So, I woke up this morning to find that this story was trending #1 in #eroticromance and #5 in #mafia... Nearly fainted.

There was a long period of time where no one was reading, so your votes and comments and support mean more than I can say.

***

if the sex is the best part, or after.

The way we hold each other, hands wandering, the smell of our sin filling the warm air of his bedroom, is perfect.

I feel him plant a soft kiss into my tangled hair, mumbling something gently in Italian.

"One day I'm gonna learn how to speak Italian," I breathe, my voice still foggy with sex.

He chuckles. "Natalia can teach you. Maybe she can translate for you."

I laugh, smacking his shoulder. "Translate all the dirty, dirty things you say to me during sex? Very funny."

He grins crookedly at me, about to say something more, but a buzzing sound comes from the side table. He reaches reluctantly for his cell phone. When he reads the screen, his expression instantly hardens, eyes darkening. "I have to take this, dolcezza." His voice is gruff.

We pry ourselves apart and he answers the phone, his Italian sharp and harsh at whoever is on the other side.

He tugs on a pair of briefs and I watch, curious, as he leaves the room, arguing angrily through the phone.

At first, I listen for a name. But then I remember that eavesdropping is wrong. That I trust him. Right?

Trust. Love and trust are two different things.

But the last week or so, we've shared so many difficult truths with each other. He hasn't been lying to me. Surprisingly, I haven't even lied to him.

I remember a time when all I did was lied to the people I loved.

But Nero and I have pretty much always told each other the hard stuff. Or maybe I'm remembering things better than they actually were.

I tell myself to stop worrying over things I don't need to worry about. If I'm curious, I can ask him. He'll tell me.

I trust him.

Or at least I think I should.

When he finally slides back in through the door, he looks so tired. Pissed and defeated. I lean onto my side and study him, as he runs a hand through his tousled hair. "You okay?" I ask softly, giving him a small smile.

He sits next to me on the mattress, letting out a heavy sigh. "I'll be okay."

But he doesn't look like it.

I push myself up, sit on my knees behind him, my bareness fitting softly against his back and my arms wrapping protectively around his neck. He holds my arms against him, leans his head into my shoulder. My lips brush across his cheek.

I hold him and he holds me and we sit like that for a long time. If he wants to tell me, he will.

But then again, he's not used to sharing things. So I might have to ask, when he's not looking so forlorn and exhausted.

Into his ear I mumble, "You can talk to me, Nero. I'm not going anywhere."

His fingers brush lightly against my wrist, squeezing gently. "Let's take a shower. I'll tell you about it over dinner."

I untangle myself from him, take his hand and lead him into his bathroom. He slides off his briefs, we step into the hot water.

Under the heat of the shower, soap running down our slick bodies, I try to make him forget the heaviness he's feeling, if only for a short while.

When he eventually shudders into my mouth, his fingers knotted gently in my hair and the tension leaving his body in waves, the soft Italian words he mumbles roughly into the steam sound like love.

***

As I'm twirling a forkful of steaming stir-fry noodles, he confesses, "I'm working on it, carina. Telling you things." He offers me a wry smile. "I'm not used to... telling someone what I'm thinking."

My expression is soft, and I hope he sees the understanding in my eyes. "It's okay. I'm working on... being honest about everything." I bite my lip. "I feel like I was always hiding things and lying about stuff. But I don't have to do that anymore."

He tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear, brushing my cheek tenderly with a crooked finger.

"I'm still trying to protect you from it, carina." His eyes are dark, but open. "After everything, a part of me still thinks I need to hide this world from you." He shakes his head a little. "As if I don't know how much of it you've already seen."

My small hand covers his broad palm as it rests on the table. "I'm stronger than that, Nero."

"I know, amore mio." My heart does a backflip, fluttering through my chest, whenever he calls me that.

We eat in silence a little longer. I'm famished. I've definitely been... exercising a lot more than usual.

"They want to make a deal, carina. To turn over the Santirellis and let everyone else walk away." I can hear a tinge of bitterness behind each syllable.

