3. Fascination

THREE

FASCINATION

GENEVIEVE

SIX WEEKS LATER

A s I flip idly through the book of tattoo designs I snagged from his waiting room, it hits me that I’m playing a dangerous game. I know I am, but I can’t stop myself from rolling the dice anyway and taking my turn.

That’s exactly what I did earlier today. I made it obvious to Damien and Savannah that I planned on having breakfast, a stretch, and then returning to my studio to train after the stress of the last couple of weeks where I pointedly turned on the music before convincing Christopher to pick me up and drop me off on the West Side to steal a few hours away with Cross.

After I tapped on the front door of Sinners instead of the dinners and the public meets where I was allowed out with my brother as my chaperone, those nights when he conducted other business in the shadows, convinced I was locked away on the third floor. Then came Savannah, and he focused on keeping his wife inside of the manor with him while I crawled out of my window every chance I got.

If I’m not seeing him every day, I’m staying up all night, talking to him through text or over the phone. I get antsy if I got too long without hearing the way his deep rasps, “Butterfly,” and I know what I’m risking by being so reckless… but I’m already in too deep to stop.

Especially since, two weeks ago, I thought it was all over…

The sneaking around. The thrill of dashing to the back of the manor where Cross would be waiting for me on his motorcycle on the nights when I couldn’t ask Christopher to bring me. Pulling on the helmet he picked up just for me, both for safety reasons and because I insisted—something that Cross completely agreed with—that I should keep my face covered whenever we were on the East End of Springfield together.

My brother owns the entire territory. All it would take is one of his men to see me out with Cross for Damien to hear about it. It wouldn’t matter that I refused to be microchipped like Orion, Savannah’s cat; or, for that matter, Savannah herself. I’d have a tracker in my arm and my butt back in my room before I could blink.

That’s why I refused to say anything about my budding relationship with the Sinner. I couldn’t stand the idea of overprotective Damien butting his nose in before I can even figure out what it’s brewing between Cross and me—but when I nearly killed Orion two weeks ago and desperately needed a ride and support to bring the unconscious cat to a vet, I had no choice.

The clinic we went to first was closed. Damien was suddenly missing. My big cousin wanted to figure out what was going on with Dame, and as panicked as Savannah was over Orion’s state, she was determined to track down her husband.

That left me with the cat. I was worried about my brother, too, obviously, but Orion… what happened to him was my fault. Both because I believed Dr. Liz when she told me that the shot was to help the poor orange-and-white cat with his shitting problems, then when I administered the injection without second-guessing why a human doc would care so much about a feline patient.

I trusted her. When I tweaked my chronic ankle injury about two months ago, she was the one who helped me with it. Especially since she already knew about Orion’s constipation issues because I’d foolishly asked her for advice about him being all stopped up, it made sense when she said her vet friend suggested the meds for Savannah’s cat.

Of course, I know better now. The doctor was working with a rival gangster—Jimmy Winter—and using me as a pawn in her own twisted plan that would end with Damien’s new wife dead and Dr. Liz taking Savannah’s place. Only Jimmy Winter wanted Damien dead, and if it wasn’t for Savannah and Vin charging across town to save the day, that might’ve happened.

Not that I’m supposed to know about any of that. Damien came back to the East End beat to hell, and Vin had a pair of bullet holes in him that he’s still recovering from. Following Dame’s lead, Savannah blew past all of my questions about what happened, though I’ll give her credit: once Damien was safe and sound, she was only concerned with how Orion was.

The answer: sedated, but alive. The vet I eventually got him in to see assured me that, within a few more hours, he’d be thirsty and lethargic, but he should recover quickly. He did, and Savannah was so incredibly elated, she purposely neglected to ask any questions about the friend I called to go to the vet with me.

Vin couldn’t ask, either. He was getting patched up by a Sinner doctor since Savannah killed ours—and, yup, that’s something else Damien didn’t want me to know—and by the time he was home again, so much had happened, he forgot to badger me about the ‘he’ I mentioned.

Forgot or, knowing Vin, he’s just biding his time. He probably didn’t want to set Damien off on the heels of my brother being drugged, tied up, and worked over by a rival, and with all Dragonflies on high alert after such a close call, he’s being careful while also dealing with his own recovery. Doesn’t matter that the rival—like Dr. Liz—is dead now. Damien has a reputation to protect. Vin’s his bodyguard, and there’s no limit to what my cousin will do to protect Damien in every way that counts.

