Dead Man's Hand: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance

by Renee Rose

  “I-I don’t have a gun.”

  His chuckle is dark and rumbles through my limbs, making them even weaker. “Metaphor, angel.”

  “Oh.” Oh. That’s all I can think to say? I’m going to have to think faster if I’m going to dig my way out of this disaster.

  “Why would you threaten me, Marissa? You have to know how easy it would be for me to wipe you and your entire family out of existence. You’ve seen with your own eyes what we’re capable of.”

  My body goes rigid. Ice cold. “You can’t kill me.” I’m choking on my own spit.

  He laughs again, but switches his hand from my hair to my nape and presses me against the door, my cheek flattening with the steady pressure. “You sure about that?”

  His other hand starts swiftly roaming over the back of my panties, inside the waistband, between my legs.

  Cold turns into the hot flush of embarrassment. He gives my ass a light slap. “No wire. But we already knew that. You’re a horrible liar, Marissa.”

  I choke on the tears in my throat. “But you had to strip search me anyway?”

  His searching hand rests lightly at my hip. He strokes it down the side of my thigh and up to my waist. “That wasn’t a strip search. You still have clothes on. But I’d be happy to comply if that’s what you’re going for.”

  “You’re sick,” I bite out.

  He slaps my ass again, this time hard. “And you’re in a world of trouble.” He pulls me off the door, and I step out of the skirt at my feet before he spins me around and marches me to the leather chair and pushes me into it.

  “I’m disappointed in you, Marissa.” He stares down at me with dark, glittering eyes. “Like, heartbreakingly disappointed.”

  I rub my lips together, heart beating as fast as a hummingbird’s.

  He cocks his head to the side. “Was it pride?”

  “What?”

  “That kept you from just asking?” He trails a finger over the cap sleeve of my blouse thoughtfully. “Feminism?”

  He really wants to know. I think I genuinely offended him by not asking for the favor. He wanted to be that guy who granted it. Wanted to be sugar daddy to me and I denied him the pleasure.

  Why did I? He’s right. It would’ve been easy. I knew he would’ve given me the money. I guess I just wanted some measure of control in this interaction. Which is like the gazelle trying to dominate the lion.

  I swallow past the band of dread around my throat and nod. “Something like that,” I admit.

  He leans against his desk, facing me, arms folded casually over his chest. He’s downright debonair in his expensive suit pants and button-down shirt, open at the throat. He sweeps a cool glance down my body, making me acutely aware of the fact that I’m in my panties, with the full length of my legs on display for him.

  “How’s that working out for you?”

  Hot tears spill down my cheeks. He pushes away from the desk and wipes one with his thumb. “You don’t need to cry. A guy like me might let anything slide when it comes to a woman as beautiful as you. Especially considering our family history.”

  Might.

  He might let anything slide.

  And that’s when I admit to myself that I knew that all along. I knew he wouldn’t kill me. I know I wouldn’t get the control I so desperately wanted. I knew it would come to this. Him demanding sexual favors from me.

  And the stupid part of it all is that the idea isn’t abhorrent because he disgusts me. Or that I don’t want to have sex with him.

  Because honestly?

  I do.

  He’s sexy as hell.

  It’s because I’m afraid I’ll like it.

  That, and I don’t want to belong to the devil himself.

  “I’m not having sex with you,” I blurt.

  I think he’s going to scowl or worse, tell me coolly why I am. Instead, his smile stretches wide. “Thanks for the clarification, doll, but I’m not interested. I don’t have to force or pay for sex, babygirl.”

  My face flushes hot, even as a similar tingle puckers my nipples and pools in my belly. I still feel his hands all over my body. Everywhere those large, rough palms traveled over my bare skin.

  He puts a finger under my chin and tips my face up to his. “But what am I going to do with you? That’s the question.”

  I blink rapidly at the tears forming on my lashes.

  “How much do you need?”

  I go still. Is he going to give me the money? After I royally fucked this up? “Thirty thousand.” My voice cracks.

  “What for?”

