Code of Honor

by Missy Johnson

  Then I panic.

  Giovanni flashes through my head.

  How stupid am I to even think about kissing her here? What if he lied and he does have this place bugged? What if he’s watching us right now?

  I tilt her face and kiss her forehead. She blinks, her expression surprised as I pull away. I smile awkwardly and step back, my hands dropping to my side.

  “I—I have to go to bed,” she says quietly.

  Her face colors and I know she’s wondering what the hell just happened. I can’t deny the relief that is racing through me. I was seconds away from doing something that I couldn’t take back, something that could’ve ruined both of us. I nod and watch her back away.

  “Night, Luce,” I call out as she disappears down the hall.

  Chapter 12

  Lucy

  Cursing, I kick the door closed with my foot.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  Our regular conversations over the last few weeks had really gotten to me. Somehow, I’d moved our relationship out of the friendship zone and into—well, who knows where we stand now? If he were interested, he would’ve kissed me, right? It was the perfect opportunity and he pulled away.

  Not that any of that matters. He sees me like a little sister. He could have any woman he wanted.

  Then why do I never see him with other women?

  Stop it.

  I must be trying to rationalize why things are so weird between us by imagining something that isn’t there.

  Groaning, I peel off my clothes and climb into bed. Tiredness has hit me out of nowhere, and suddenly I’m struggling to keep my eyes open.

  I’ll figure everything out tomorrow.

  I wake early the next morning, a side effect of starting most of my days before five. I climb out of bed and slip on my robe, tying it loosely around my waist before I venture out into the living room. I smile as I spot Pietro passed out, asleep on the sofa. He obviously hadn’t made it to his bed last night.

  I’m not quiet as I set about preparing breakfast, and it’s not long before he’s sitting up and rubbing his eyes, probably wondering where the hell he is. His expression brightens when he notices me in the kitchen.

  “You’re up early.” He yawns, stretching his long arms above his head. He gets to his feet and walks over to me, slumping down on one of the stools that line the counter.

  “Nine a.m. is not early.” I chuckle. “Try getting up at five every morning and then complain to me that this is early.”

  “I’m lucky if I’m asleep by four most nights,” he says, and laughs. He runs his hand through his thick, dark curls. I bite my lip, trying not to stare. The top two buttons of his shirt have come undone, revealing just a tease of what lies beneath. The sexy, just-out-of-bed look suits him. I force my eyes away and focus on the coffee grounds I’m about to spill all over the counter.

  “Four.” I groan. Even the thought makes me feel tired. “How can you function on so little sleep?”

  “You get used to it.” He chuckles. “I don’t think I’ve slept a decent night in over eight years.”

  I connect the dots. Eight years. About the time he lost his parents. I don’t want to pry, but I’m curious.

  “Tell me to butt out,” I begin slowly, “but does it have anything to do with what happened?”

  He nods. “Yeah. I still get pretty bad nightmares.”

  My heart jumps as I feel his pain. I remember just after he arrived being woken up by his screams in the middle of the night. I was terrified for him. I couldn’t imagine going through what he’s been through.

  “That sucks,” I mumble, shaking my head. “Have you seen anyone about it?”

  “Like a doctor?” He laughs. “I did when I was younger. Your father forced me to go. But it never really helped. The only thing that did was waste time.”

  He shrugs and I’m in awe of his strength.

  “Coffee?” I ask, lightening the mood. He nods. “Still double strength, no cream?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

  “The only way to drink it.” He winks.

  A chill races through my body.

  “I thought you hated coffee,” he notes as I prepare two cups.

  I make a face. “I do, but I’m getting used to it.”

  My nose wrinkles and he laughs again. I fill both our cups and push his across the counter to him.

  “So, what are we doing today?” he asks, wrapping his hands around the mug. I shrug. Somehow, I don’t think my plan of lazing on the sofa waiting for the phone to ring was going to cut it. “Come on, Luce. You’re in New York. I bet you’ve barely taken five minutes to see the sights since you’ve been here.”