Dangerous, Gen. It’s a dangerous game…

So, yeah. I didn’t have to admit that I’ve been spending all of the time I can with a stranger to them because none of my family actually pushed me to tell them why Cross da Silva—a member of the Sinners Syndicate, and the tattooist who is very quickly leaving his mark on my heart—floored his motorcycle across town to hold my hand as I turned into a nervous wreck inside the vet’s office. They weren’t affiliated with the Dragonflies—at least, they didn’t have the trademark symbol on their window or front door—and even if they were, that wouldn’t have stopped me from leaning on Cross.

Friends. I sigh, both in appreciation of the floral design he drew in his book and frustration that I’m head over heels for a man who clearly thinks of me more like a little sister than a prospective lover. I learned that Cross is older than he appears—thirty to my twenty-five—and even if he insists the slight age gap doesn’t bother him, I’m not so sure about that.

I made it clear that I was into him. He made it clear that we can be friends. No more. No less. He’s someone I could trust to drop everything if I called him, even after knowing him for barely more than a month, and he proved it that day—but despite the heated look he gets in his eyes sometime when I glance over at him and see him staring, he’s putting up shields between us.

I want more than that. Of course I do. From the moment he showed me that napkin and I saw the beautiful butterfly he drew for me, I’ve wanted to experience my first everythings with this man in particular.

Christopher thinks I’m being impulsive. He’s not wrong. I’ve spent my whole life being coddled by my older brother. I found serenity in my dancing, and fascination in the world outside my gilded cage bars, and with Cross… there’s something there, something I struggle to understand or deny. I see him and I want . I want things I’ve never had, and even if this quiet friendship is all he can offer me, I’ll take it.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned as a Libellula? It’s that, with the right amount of grit, determination, and ruthlessness, I can have it all.

Damien wanted Springfield. He has it. He claimed Savannah. She wears his dragonfly on his skin and the leaves of an enforcer on the back of her arm.

I want a relationship— any relationship—with my sensitive artist.

And nothing is going to stop me from having that.

Not even the man who is sitting on his rolling stool, head bowed over the iPad resting in the crook of his elbow, the long, white pencil moving while he’s completely oblivious to the way that I’m paying far more attention to how he loses himself in his drawing than to most of the designs in the book on my lap.

I know what he’s doing, besides driving me crazy with his nearness. I asked him after we exchanged numbers and started to text, what was up with the way he first met me and instantly asked me to dance for him.

He called me his muse. That my graceful dancing inspired him to draw that butterfly, and the pale blue color of my eyes led him to create a sleeve for a customer based on a galaxy design, complete with a bright gold nebula of stars the same shade as my hair…

Almost as soon as I sat down before, after we caught up—Cross asking after Orion, me using my new friendship to learn more about the state of the truce between the Sinners Syndicate and the Libellula Family than I ever would’ve if I only had my brother to rely on—he gestured for me to get comfortable, then grabbed his Apple pencil to sketch.

I tried to peek at what he was drawing, laughing when Cross tilted the screen back so I couldn’t. It’s another little game we play. In my experience, as soon as he’s done, he’ll be more than happy to show me, but not until the perfectionist that he is finishes it down to every detail.

Cross is quiet. That’s one thing I learned. He seems like a sensitive soul, and when his dark eyes don’t have that heated look, I can’t ignore the sadness that lurks there.

I want to know what made him so sad.

I want to know everything about him.

I’m an open book. When Cross asks me about my ambitions, my experiences, my past, and my relationships—with Christopher, who I’m pretty sure he’s jealous of, and with Damien, who he seems smartly wary of—I’m so flattered that he cares about me… about Genevieve… about his butterfly… that I tell him everything.

You know what I’ve learned about Cross in the last month and a half?

He’s been a Sinner since the syndicate formed, mainly because he went to high school with Royce McIntyre—a highly ranked Sinner, and the mafia fixer who killed Kieran Alfieri for what he did to Nicolette Williams, the pretty blonde waitress I recognized at the Devil’s Playground. Nicknamed ‘Rolls’, he’s Cross’s oldest friend, and really only friend, and I’m irrationally pleased that Cross is hesitant to introduce the two of us, not because I’m related to the head Dragonfly, but because he considers Rolls too handsome for his own good.

Please. The man is married. I have no interest in going after someone else’s husband, and though Cross is careful with what he shares, I pointedly asked him if he was single right before I coyly convinced him to exchange numbers with me.

I’d have to get over my silly crush if he wasn’t. He seemed curious when I pushed the topic, finally admitting that he doesn’t really do relationships and hasn’t had one in a while. That was his way of reminding me that we’re destined to be friends, but poor Cross. He didn’t know how determined I could be just yet. By confirming he was single, that just gave me the go ahead to continue this forbidden friendship while hoping it grows into something more.

