“No, I was going to say we should have just stayed home.” I trailed off, staring in confusion when he took an exit off the expressway. “What are you doing, Benito? You can’t get off here.”

“Can now. The marriage, Elena.”

How could I have forgotten? As I drove on Russo streets for the first time, it was beginning to feel real. My sister was marrying Nicolas. My throat felt tight.

“What are we doing here?” It felt like I was visiting another world, when it was only a part of New York City I hadn’t seen. It made me realize how sheltered I was. The only other countries I’d been to were Italy and Mexico. The former was to visit Mamma’s parents and family over there; the latter was for yearly vacations, though I thought that was just a guise for Papà’s business meetings with Mexican cartels.

“I just have to drop something off at Nico’s.”

I swallowed and tried to will my body into complacency, but I couldn’t stop the rush of anticipation from zinging beneath my skin. I gave my head a small shake in frustration. The truth was, I was incredibly attracted to my sister’s fiancé, whether I liked him or not. And I didn’t. The idea that I might get to see him from the car window was enough to have me on edge. I hated it, but I didn’t know how to turn it off either.

The city passed before my fresh eyes as we drove deeper into Russo territory.

We lived in a classy, spacious community in Long Island. The only neighbor you could see from the backyard was Tim Fultz. He owned a law firm Papà laundered money through; at least that’s what Benito told me once. He was a nice guy, besides. Our neighborhood was quiet and private, and I’d always assumed Nicolas resided in something similar, but he didn’t. He lived in the middle of the Bronx, in a red-brick home with a small white porch and a private drive that went to a garage in the back.

Benito pulled into the drive, drove to the back, and parked next to Nicolas’s car. The detached garage door was up, and two vehicles sat inside, one with its hood open. They were both black, just like Nicolas’s soul. I didn’t know a thing about cars—who could blame me? I’d never even been taught to drive—but I was aware these were classics. One was a Gran Torino. I only knew that because I’d seen Gran Torino not too long ago. Benito had cried, though he would never admit it. And since seeing a man cry was the saddest thing in the world, so had I.

My heartbeat jumped when Nicolas stepped out from behind the hood, wiping his hands with a rag. He wore dark jeans and a plain white t-shirt. I’d never seen a man covered in grease who looked this good. I let my head fall against the seat.

“Son of a bitch. I’m bleeding again.”

Sure enough, a red stain had bled through Benito’s white dress shirt. We were going to a pool party, but he wouldn’t be swimming or dressing down. Where would he put his gun?

“Didn’t you get stitches?”

“Yeah.” He pulled the keys out of the ignition. “But I split a couple open.”

Stupidly, I asked, “Doing what?”

“Gabriella.” He smirked.

“Yeah, about that . . .” My nose wrinkled. “Can you keep it away from the kitchen?”

His gaze narrowed before filling with amused clarity. “I know we all have our kinks, Elena, but you’re my cousin. Find someone else to watch.”

I rolled my eyes, opened the door, and got out before I knew what I was doing. I didn’t want to sit in a hot car, not while my skin was already warmer than normal from being in a certain man’s proximity.

Nicolas leaned against the garage, towel in hand. His gaze found mine, narrowing at the edges, before coasting to Benito, who handed him a manila envelope. These men sure loved their manila.

“Hey, man, can I use your bathroom?”

Nicolas’s attention fell to the bloodstain, and then he nodded once. “Second door on the left.”

“Thanks,” Benito said, heading inside.

Nicolas and I stood there, watching each other. His gaze went to the white bikini strap I wore underneath a pink cover-up dress, paired with wedge sandals. It was a cute ensemble, but I only got a squinted condescending stare.

I frowned, crossing my arms defensively.

He looked at me for another second before heading back into his garage. I stared at his white-clad muscled back until he dipped his head under a car hood and ignored me. Quite the host, this one.

It was one of those days the heat grabs on and doesn’t let go. We’d had a cool summer up until a week ago, but with the start of August tomorrow it seemed to be hitting us all at once. The sun burned hot and unforgiving, enough to make my olive skin redden if I stood beneath it long enough.

Something about the relentless heat and watching Nicolas wipe the sweat off his neck with the collar of his t-shirt made a warm haze permeate the corners of my mind.

A fan whirled near the door. A baseball game filtered out the open window of the neighboring house, and a small TV played the news in the corner of the garage. I wanted to catch the highlights, but it was too quiet, and to get closer I’d have to walk within the two feet of space behind Nicolas. I hesitated.

With the idea that I was being ridiculous, I made up my mind. Every nerve ending tingled as I squeezed past him to get to the wooden workbench and stool. I grabbed the remote and turned up the TV, but it took much longer than it should have to find the volume button. I was attuned to every movement, every noise behind me. Connected to him like static electricity. A drop of sweat ran down my back, and goose bumps rose on my skin.

I tried to watch the news, but it was like reading with Nicolas around: impossible. I pulled my hair into a ponytail while pretending to listen to the blonde newscaster’s words.

I could feel his gaze on my bare shoulder blades as I twisted the tie around my long strands. Breathless. Itchy. Hot. I should have gone to church today because this was the wrong way to feel in the presence of one’s soon-to-be brother-in-law. But I’d stayed home, or I’d be late for the pool party.

My nails dug into my palms. Why did I have to be attracted to this man? If given the choice, I’d rather be infatuated with fifty-year-old, married Tim Fultz. Maybe if I spoke to Nicolas, his terrible personality would make this strange attraction fade away. It was worth a try . . .

I turned around, leaned against the workbench, and ignored the nerves coursing through me about starting a conversation with him. “Your place is . . . nice. Not at all what I expected.”

He side-eyed me with a look that made my heart stutter, while working on something beneath the hood of the Gran Torino. “And what did you expect?”

I swallowed under his attention. A few words from him were more exciting than they should have been. “I guess I expected a little more . . . fire and brimstone.”

His gaze turned darkly entertained. “Hell.”

“Or padded rooms . . .”

He wiped the side of his face with his sleeve, his focus on his work. “For thinking I’m a psychopath, you don’t seem to fear being alone with me.”

“I can scream. Loudly.”

He glanced at me, like my words had an entirely different meaning—like he might like to hear me scream. My breathing became shallow.

The baseball game from the next house over filtered in, and I glanced out of the garage. Nicolas had a chain-link fence, no privacy . . . for someone in his profession, it wasn’t normal. “Your neighbors are so close,” I noted.