  I gulp. “My little cousin needs a surgery. She’s scheduled for it Monday, but insurance refused to pay and the hospital called and said if they don’t get a check by close of business today, they won’t do it.”

  I swear Gio looks a little sad. “That’s all you had to tell me, you know.”

  Heaviness descends down to my belly. Like I’m taking his disappointment in me to heart. Which is stupid.

  “You didn’t have to show the legs or the cleavage. You didn’t have to fucking blackmail me.” He raises his voice on the last three words, and I see the Tacone temper that I expected.

  The trembling starts up again. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  He folds his arms over his chest, his gaze suddenly hard. “You should be.”

  He walks behind his desk and takes a painting off the wall. Behind it lies a safe. He opens it, pulls out three stacks of hundred-dollar bills, and tosses them into my lap.

  Gio

  I shouldn’t be so butthurt. I’m the guy people come to when they need money. Usually, if they have nothing to offer, there’s begging and pleading. The promise of any favor I demand. Threats are far less common.

  Marissa was beyond stupid to go there with me.

  Still, it sours everything for me. Doesn’t make me any less hard for her, but it sours things.

  Here I’d been attaching some mythical importance to her—the girl in every nightmare. I sensed her attraction to me. Wondered if maybe it all meant something.

  Something bigger.

  Like my second chance has something to do with her.

  Fucking ha.

  She needs thirty grand just like every other sorry ass applicant for a Tacone loan. And instead of asking, she comes in and demands it with a threat.

  Yeah, I’m still pissed. I want to slap her ass red for it.

  As if she reads my mind, she looks up at me, not touching the bundles of money I threw in her lap. “I’m sorry. I really fucked this up. Fucked up with you.” Her lips tremble, but she meets my gaze with courage. I enjoy the way her chest rises and falls, causing the opening in her silk blouse to shift over her breasts. “I can’t believe you’re still giving me the money.”

  I perch on the edge of my desk again. It’s a power position. I get to lounge casually while still looming over her. “I woulda given it to you in a heartbeat, doll. No collateral but your grandma’s fucking cannoli. But now I’m kinda pissed.”

  She nods. “I know.” A tear slides from the outer corner of one eye but her face remains stoic. She’s brave, I give her that. Stupid, but she’s got balls. “I was going to just come and ask. I don’t know why I put on the clothes.” She tugs the blouse down like it might cover her panties if she tries hard enough.

  I like her bared to me like this. Like it way too fucking much.

  “But then I got scared. I was afraid you’d take ownership of Caffè Milano, like your dad did. It took my grandfather forty years to pay him off. Or I don’t know—maybe he never did and you and your brothers just let it go when your dad went…” She trails off like she’s afraid of offending me.

  “To jail?”

  She nods.

  I consider her, trying to remember the business end of the deal. Milano’s was just always our haunt, for as long as I can remember. I never thought about how or why. Junior would probably know.

  “My father often structured loans to keep men permanently under his thumb.�
� Might as well call a spade a spade. “He probably made it impossible to pay off so we could use Milano’s as our headquarters.”

  She grows pale, like this news is even worse than what she’d imagined. Clearly the old man has kept her sheltered.

  “So, you don’t want me to have Milano’s.” I shrug. “I am fond of the place, but it’s all right. I didn’t see myself serving espresso and wiping tables anyway. We can work out a different deal.”

  She stares up at me, her blue-green gaze wary. “What kind of deal?”

  “I don’t know.” I tilt my head. “Didn’t you go to culinary school? I could use a personal chef around here.”

  The relief that ripples through her is immediately apparent by the way her posture straightens and her eyes widen. “Oh my God, I can do that. I mean, yes.” She actually seems excited by the idea. A woman who loves her craft. “I can prepare meals for you and drop them off. A couple days at a time. Or a full week. Whatever you want, Mr. Tacone.”

  “First off, you’re gonna call me Gio or we’re gonna to have a problem. I mean another problem.”

  Her lips quirk. There. It’s funny how relieved I am to see her relax.