  “It’s not like it’s my first trip to New York,” I retort, my tone defensive. “Trust me, I’ve seen it all before.”

  “But you haven’t seen it my way,” he says with a grin. I narrow my eyes, recognizing the mischievous glint in his gaze.

  “Your way?” I groan. “I’m scared to even ask.”

  —

  “This is our first stop?” I laugh, staring at the video game arcade in front of us, aptly named Barcade. Pietro looks offended as he grabs hold of my hand and drags me inside.

  “This isn’t just any arcade, Luce. It’s one of the oldest in the country. Don’t tell me you’re too good for arcade games. Or maybe you’re just scared?” He lifts an eyebrow, and I narrow my eyes at him. I know what he’s doing and it’s working.

  “Game on,” I say, then grin. “But I’m choosing.”

  He holds his hands up in surrender, a twinkle in his eyes. I stroll through the arcade, carefully studying each game before deciding on a racing one.

  “You sure about this?” he asks. “I mean, I’ve seen you drive.”

  My mouth falls open. He laughs and shakes his head.

  “Don’t take offense, maybe it’ll play to your advantage.” He gets behind the wheel of one of the carts and motions to the other. “Are you joining me?”

  “Prepare to be embarrassed.” I sit behind the wheel, my face a mask of concentration as I stare at the screen in front of me. We take off, and as I half expected, Pietro races ahead of me while I struggle to figure out the pedals. I finally gain some speed just as I’m going into a corner. Grabbing the wheel, I skid to the side as the car begins to spin out of control, landing me in a pit of mud.

  “It’s just like being back in Chicago with you,” Pietro teases, winking at me.

  “This game is the worst.” I laugh, conceding that maybe I’m not as good a driver as I thought I was. I spy an air hockey table across the room and smile. Now that is more up my alley. I get up and head toward it, leaving Pietro protesting behind me.

  “Air hockey.” He groans. “Not again. Is this going to spark something in you?”

  I laugh and poke my tongue out at him. He’s referring to when I was seventeen and Dad got Pietro an air hockey table for his birthday. I became obsessed with playing the damn thing and went for hours at a time competing against Pietro and his friends. In the end, they banned me from playing with them. They claimed it was because I was getting out of control, but I know it’s because I kept beating them.

  “Scared?” I ask lightly.

  After I thrash him four times playing air hockey, he decides he’s had enough. I laugh as he drags me out of the arcade.

  “Where are we going now?” I ask. “Somewhere else I can beat your ass, I hope.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but our next stop is slightly less competitive,” he retorts, his voice dry. A few blocks later he stops outside a pizza place. “This is it,” Pietro says, directing us into the restaurant. I sigh with relief. I’m exhausted.

  We go inside and I expect to be led to a table, but the waitress takes us through to the kitchen. I narrow my eyes at Pietro, wondering what else he has planned. He smiles innocently at me.

  “We’re not eating pizza. We’re learning to make it.”

  “Make it?” I laugh. “Why would I want to make it when I can jus
t call up and order it? Besides, we’re Italian! Pizza making is in our blood.”

  “But not true New York–style pizza,” he argues. “And once we find out that you got in, we’ll do something special to celebrate.”

  My heart jumps as I think about the program. This is the first time all day I’ve thought about it. I sneak a look at Pietro, impressed by how convincingly he was able to distract me from it.

  —

  We spend the next few hours learning the art of pizza making and eating our masterpieces for lunch—though I end up wearing more than actually ends up on my pizza. I’ve never laughed so much in my life. We leave the pizzeria and head back to my apartment. I’m tired but glad the day isn’t ending here.

  “This was a pretty cool day. You know a lot of useless shit.” I chuckle. “I love how fun and laid-back you are. It’s like I’m seeing a different side to you.”

  “Different how?” he asks, cocking his head.

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “You’re much more formal back home. Around my father.”

  He laughs. “Have you met your father? He’s as intimidating as hell. Besides, I want him to take me seriously, professionally speaking, and that’s all in the way I carry myself around him.”

  “Why do you even want to be involved in all that?” I ask.

