We’re weaving through Greek Town. I can hear the sirens still, but not actually see the squad cars. I can’t tell if they’re behind us or one block over.

Nero seems to know exactly where they are, because he keeps doubling back and shifting over.

I have to admit, his driving is masterful. I’ve never seen somebody handle a car like this, especially an old Mustang that wasn’t exactly built for it. He shifts through the gears like they’re liquid, the tendons standing out on his hand and forearm. His skin is smooth and deeply olive, no hair on his forearms, so I can see every ripple of tension running up the flesh.

His black hair falls into his face as we wrench around the corners. He tosses it back again with a flick of his head, like a restless horse. His jaw is as tight as his arm. It flexes as he grits his teeth.

As I watch Nero drive, instead of watching the road and all the other cars we’re almost hitting, my panic begins to leech away. I’m mesmerized by the sight of him. I’ve never seen somebody so focused.

I’ve also never looked at Nero for so long before.

I never could.

I could only steal glances, knowing that he’s so high-strung, so alert, that each time I was risking him turning that blazing stare on me, shrinking me down to nothing in the heat of his gaze. I didn’t want to draw his attention. I didn’t want him to cut me down for daring to look at him.

Now my eyes are fixed on him like I’m seeing him for the first time.

It’s too much.

He fills my brain.

Maybe it’s the adrenaline of the moment, but I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.

His jaw is a straight, sharp line beneath those ridiculously full lips. His mouth is perfectly shaped—pouting, cruel, mobile, sarcastic. And yet soft, and infinitely enticing. He looks the most Italian of any of his brothers, his skin almost as brown as mine. It’s smooth and clear. His broad nose is strong enough to balance those lips. And then you have his eyes . . .

God almighty, why did you give the man with the blackest soul the most heavenly eyes?

They’re long, narrow, and light gray in color. Lighter than his skin. The gray almost looks silver, shot through with darker bands that radiate out from the pupil like a starburst.

He turns those eyes on me, sparing a glance from the road. It feels like a spike driving into my chest. For just a second, I wish that I were beautiful, so he’d want to look at me the way I’m looking at him.

He fixes his eyes on the road again.

The sirens are just a little more distant now. Maybe two streets over.

Nero checks the rear-view mirror once more, then jerks the wheel to the right and turns into an underground parking garage. He takes us down to the second level, pulling into a tight spot between a van and a truck. He cuts the lights.

“We’ll wait here a minute,” he says.

It’s only in the sudden silence that I hear my blood rushing in my ears, and I realize how fast my heart has been beating all this time.

I sink back in my seat, gasping for air.

I cover my eyes with my hands, trying to block out the car, the garage, and Nero, so I can breathe.

The weight of all the trouble I’m in is pressing down on me like a block of stone. Victor, my dad, Schultz, Levi . . . I can see them all circling around me, all needing something. Now I don’t even have my car, and I’m stuck in here with Nero, about to be arrested any second.

My heart is seizing up in my chest. My breath comes faster and more ragged. I feel like I’m dying.

Nero grabs my hand and peels it away from my face. He presses hard on the flesh between my thumb and index finger.

The jolt of pressure cuts through my racing thoughts. It focuses all sensation on that one point in my hand.

Nero keeps squeezing, his strong fingers as relentless as a vise.

Right when the pressure is turning into pain, he starts kneading his thumb into my palm instead. He’s holding my hand between both of his, massaging the exhausted muscles of my fingers and palm.

I never realized how tired my hands get, working all day long. The massage is agony and ecstasy. It gives me relief so powerful I can barely stand it.

My breathing slows. I’m sitting up straighter, focused only on my hand.

Nero drops the left hand and picks up the right. He does the same thing, rubbing all the tension out of my flesh.

He seems to know exactly where to touch, as if he can read my aches with his fingertips.

I never imagined that Nero could have a gentle touch. I’ve seen him get in more fights than I can count. He’s like a walking weapon—violent, unpredictable, wreaking destruction on whatever he touches.

I’ve seen him with girls, too. Even then, he’s always been rough and aggressive.

This is different.

Maybe because he doesn’t see me as a girl.

He’s touching me the way he’d touch a car engine—with a desire to fix it. He diagnosed me, and he’s making me run smooth again.

I pull back my hand. “Thanks,” I say. “I’m good now.”

“Good.” Nero nods.

He faces forward once more, scrolling through his phone. He puts on some music, quietly, in case any cops are trolling through the parking garage looking for us.

“Here,” he says.

He passes me a bottle of malt liquor, about a third drunk already.

I almost laugh. “This is what you drink?”

“I drink whatever’s handy,” he says, unsmiling.

I take a swig of it. It tastes spicy and foamy, without the bitterness of beer. It burns on the way down, spreading warmth through my chest, helping to calm me down a little more. I take another drink.

“That’s actually . . . not bad,” I say.

Nero takes the bottle and drinks several heavy swallows. I see his throat moving with each gulp. He passes it back to me, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

I drink again, trying not to think that we’re sharing more than liquor, our lips touching the same glass rim.

We’re silent. The only noise is the slosh of liquor in the bottle, and the music Nero’s playing.

The steady rap beat is interspersed with a pretty chorus—melancholy and wistful. I remember how Nero switched my radio station. He must like this kind of stuff. It’s not what I usually listen to, but I’m liking it now, with the warmth of the malt liquor spreading through my body, and the darkness of the underground parking garage cocooning us.

Nero’s car smells good. I mean it really, really smells good. Like expensive leather, the spiced liquor, engine oil, and the masculine scent of Nero himself. I don’t usually sit close enough to him to notice it. There’s a warm, enticing scent rising from his skin: hawthorn and nutmeg, no hint of sweetness.

It’s intoxicating. Or something is. My head feels light, and I get a flush of honesty. Like I should just say what I’m thinking. I never do that, usually. I keep my thoughts locked down tight.

“Why did you do that?” I ask Nero.

“ ‘Cause fuck the cops,” he says.

“No. I mean, why did you take me with you?”

He takes another swig, giving himself time to think.

“I don’t know,” he says at last.

“Why’d you leave the money in my shop?”

“Because I used your tools.”

“You left too much.”

“Who cares?” he says angrily. “I don’t give a fuck about money.”