Mickey didn’t. But the sense that he was missing something about Benito and Robert De Luca was so strong it overpowered even his scratchiest cravings. “What did he do to you?”
“Who?”
“Gianna’s dad.”
“What makes you think he did anything?”
“You just answered me with the same deflective question you did when I asked if you hated him. If it was nothing, you’d say so.”
“Would I?”
“I don’t know.”
They’d hit a stalemate. Benito’s gaze flickered to the exit. Mickey’s breath caught in his throat, but Benito didn’t leave. He let out another heavy sigh and slumped forward, dumping his forearms on the table. “I do hate him. And, trust me, the feeling’s entirely mutual. He despised me from the moment he kicked me out of my mum’s bed to sleep on a towel in the spare room.”
“A towel?”
Benito shrugged like it was nothing. “It was temporary, but he wanted me out of my mum’s bed so he could knock her up and get his feet under the table.”
“How long did that take him?”
“Five years and three miscarriages.”
Mickey winced. “Shit. I’m sorry.”
“Why? It’s history, man. That cunt is scared ofmenow, and I like it that way. Stops him hanging around too long.”
“Did he hurt you worse than kicking you out of your bed?”
“It wasn’t my bed, and I was too old to be sleeping with my mum anyway.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I know it’s not.”
Mickey did some belated maths. If Gianna was twelve, that meant Benito was around twenty-five—the same age as Mickey. Did that mean anything?
Probably not. But the affinity between them seemed to grow with every second of heavy silence. They were different men from different streets, but perhaps Benito was right—something about them was the same. Theyfit.
“Would it make you feel better if I told you he kicked the shit out of me?”
Mickey blinked at Benito. “Better about what?”
Benito leaned further across the table. The warmth of his body radiated in the narrowed space between them, and Mickey felt it everywhere. His skin tingled and his nerves buzzed, aching to touch Benito, even if it was just to brush the backs of his fingers to his sharp cheekbone.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Mickey said. “It’s none of my business.”
More silence. Benito picked up a sugar packet and twirled it in his long fingers. Mickey’s heart thumped louder than it had when they’d fucked. He was as sure of it as he was about anything right now.
With Benito so close, logical thought was impossible. Under the table, his leg sought out Benito of its own accord, melding their calves together. Mickey froze, waiting for Benito to pull back.
He didn’t. Just closed his eyes for a brief moment in time that seemed to last forever and a day.
His gaze was unreadable when he opened them again. “He used to wait up for me.”
“Roberto?”
“Yeah. I was a little shit and I stayed out till all hours, but most nights I’d come home and he’d still be up, fucking seething, you know? Like whatever bullshit had gone wrong in his day was my fault.”