  “Secondly, I wasn’t thinking drop-offs. I was thinking you’d come in here—with or without the tight little skirt—and cook in my kitchen.” In fact, my cock gets hard thinking about it.

  Some of the tension returns. “I can’t. I mean, maybe one night a week. But I work full-time at a restaurant and at Milano’s every other minute.”

  “Hard worker.” I’m not surprised. She may have screwed up this meeting, but she’s got capable written all over her. “Okay. One night a week you cook dinner for me and leave my prepared meals for the week. I’ll deduct five hundred a week from your tab and give you cash for groceries.”

  She gathers the money on her lap—it’s the first time she’s touched it—and stands. “Are you serious?”

  I brace myself for her gratitude. I don’t know—I almost prefer her prickly and throwing shade to moments like this. Where she shows me everything in the depths of those innocent eyes. She puts her arms around me like she did the other night at the cafe and leans in for a hug.

  I don’t read too much into it—she’s Italian, like me. We touch. We kiss. We hug. But she’s in her panties and these fucking thigh-highs that make my dick harder than stone and she definitely feels my appreciation.

  Her breath catches and there’s this moment of hesitation.

  She doesn’t jerk away. She goes still.

  The old Gio woulda had her on her back by now. I’d lay her out on my desk, spread those legs and pound her hard, and all the time she’d be thanking me for the fuck and the money.

  New Gio thinks too much.

  Or maybe it’s just because it’s Marissa. The girl from the nightmares.

  She said she’s not having sex with me. I know I could make her willing. I know she wants it, even.

  But I can’t take the weight of any new shit on my conscience. Fucking the Milano girl after what just passed between us would be questionable. She would go for it, but she’d hate me tomorrow. So, I force myself to unwind my arm from around her back, and I deliver a light slap to her ass.

  “I’m still pissed.”

  It was the right thing to do. She gets her confidence back and flashes me a flirtatious smile, dumping the money on my desk. “You won’t be after you taste the food I cook you.”

  “Confident. I like that.”

  She retrieves her skirt and pulls it on.

  Because I can’t resist getting close to her again, I step up behind her, bat her hands away and zip it up.

  I can’t fucking wait to taste the food she cooks me.

  Finally, a reason to live.

  Marissa

  Goosebumps rise on my arms.

  I’ve never had a guy dress me before. There’s something so intimate to Gio closing the zipper of my skirt—more intimate, even, than the strip search. Than standing in front of him with my skirt off.

  It’s like something a married guy does with his wife. In the movies, though. Only in the movies. I don’t know; I only have my grandparents as examples, but I feel like married couples become way too practical for dressing each other.

  I’m giddy now. All my fears and anxieties morphed into something exciting. The relief of paying for Mia’s surgery, mingles with the anticipation of showing off my cooking skills, all woven together with a heavy layer of sexual tension.

  “Come on, I’ll drive you to the hospital.” Gio’s still right behind me, his deep, gruff voice doing crazy things to my core.

  I turn, surprised. “You will?”

  He arches a cocky brow. The frightening mafioso is gone now and charming Gio is back. “You think I’m going to let you toddle out in those heels? You barely made it here.”

  My face grows warm. “You noticed that, huh?”

  Gio’s eyes crinkle up and he holds out a hand. His lanky form is relaxed; he oozes confidence and ease. “Which hospital?”

  I hesitate for a moment before putting my hand in his. This is it.

  I’m joining with the devil.

  My small palm slides over his larger one and he closes his fingers.

  I clear my throat. “St. Francis, but I have to stop at the bank to get a cashier’s check.”

  “All right. Let’s go.”

  “Thanks for the ride,” I murmur when we pull into the hospital lot. The crisp cashier’s check is in my hand, but Gio doesn’t let me out in front; he parks and gets out.

  I thought the ride was exceptionally generous, especially considering the way things went down between us. But now I wonder what his game is.

  “Are you making sure I didn’t lie about what I need the money for?”