  I might be ignorant about how legal my father’s business activities are, but I’m not stupid. Most of what he does would be seen as dubious in the eyes of the law, but that’s the way it’s always been. I don’t question it.

  “Because believe it or not, your dad is one of the good guys. My father got mixed up in some pretty serious stuff that ultimately got my family killed. He never hid his involvement in crime from me. If anything, I was exposed to it from an early age, expected that I’d follow in his footsteps one day. Like it or not, this life is in my blood. It’s who I am.”

  “That sounds like a cop-out to me,” I mutter. Immediately, I regret my words. Pietro stares at me, his expression shocked. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business—”

  The phone ringing cuts me off. I jump, and for a brief moment I wonder who it is. Then I remember what I’ve been waiting all day for. My heart begins to pound as I pick up the phone. Closing my eyes, I press ANSWER and hold it to my ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Lucia, Marcus here. I’m happy to inform you that you’re one of the dancers we’re interested in having continue the program. I trust you’re happy to continue?”

  “Yes, definitely. One hundred percent.” I’m so happy I could burst. Random tears begin to well in my eyes and I swat them away.

  “I love your enthusiasm.” He chuckles. “I will see you at six a.m. sharp, Tuesday morning.”

  “You’re in?” Pietro asks impatiently as I place the phone in my pocket.

  I nod, a wide smile forming on my lips. Holy shit, I can’t believe it. Part of me had accepted the fact that there was a big chance I was going home. “That’s fantastic. Congratulations.”

  He throws his arms around me, his hands resting on the arch of my back. My knees weaken as he smiles at me, those dark, sexy eyes penetrating me. Silently, I’m begging for him to kiss me, but I know he won’t. If I had any guts I’d grab hold of his collar and pull him toward me. But I don’t.

  Instead, I allow him to kiss me on the cheek and pull out of the embrace. I try to hide my disappointment as he asks me how we’re going to celebrate.

  “We’re celebrating that I haven’t been kicked out of the program that might score me a job?” I laugh.

  “Your dream job,” he corrects. “And why not? Haven’t you worked hard? Aren’t you glad to be in the top fifty percent of your group?”

  “Sure, but it just seems silly.” I shrug. It’s how I feel, even if it is ridiculous. “How about we celebrate when there’s actually something worth celebrating?”

  “How about you suck it up and learn to accept when you’ve accomplished something?” he fires back. I laugh. He gets so passionate over the smallest things.

  “Fine,” I grumble. “You win. We’ll do something. You can take me to dinner somewhere, okay?”

  “Good. I know just the place.” He grins.

  —

  Fumbling through my closet, I let out a loud groan. All he would tell me was to dress to impress. That would help if I had anything nice. A piece of blue catches my eye. I tug on the material and hold it up. It’s flashy, sparkly, and perfect for a fancy place. I vaguely remember buying it on sale under pressure from Bella. Maybe I need a new wardrobe. I strip, and slide the dress over my hips. Thank God it still fits. Staring at myself in the mirror, I’m impressed with what I see. I don’t look half bad and after I run a brush through my hair, I’m ready to go.

  “Are you ready?”

  Pietro’s voice echoes through my room. I take in my appearance one last time and then walk out into the living room, where he’s waiting for me. He looks good in his charcoal pants and fitted black shirt. His hair has been lightly styled into place and as I near him, I can smell the scent of his cologne.

  His unshaven jawline twitches as his eyes follow me across the room. My heart jumps, and I find myself hoping he likes what he sees. The idea of him finding me attractive gives me tingles.

  “You look gorgeous,” he mumbles, his voice low.

  “Thanks,” I say, smiling shyly. “You don’t look too bad yourself. Are you ready?” He nods, taking my arm as he leads me out the door. We walk out the front door, and flag down a cab. The perfect gentleman, Pietro opens the door for me, letting me enter the cab first.

  “Where are we going?” I ask. Not that I care. Food is the last thing on my mind.

