Chapter 63 MICELI

Róise doesn't respond to my apology, but something inside me settles after saying the words. Maybe they have power after all.

Not that I believe an apology without actions to back it up is worth the air it took to utter the words, but saying the words and then proving their sincerity with actions? Róise deserves it all.

Which is why I text one of my men to get us another cat bed for Pusheen and move the current one into our bedroom.

Our cat does not like being woken for the transfer and swipes her claws lightly across my forearm to let me know. I take the shallow scratches as a win.

I'm finishing up a plate of street tacos for Róise when she walks into the room. She's wearing my shirt, the top three buttons undone. On her shorter frame that leaves the entire valley between her breasts exposed.

The hem hits her mid-thigh, but the white silk is all but transparent, her pink nipples and areolas easy to make out. The only thing that adds a tiny bit of modesty is the pleating down the middle that is more opaque over her pussy.

She looks at the plate greedily. "Are those for me?"

"Yes." I almost ask if that's for me, meaning her body, but I know the discussion we started in the closet isn't over.

This time, I'm not letting my libido derail me.

Róise takes the plate and wanders into the living room. This part of the penthouse is total open concept. So the living room, dining room and kitchen are all in one big space. There's a sunroom off the kitchen with a smaller table that opens onto the terrace .

I usually do what Róise is and eat on one of the sofas, if I'm not eating standing up by the sink.

Her gaze is fixed on the spectacular view out the window. "What is this place?"

"It's my apartment." I sit down beside her and steal one of her tacos.

"Hey, those are mine. You said."

"Didn't your parents teach you to share?" I tease.

I know my girl. She's not eating six street tacos in one sitting. Four maybe. But not six.

"Fine, you can have two," she says like she's making a big concession.

Did I call it, or what? "Thank you, mi dolce fiore . Your generosity touches me deeply."

With a defiant look, she takes a bite of taco and chews aggressively. "I thought you lived with your family at the De Luca building?"

"I do. But sometimes I need my space.

"You mean so you can screw around with women?"

"I don't bring sex partners into my private spaces. The family can be too much sometimes, so, I come here. I also crash here on the nights I work too late to go home." What used to be my home.

Now, this penthouse, with Róise and Pusheen living here, is my home.

"It's a pretty big space for a crash pad or to get away from your family." She looks around pointedly. "Besides, I thought that's what your studio was for."

"I only go to my studio a couple of times a month. Going there isn't about getting away from the family home. It's about giving vent to my secret passion."

Forcing myself to stay away as much as I do has helped me develop an iron will, that this woman decimates with a single touch.

"It must be awful to feel like you have to hide your need to create." Her emerald green eyes are filled with compassion and sorrow.

For me.

Has anyone ever looked at me like that? No. Not even my mother.

"It has made me stronger."

"Or more of a jerk. The jury is out on that one."

"Maybe both," I freely admit. Being an asshole can be useful in my position.

Both as COO of Oscuro Enterprises and as the Genovese underboss.

The wry twist of her lips acknowledges the truth of my statement. But then she sighs. "Even if I never use my degree as an actor, I can still do things that will give that side of my creativity an outlet."

"Like what?" Maybe I can make her finding those outlets easier .

" Mamo lets me read aloud to her doing the different characters in the book. It's fun. For me anyway. I think she prefers her favorite narrators, but she never says so."

An idea starts to form, but I don't voice it. "I like your grandmother. Would she be open to coming to visit a few days a month?"

I don't want to take Róise from her family, but our life will be in Manhattan.

"Maybe." She chews on her lower lip as she looks around. "I know you say this is your apartment, but it sure doesn't look like anyone lives here."

I try to see the main living area through her eyes. I don't have any artwork up because even putting up paintings recommended by the interior designer feels like showing too much of myself.

"We used the same interior designer as we did for the executive offices."

"That explains the office feel with all the glass and chrome."

"There's wood too." Alder to be exact.

"Yeah, I can see her attachment to Scandinavian design, but she misses the hygge by a mile because there's no coziness here."

"I like that it's not cluttered."

"But there are no touches that makes it feel like a home. Nothing that reveals you at all. Except maybe the wood accents. They're they same wood as your easels, aren't they?"

"You noticed that?" I feel exposed, but having Róise's eyes on the me I kept hidden feels good.

Not vulnerable. Not weak.

"Yes, but even with the wood, this place is soulless. Yours, or not, no one lives here."

Soulless? That is me, but it's not her.

"Make any changes you want. Redesign the whole apartment. Make it a home."

She swallows. Something I said touched her emotions. "I can add some personal touches, but it's hardly worth redesigning the whole place for a temporary living situation."

"Our living together is not temporary." Sev could become godfather tomorrow and I wouldn't let Róise move back in with her uncle.

She is mine, damn it.

"That's not what I meant. But this isn't our permanent home, right? We'll be moving into the De Luca apartment building with your family at some point."

"No. This is our home."