  One corner of his lips quirk in that knowing smile. “You didn’t lie.” He walks around his beautiful Mercedes G-wagon to my side and settles a hand on my lower back.

  “You don’t need to come in,” I tell him. I still can’t figure it out, which makes me uneasy.

  “I’m coming in.”

  This is the part that worries me. A Tacone does what he wants. There’s no asking. No negotiations. And I just opened the door and let him firmly back into our lives.

  I stop mulishly. “Why, Gio?”

  “Because I want to, doll. Stop being so ungracious.” The words roll out easily, but I get the sense I offended him again.

  But that doesn’t make sense.

  I start walking again, sneaking glances at him as we go.

  “What?” he demands when we get in an elevator up to the finance floor.

  I shake my head quickly.

  He exhales, like he’s conceding something. “I’m here to watch your back, Marissa. You carry a lot of weight for your family. Least I can do is drive your ass to the hospital and go in with you to make sure it gets done right.”

  I blink back the heat that sears my eyeballs. Just having someone acknowledge the weight on my shoulders comes as a relief, but to also hear that Gio Tacone actually does care about me and my family—as he’s been professing—comes as a shock. Guilt for all my mistrust, for my attempted blackmail and all my bitchiness floods through me. I check to see if my mouth is hanging open.

  “I know, shocker.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and leans a shoulder against the elevator wall. “And you thought I was incapable of doing anything nice.”

  “I didn’t—” but I stop the protest, because he’s right.

  The elevator stops and we get out. I square my shoulders and stride toward the business office. I’m glad I wore the skirt and heels now, because they lend me confidence. I feel strangely strong and sexy. Is it because I have Gio at my back? Or because that’s how he sees me, and I sense his appreciation? I shoot him a sidelong glance and he returns it, one corner of his mouth turning up like he’s sex on a stick.

  Funny, how I do want to reward him with sex now. I guess that’s the difference. I didn’t want it to be something he took from me.
Or demanded. Now he’s earned it.

  Oh, lordy. Why am I even thinking about sex with Gio? Not happening. Bad idea. He’s a player and a mobster. Not that man I want to tango with.

  We get to the business office and I slide the check across the desk. “I’m here to pay for Mia Milano’s surgery.” I lift my chin. One word and she’s going to get an earful about what I think about this hospital and their blackmailing techniques.

  She types in Mia’s name and clicks on her computer for a few minutes. “Okay, your total is $32,784.59.”

  I look at the check. Why hadn’t I considered it might be more than thirty grand? “This is thirty thousand. I’ll put the rest on my credit card.”

  “No.” Gio shoves his hand inside his jacket pocket and produces a huge wad of cash. He counts out twenty-eight hundred-dollar bills. “This will cover it.”

  I refuse to show my gratitude for it, or let on how much seeing a handsome man throw down that amount of cash without blinking an eye affects me. I just take the money and slide it over, like dealing with such a sum is something I do every day.

  “We don’t usually accept a large amount of cash. I’ll have to call my supervisor to make sure we can take this.”

  “You do that,” Gio says. On another man it might sound rude or condescending, but this is Gio, so the clerk thinks he’s flirting. She blushes and smiles at him with the phone to her ear. A few minutes later, she hangs up. “We can take it.” She counts it all and calls for a security guy to deposit it. “You’re all set, then. I’ll let the doctor know you’re paid up and Mia’s surgery can go on as scheduled tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” I say tightly and turn away before I go off on her. It’s not her fault this country has a broken healthcare system.

  We walk back to the elevator without saying a word. Only when we’re in it do I turn and look Gio full in the face. “You’ll add the extra to my tab, I presume?”

  He purses his lips, like he finds me amusing, but doesn’t speak for a moment. “It’s on me, doll.”

  That shouldn’t get me wet. We’re not on a date. He didn’t just pay for dinner. In fact, I know from my grandfather’s dealings with Arturo Tacone that nothing comes free with these guys. But there’s some stupid biology involved. Sexy alpha male as wealthy, powerful provider. Hormones are flooding my system. My internal biology is screaming yes! Pick this one!