Page 30 of Knocked Up by My Dad's Mafia Boss

He shrugs one shoulder. “Wouldn’t know.”

Right.I close my mouth, feeling like an asshole. He was in foster care. He didn’t have parents, he’d told me that.

My heart aches for him. Losing my mother so young had been so hard. I don’t know what I’d do without Papa.

“I have my mother’s eyes,” I say quietly.

He hands me the margarita. He hasn’t poured one for himself. “Hey.” I pout wide, looking up at him. “You’re supposed to be drinking with me.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Me and tequila don’t mix.” He pauses. “Ask your father.”

I snort. “Just a couple? Come on. I hate drinking alone.” I bat my big brown eyes at him and he sighs heavily.

He pours himself a glass. I grin and perch on the edge of a lawn chair, gulping mine down. He’s gotten the lime ratio just right, and it’s refreshing.

“Don’t drink too fast. It’s hot today.”

I roll my eyes. “Live a little, Dante. Have you ever even been drunk?”

He snorts. “I lived a life before I became your bodyguard, you know.”

“I can’t imagine you losing control.”

“I don’t. Not anymore.”

“But you used to?” I tilt my head up to look at him, drinking more of my margarita. He’s not even halfway through.

“Sometimes. Didn’t know my limits when I was your age. It was half Elio’s fault.”

I laugh. “I wish I could have been a fly on the wall during you and Papa’s hellish days.”

He cracks a smile. “I had fun, but at what cost?”

After we finish our margaritas I put the glass down, standing up. “Time for a shot.”

He groans. “If I say no you’re just going to bat your eyes at me again, aren’t you?”

I grin, batting them anyway. “Yup.”

“I hate you,” he mutters.

“Youliiiikeme,” I say in a sing-song voice, and the corner of his mouth turns up in a smile. I feel almost giddy, my heart skipping a few beats.

I really shouldn’t feel that way. I really shouldn’t be doing this. Because it’s getting harder and harder to separate my attraction to him from… well, the fact that if the situation was different… maybe I really would be his.

Maybe I’d be in love.

But I can’t be in love. Not now. Not with him. I’m too young.

He’s my father’s best friend. His right hand.

I waltz into the kitchen, swaying my hips, and Dante slowly follows. I pull down two shot glasses and fill them with tequila from the bar. “Oh, good, it’s warm,” he deadpans. I can’t help but laugh.

I clink my shot glass with his when he picks it up. “Cheers,” he says dryly, and shoots it back, grimacing. The tequila burns down my throat and I make a face, shuddering. He chuckles. “Did it bite back?”