So I know about Rolls. I know about his loyalty to the Sinners, and how he doesn’t just cater to the syndicate: he’s the official tattooist for the syndicate. I know that he’s as lonely as I am, and whatever happens, we both honestly did need a friend.

His family is gone. I learned that one, too, and wasn’t that an ‘open mouth, insert foot’ moment? I mean, how was I supposed to know that the flames on his neck and his throat were a memento to the brother, sister, and mother he lost in an apartment fire when he was a kid?

Then again, when Cross humors me, shoving up his sleeves so that I can dissect the art on his one, and I saw that he has three names scrawled in script on his left arm… that should’ve been a sign that he cared enough about three someones once.

Jealous and as emotional as ever, my first instinct was to think that they were previous lovers who earned their spot on his skin. Yeah. I was wrong about that, and Cross reminded me that not only does he purposely avoid committed relationships, but he often counsels his clients not to get a permanent tattoo for someone who isn’t a permanent fixture in your life.

Right. Message received, and that’s about when I stopped treating him as a future conquest, finally seeing my sensitive artist with the sad eyes as something even more precious: a friend I can rely on.

From texting late at night to sending him videos I took of me, dancing in my studio, receiving a piece of art inspired by me in return… it’s been a little more than six weeks since I bumped into him, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve known him so much longer.

Then again, maybe it’s because—for the first time in forever—I can forget that I’m Damien Libellula’s baby sister when I’m with him.

My heritage doesn’t faze Cross one bit. In fact, when I first texted him the night after we met, asking if he’d like to meet for coffee somewhere since that’s what I figured dating was like, right? Getting coffee… when I invited him out and he didn’t hesitate to offer to pick me up on his motorcycle, I couldn’t help myself.

We didn’t get coffee. He suggested a twenty-four-hour diner on Sinner turf, and as I dipped one of my disco fries into the gravy, I had to ask, “Aren’t you afraid of my brother?”

Cross had a plate of pancakes drenched in syrup in front of him. He thought about it for a moment, nibbled on a piece of the pancake, then shook his head. “I’m not afraid of that,” was his answer, and I’ve been intrigued ever since.

He’s clearly not afraid of Devil; he’s a loyal Sinner, but not a die-hard like my brother’s enforcers are. My being related to Damien doesn’t bother him at all. And yet… I’m not afraid of that .

So what is he afraid of?

I don’t know, but like everything else when it comes to this enigmatic man, I won’t stop until I find out.

Our silence is strangely companionable. At home, I nearly always have music playing; if not out loud, then it runs like a loop in my head. But Cross uses the quiet to concentrate, and I find myself so drawn to the slope of his nose, the edge of his jaw, and the muscles flexing on his tatted arm as he gives all of his attention to his drawing that I can sneakily watching him without him realizing.

He lives above his studio, but the two of us hang out downstairs on the rare chance that my brother tracks me down. I have the same excuse at the ready that I always do: Cross offered to give me my first tattoo. That’s why I always grab one of the design books when we’re spending time together in his space, even though I’ve told him I’m not ready to get rid of my virgin skin status.

As for the other virgin state I’m in…

I shift in my seat, crossing my legs, squeezing my thighs together beneath my sundress as I appreciate his masculine beauty.

In fact, I get so distracted by him that I barely notice it as he swivels in his chair, the iPad nestled on his lap, as he reaches beneath his desk for something.

Seconds later, I hear something crack. A sharp noise, followed by a psst sound, and I can’t stop my lips from twitching upward as I flip the design book closed.

I know something else about Cross that I’ve picked up on over the last six weeks. It became pretty obvious when he was always there to answer a call or a text, no matter the hour, or how he enjoys driving through Springfield in the middle of the night on his bike, but Cross, like, never sleeps. He’s an insomniac, and I blame the can he just grabbed from the mini fridge beneath his desk for his inability to sleep.

“What flavor is it today?” I ask, tapping my fingernails on the cover of the design book.

Cross brushes his hair out of his face so that he can look at the flavor printed on the bottom of the energy drink can he’s holding. “I had a peach mango earlier, but this one is fruit punch.”

“You keep drinking those, your heart is going to explode,” I tease.

He shrugs, contemplates the can for another moment, then takes a swig.

I shake my head. “You’re addicted to those things.”

“There are worse things to be addicted to,” Cross points out.

My brother is responsible for the entire drug trade in Springfield. Trust me, I know.

And, yet, when I look at Cross da Silva, I know one thing about myself: I could easily become addicted to him—and if settling for friendship with him is all I have to look forward to, beggars can’t be choosers.