Page 81 of The Obsession
“They chose escalation, so I’m going to finish it.”
We spend the following couple of hours making plans and sorting through the rest of the day’s business. When we finally wrap up, it’s well past midday.
Dante picks up his phone and scrolls through his contacts before lifting it to his ear. “Mario,” he says when the person on the other end of the line answers. “I need a delivery brought to the house as soon as possible. Pizzas, pastas, garlic bread, and a few salads. Enough to feed an army.”
There’s a muffled response on the other end, something that makes Dante huff out a quiet laugh.
His eyes shift to me, amusement already tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t have the full crew here, but one of my guys will eat enough for at least three of my men and still have room for dessert.”
I narrow my eyes at him, and his shoulders shake with silent laughter; the bastard doesn’t even try to hide it. The tension from earlier loosens and is replaced by a familiar irritation I can actually breathe around.
Romeo snorts, dragging his hand across his mouth like he’s trying to wipe the smile off before I catch it. “I thought he preferred kittens,” he mumbles.
I turn to him so fast it’s a miracle my neck doesn’t snap, and I level him with a look that could sandblast paint. Fuckin’ kittens? What a stupid-arse thing to say.
Dante ends the call, and my focus swings back to him. “Are you calling me a pig?” I ask, running my palms down the front of my jeans like I’m smoothing down my dignity.
He barks out a laugh, stands, and buttons his suit jacket. “Not at all. But I’ve seen you eat. I know what you’re capable of.”
I scoff. “I eat as much as the next man.”
Romeo snickers, and when I turn my attention back to him, he cocks a challenging brow like he’s about to get brave again. If he accuses me of eating puppies this time, I swear to God I’m fucking uppercutting him straight into next Tuesday.
“I watched you consume an entire lasagne once, like it personally offended you,” he offers instead.
“That lasagne was offensive,” I mutter.
Dante smirks. “Offensive or not, I’m just making sure Mario brings enough so the rest of us don’t starve while you battle your demons as you inhale three family-sized pizzas.”
“I’m a growing man,” I say in my own defence.
Dante clasps my shoulder as we exit his office. “You keep growing, big fella, and I’m going to have to widen my fucking doorframes.”
This time, they all laugh, and I grunt my disapproval—loudly—mostly to drown out the fact that even I can’t help the small, traitorous smile tugging at my mouth. I like my food. Sue me.
We follow Dante as he navigates his way towards the rear of the house. I can’t stop thinking about seeing Emily in a swimsuit for the first time. Her bare skin, the sunlight on her curves, the way the water might cling to her, tracing the lines of her body in a way my hands want to. The anticipation makes it impossible to focus on anything else.
I clench and unclench my hands at my sides as Dante slides open the door and steps onto the back deck. I follow right behind him while Romeo rounds us both and headsdown the stairs towards the pool. Lucia shifts to the edge of the water with baby Gabriel in her arms.
Romeo grabs a towel off the sunbed and goes straight to them. He bends and lifts his small son out of the water, briskly wraps him up in the towel and cradles him tightly against his chest.
He’s a good dad, and so is Dante. Their kids are lucky to have two loving parents. Lil’ Peach has me, but there’s a part, buried fucking deep, that still wants to give her that real family one day. A mother and a father figure.
Lucia moves for the steps, and when he gets an eyeful of the tiny bikini she’s wearing, he quickly grabs another towel and shoves it in her direction. He’s a possessive bastard, but I can’t blame him.
Dante moves across the deck and stops at the railing while my eyes sweep the pool for my girls. Peach is in Emily’s arms, both of them wearing hats. But instead of the skimpy bikini I was hoping to see Emily in, she’s wearing a fucking rashie. Her skin is pale, not naturally olive like the rest of us Italian descendants, so it’s a sensible choice, but I can’t help feeling disappointed.
“I’ve ordered lunch,Bellezza(Beauty),” Dante says to his wife.
“We were going to come in soon and cook something.”
“No need.”
“What did you order?” she asks.
“Pizza from Mario’s.”
“Yay, pee-za,” Lil’ Peach screams, throwing her hands in the air.
