he hasn’t moved.

He looks through the bookstore’s big glass front window, which makes me do a double take, wondering why this annoyed look curdles his face.

“I’ll sit this one out. You enjoy, Miss Bellandi.”

I shrug, trying not to fixate on how weird this is.

What is even happening?

When we left Nonno’s house, I felt like a prisoner, marched out at near gunpoint by an ice-cold killer.

But what kind of killer buys his hostage dainty Italian pastries and then drives her to a favorite bookstore to have her way with the books?