“Nico Conti, I’m serious. You can’t just steal me from my parents’ house.”

“Your father saw us. He knows you’re with me.”

“And I suppose that makes any of this okay? Where are you taking me? This is ridiculous,” she groused before slapping my backside.

“Careful, I’m not above retaliation.”

“Apparently, there’s not much you aren’t willing to do.”

Ah, Sofia. You don’t know how right you are.

I opened the passenger door to my car, then set her down. “Get in.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she said defiantly, arms crossed over her chest.

“Sofia, I’m not going to hurt you. I have an errand to run, and we clearly have things to discuss, so you’re coming with me. Now, get in the car.”

“How do I know you aren’t going to hurt me?”

“Have I ever hurt you?”

Her eyes answered for her. The raw pain in those hazel depths gutted me.

Reaching out, I swept a stray curl from her eyes. “Not what I meant, Ladybug. I’d never lay a hand on you.”

Her gaze dropped, and she huffed out a breath before slipping into the passenger seat. “Can’t believe I’m doing this,” she muttered just before I closed the door.

I smirked as I walked to the driver’s side. I was just as surprised as she was, although clearly more optimistic about the unexpected turn of events. Getting a captive audience with her was a tricky prospect, and now she was mine for as long as I needed. Hell if I knew what I would say, but getting her alone was a start.

“I have a brief meeting with someone in Jersey City. I’ll bring you back as soon as I’m done,” I offered as a small concession, hoping to get her hackles down.

“At ten o’clock on a Friday night?” She paused, her eyes glancing over at me. “What exactly do you do now?”

“I’m a professional boxer. I fight for a living.”

The car was silent for several minutes before the feather-light touch of her fingers ghosted over the skin of my knuckles. Or rather, the scar tissue on my knuckles. My skin was mottled and bumpy where it had been busted open and healed over too many times to count. All the joints were thick from injuries and misuse, giving my hands a gnarly appearance.

“What about the piano? Do you still play?” she asked quietly.

“Not really. Mom makes me when I visit her, though.”

“Why not? You should. You used to love playing.”

I shrugged, not taking my eyes from the road. “I guess I’ve been too busy for the inspiration to strike me.”

Our private school had the option of piano classes for its students. I had been thrilled at the age of six when I started learning to read music. Ma found some rickety old piano for sale so that I could practice at home, and it became one of my favorite escapes. When my world changed, I quit playing because there was no room for it in my new life.