  “Tenth Avenue, between Fifteenth and Sixteenth, please,” he says to the cab driver. Turning his attention to me, he smiles. “I scoured Yelp for the best Italian restaurant in New York. This place is supposed to be pretty good.”

  “Yelp?” I giggle, biting my lip. “I was expecting a more…Pietro approach to finding a good restaurant. I thought you would’ve had connections,” I tease.

  “I do have connections,” he growls, narrowing his eyes. “I also see the value in a public forum where people offer their views on their experiences. Sometimes that can be better than using a connection.”

  I laugh. I’m sure he’s talking bullshit, but I’m not game enough to call him on it.

  We pull up outside a fancy restaurant called Del Posto. Pietro gets out first, holding the door open for me. I grin and take his hand.

  “You’re so cold,” he mumbles, pulling me against him. I breathe out, both loving and hating having him so close to me. “Let’s get inside where it’s nice and warm, huh?” I smile as he leads me through the doors, where it’s instantly warmer.

  “Reservation for Gustovi. For two, thanks.”

  The waiter nods graciously. “Follow me, sir.”

  We’re led to a table over by the open fire. I giggle as the waiter pulls my chair out for me and then positions my napkin in my lap. Pietro watches, amused.

  “It’s like you’ve never been to a fancy restaurant before,” he teases.

  “Truthfully, I haven’t since I was a kid,” I admit. “You know what Dad is like. He’d much rather entertain at home than go out.”

  “Yes, a true Italian trait, I believe. My parents were the same.”

  Without thinking, I reach across the table and place my hand over his. He raises his eyes to meet mine, and then smiles. “So, what do you feel like? Can I interest you in a wine?”

  “Why not?” I say with a grin. I hardly ever drink.

  “Wow, I wasn’t expecting you to say yes, stellina. New York has changed you,” he teases. “What’s next, strippers and pole dancing?”

  “Shut up and order the wine,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him.

  He laughs and waves down our waiter. He orders a bottle of red that I’ve never heard of, but the waiter nods and smiles, making me think it must be a good choice.

  We order our dinner, joking a
nd talking as we eat. After our entrées, I’m full but he convinces me to share a dessert with him. I agree and choose the tiramisu—which I end up eating most of.

  “Don’t eat desserts, huh?” he teases, and I lift the last spoonful to my lips.

  “What can I say? When I do eat them, I go a little crazy.” I laugh. “But honestly, I don’t care too much about eating the wrong thing every now and then. So many dancers obsess over food and making sure their bodies are perfect.” I shrug. “I obsess over too many other things to worry about what I eat.”

  “Like what?” he asks. The waiter sets down the bill and I reach for it, fully intending to pay for my part. Pietro gets to it first, whisking it away from me. “I’m paying,” he says. He holds his hand up as I try to protest. I give in, letting him win, and go back to his question.

  “Like whether I’m good enough to get anywhere in the dance world. Whether or not my father is coping without me.” I pause, before adding my last obsession. “Whether I’m ever going to meet anyone. Not that I have any time for love.”

  “You don’t have time for love, or you make yourself so busy so you can tell yourself you don’t have time for love?” he asks.

  I laugh. “Is there a difference?”

  “Sure there is,” he replies. “I think if the right guy came along, you’d make time for him.”

  “Maybe. But I’m beginning to think the right man doesn’t exist. Not for me, anyway.” I swallow and look down at the table. This conversation is getting way too personal for me. I think he senses it too, because he changes the subject.

  “Let’s go,” he says, standing up. “We’ll walk back, if you’re up for it.”

  Outside, we make our way back in the direction of my apartment. We’re not far away, and with the traffic, walking will probably be quicker anyway. He takes my hand in his as we walk side by side, neither of us speaking.

  I could get used to this. I imagine this is what it would be like to have a boyfriend, someone to go out to dinner with, to hold hands—to kiss. I sneak a glance at Pietro, who looks lost in thought. What’s he thinking about? Is it me? My pulse races as I imagine that I’m the person on his mind. What would it be like to kiss those lips and to drag my fingers through that thick, curly hair?