"But...?"

He lets out a small breath. "But. I'm not sure I'm willing to let Marco and his thugs go free." His eyes narrow, and I can see the gears whizzing through his head.

Natalia and I were pretty much right this afternoon.

"But if you don't agree, they'll turn you in, Nero." I state the obvious, and he just nods.

He meets my eyes again, and they soften with affection. "Rosalyn." I wait to hear what's coming next, because from his halting tone I know it's going to be hard to hear. "I know who killed Caleb."

I can't help the way my heart thuds, the sharp inhale of breath that accompanies Caleb's name from Nero's mouth. I don't say anything, because I don't think I can form words.

"And there's no way I could live with myself if I let him get away with it."

And everything suddenly falls into place. If Nero takes this deal, he's safe. But Caleb's killer walks free.

After a long stretch of silence, I feel the tips of his fingers brush gently against my forehead. I realize how furrowed my brow was. The heavy wrinkles in my forehead melt away from his touch.

"I don't know what to say, Nero," I whisper.

"I know, Rosalina. It's so fucked up." He rubs a hand across his face. "I've been arguing with Marco since Monday, trying to get him to give that bastard over as part of the deal."

His phone call from earlier suddenly makes sense. "But he won't, will he?"

"No." Nero's gaze is filled with fire. "He won't."

I can feel a rawness at the back of my throat, a glassiness coating my eyes. "What's his name?"

Nero studies me for a moment, and the concern etched into his forehead is obvious. "Franco. Franco Russo."

Something clenches in my chest. "The police never caught him?" My voice sounds broken.

"No, carina. They never caught him." The softness in his voice makes my heart hurt even more. "Marco has protected him."

Marco's face flashes across my mind, and I can smell that sour, stale scent of cigarettes, see the cold flatness in those dead eyes. The memory of him turns red.

"How many men does he have? The ones who are loyal to him?"

He watches me curiously. I know he's worried about me, after what I've just heard. But he answers me anyways. "Four or five."

Some crazed part of my mind is trying to grasp at a plan. "And besides you and Luca and Gabriel and Angelo, who else is on your side?"

I can see the caution in his eyes. He doesn't want me to get involved in this. But I think he knows better than to argue. He considers my question, doing the math in his head. "I think there's about eight of us. And another ten men who will go either way."

"Depending on who pays them the most?"

His eyes glimmer. "Or whose threats they're more afraid of."

The blood in my veins feels hot. My voice is hoarse and low when I ask, "Are they more afraid of you or Marco?"

Something flashes across his eyes. This is probably a sore topic. Because, as much as he wants to leave this world, he still wants to be in control. He still has his pride. "It depends."

I know how cold and merciless Marco is. And a part of me knows that Nero, despite the softness in him that I see, has that side of him too. There's something in him, a ruthlessness, that made it possible for him control the Vancouver mafia for years.

It's only now, in this moment, that I fully understand the magnitude of that. I don't know how it makes me feel.

But then he takes my hand, winds his fingers between mine, and a heat travels from every place we touch to all the places we don't. The anger and confusion and the hurt slowly fade away, until I'm left with a dull ache.

"Look at me, Rosalyn." His voice is commanding but gentle. I realize I've been avoiding his eyes.

When our gazes meet, the depth and darkness and that bright sparkle captivate me. The way he feels about me is more than all of this. It's more real.

"Nero," I whisper, and he knows that my mind has collapsed into turmoil.

"Don't run from me, dolcezza. We'll work it out together." And then I see the vulnerability in his face.

He's opened his heart to me. And now he's afraid I'm gonna leave like I could have, this whole time.

A tear falls down my cheek. "I can't run, Nero. Even after everything, a piece of me..." I sniffle, "is yours." Will always be. It's catastrophic but it's the truth.

Our dinner is mostly untouched in front of us but he pushes his chair back and gathers me into his arms, pulls me into his chest where my silent tears soak into his t-shirt.

Once my heart gets over the unfairness of it, and the guilt, and the shame, I know I will be plotting Franco's doom.

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