WIP Wednesday: Privilege #RenzoandLucia

Hey, loves!

It's that time of the week again where I share my current work in progress, which is still Lucia and Renzo's book, Privilege. I hope you all are ready for these two. I have been enjoying telling the first leg of their tale. Do enjoy the teaser!


Diego was most important.
Renzo reached out, and swept his tired brother into his embrace. Diego's feet lifted from the ground, and he wrapped his limbs tightly around Renzo's waist and neck.
"Thanks, Ren," Diego mumbled against his neck.
"You got it, buddy."
Renzo grabbed that tiny backpack, and let it dangle from his first as he turned to give one last look at the shelter before they turned off the lights.
He had not been expecting to see her coming his way.
Renzo stiffened all over. Oh, sure, he'd seen her out of the corner of his eye while he'd been in the shelter arguing with Laurie, but he didn't know why the hell she was there except to maybe write a fucking check, and go on her way feeling better about herself. Wasn't that was her kind did?
More fucking money than brains.
Lucia--yeah, he knew her name; everybody who worked the streets under people like the Marcellos knew all their names--lifted a hand as if to wave, and offered a small smile. Renzo stayed like a cold statue as he came even closer, seemingly unbothered by his cool reception and unwelcoming stance.
"Is Diego okay?" Lucia asked, her gaze skipping to his little brother.
The boy popped his head up, and smiled brilliantly. Always willing to make someone else happy even when he was anything but.
"He's fine," Renzo replied gruffly.
What was this chick even doing out here? Or in this part of town, for that matter? It was a bit of a step down for her considering the last time he saw her, she'd been sitting in a black two-door Mercedes with her brother.
The young woman screamed money. From the Cartier watch on her wrist to the diamond studs in her ears. Even the way her wavy light brown hair had been streaked with red and blonde highlights looked like something that had been done in a proper salon. And that was before Renzo thought to figure out what brand of jeans she had decided to paint on that morning, or if that was actual silk she was wearing for blouse.
Yet, even through the money she might as well have been draped in, Renzo wasn't so distracted that he couldn't see Lucia was pretty.
That was a bit rude, really.
Beautiful was a better description.
She was tiny featured. Small lips with a perfect cupid's bow. A button nose. High cheekbones. Soft lines on her face, and an even softer smile. She was petite in height, maybe only reaching his chin, but that didn't detract from the shape of her hips or the tight cinch in her waist.
He needed to get laid if he was noticing how nice looking some spoiled little rich girl from the other side of the city was. And he really didn't need to be thinking about getting laid while he was holding Diego.
"Hi, Lucia," Diego said. "Miss Teresa said you're gonna work here now."
Oh, for fuck's sake.
Lucia nodded, and smiled back at Diego. "That's right."
Her gaze drifted to Renzo again.
"What?" he asked.
"I was thinking about offering you two a ride home, actually. It's late, and your little brother looks like he's had a rough day. I don't know how far you live from here, but do you really want to carry him the whole way?"
Renzo's jaw stiffened. "Like I don't do it on every other day?"
Lucia didn't miss the bite in her tone if the way her smile faded was any indication. Maybe he took a little bit of satisfaction in that, but he wasn't about to admit it. Renzo wasn't the type to be an asshole just to be an asshole. But here he was.
Something about this chick made his nerves stand up on fucking end. Like little hairs that felt something annoying or bad, and were reacting to it being too close.
He knew exactly where Lucia Marcello came from, and she was nothing like him. A privileged little girl who probably never knew what it was like to struggle, or walk the streets day after day because she wouldn't eat otherwise.
He doubted she knew any of that kind of shit at all.
And for some reason, it just irked him like nothing else that she was so willing to stand there like she was an act as though there was no difference between the two of them. As if the two of them were somehow on level ground when it came to the rest of the world. Like she wasn't wearing designer and silk while he was running around in frayed jeans and a leather jacket that he'd won from a bare fist boxing match three years ago.
Like her heels didn't have red soles.
And his combat boots weren't scuffed all to hell.
He was the poor kid from the Bronx.
She was the trust fund baby with mafia connections.

Oil and water


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