by Renee Rose
I allow myself one more rub, molding my fingers around the lower half of her buttocks and brushing as far between her legs as the fabric will allow.
Then I release her and spin her around. Her face is flushed, pupils dilated. I can’t stop myself from claiming her mouth, tasting her sweet lips, giving her just a small sweep of my tongue.
When I break the kiss, she stares up at me, surprise making her blue-green eyes wide.
“Thank you for wearing the skirt, Marissa.” My voice sounds three times lower than usual.
I release her completely, not trusting myself not to throw her up on the counter and spread her killer legs. To make her forget about cooking and scream my name until she’s hoarse.
But I told her I wasn’t paying for sex. And she’s on my dime right now.
I wrap my arm behind her and cup her ass, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Capiche?”
She rubs her swollen lips together and nods. “Yeah.”
“Good girl.” One more squeeze. “What’s for dinner?”
“Dinner. Um, yeah.” She turns to the crate and starts unpacking it. “Almond-crusted salmon with a lemon-thyme sauce, and artichoke salad. You’re going to love it.”
“Oh, I have no doubt.” I lean a hip against the cupboards. I like watching her catch her stride again, moving from discombobulated to self-assured. It takes about ten minutes, but then she settles in, moving around my kitchen like she owns the place. Frying pan on the stove, cutting board and knife out, vegetables diced in neat piles.
“So white wine?” I ask. “Do you want to pick?”
She looks over her shoulder with an expression that gets me harder than marble. It’s bright-eyed pleasure. She’s all lit up, glowing from doing what she loves, and clearly happy I asked for her opinion. “Yes, what do you have?”
I pull three bottles from the wine chiller and set them on the counter. “You don’t get to call the shots at Michelangelo's, do you?”
She scoffs. “Not even what size to chop a vegetable.” I love the conspiratorial smile she gives me as examines the bottles. “I dare not vary even the slightest bit from what the chef prescribes.”
“That’s why you agreed to this.”
She selects one of the wines—an oaky Chardonnay—and hands it to me. “Well, yes. It’s fun to make my own menu. Especially with someone else’s money.” Her smug satisfaction transfers to me, filling and warming my chest.
I’m happy to be the guy who made her smug and satisfied. Who gave her the opportunity to show off and the money to spend.
“Speaking of which…” I pull out a wad of cash from my pocket and count out ten hundred-dollar bills. “This is for groceries.”
She closes her fingers around the folded bills but doesn’t take them from me, meeting my eyes on a swallow. She tries to hide it, but money excites her same as it excites most of the population. “For the month? Or do I just keep a tally and ask for more when this runs out?”
“For this week.” I know damn well she didn’t spend a thousand bucks on this week’s food, but I also want her to be compensated for her time, too. Yes, she owes me. But she also works damn hard, and I imagine this job took up the only spare time she has in her life.
Okay, yeah, I’m a softy.
I’m also showing off.
And I like watching her pretend she’s unaffected by it. Her pride is as sexy as those legs.
“Next time you buy the wine, too,” I tell her, like I’m being a hardass.
She inhales sharply through her nose and nods. “Gladly.”
“But if you don’t call me for a ride, the bill’s on you.”
There. That will get her. I don’t know—the wooden spoon might have been too much of an enticement. And I really don’t want her denying me the pleasure of keeping her safe.
The threat turns her on. I know because her nipples are visible beneath her bra.
She plays it tough, but she likes it bossy. Maybe because it gives her something to resist.
I uncork and pour two glasses of wine, but apart from tasting it and giving a nod of satisfaction, she doesn’t drink any more.
Which shouldn’t be such a disappointment, but it is. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but I think it signals she’s not comfortable. She wants to keep her wits around me.
Of course, maybe she just doesn’t like white wine. Why not just ask? For fuck’s sake, I’ve turned into the biggest vagina.
“Not a wine drinker?”
She slides a sidelong glance at me. The kind that peeks under her lashes and looks both sly and demure at once. “I’m on the job.”
“True.”
I watch her plate the food.
For one.
One plate.
Mine.
“You’re staying to eat.” I don’t make it a question.
To my surprise, tough girl blushes.
Huh.
“The chef doesn’t eat with the patrons.”
“You’re off shift. Make a second plate.”
She doesn’t move. I don’t sense outright resistance. More indecision. “This isn’t a date,” she clarifies.
“This is you paying off your debt. I want to eat your food, and I want you sitting with me when I try it. Is that too much to ask?”
Cazzo. I’m throwing my weight around like an asshole, but she’s not cowed. She twists her lips up in this cute, contemplative way and cocks her head to the side.
“I’ll eat with you,” she says slowly, “if you’ll play the piano for me when we’re done.”
I manage to get my eyebrows back down in a couple seconds and cock a grin. “What? Don’t believe I can play?”
She’s already moving, plating the second dinner and grabbing utensils from my drawers. I fucking love the way she makes herself at home and doesn’t ask where things are or for help.
“I believe it. I just want to hear it.” She carries both plates with utensils rolled up in cloth napkins that she brought over to my table by the window. She sets the table and waits while I pour myself a second glass of wine and bring both glasses to the table to sit. “This is an incredible view.”
It is. At night, the lights of the city, as well as the yachts docked along the shore, glitter and reflect off the inky water of Lake Michigan. When I bought this place, I pictured myself showing off the view to women I brought home for one-night stands.
And before the shooting, I did quite a bit of that.
Now, though, I’m not even sure I care about that view. Was it just a symbol of my wealth and power? Or do I actually enjoy looking out at the water?
Fuck if I know.
And that’s the problem.
I think I’ve been living my entire life doing what I thought was fulfilling. Getting my dick wet. Getting rich. Seizing power and throwing my weight around. Violence on occasion to make me feel like a real man.
But none of those things have been enough since I got shot. I don’t crave more money. More pussy. Even if Junior hadn’t settled the score, I don’t think I’d burn for revenge for getting shot. I just can’t seem to give three fucks about anything these days.
This little girl in front of me, though. She’s something different. And it seems I’m always hard for her.
I lift my wine glass in the air and wait for Marissa’s hesitation to pass for her to pick up hers and clink them together. “To our new arrangement.”
I see a flicker of anxiety on her face before she nods firmly. “To our new arrangement.” We both drink and I pick up my fork, eager to taste her food.
It’s incredible—she used simple ingredients but the tastes explode in my mouth. “Madonna, this is good. Che meraviglia. It’s wonderful.”
I love the flushed pleasure on her face. “I made you speak Italian.”
I chuckle. “Angel, I’m sure there are quite a few things you could do that would make me break into the old language.”
She does that flirty gaze under her lashes again with a smirk.
“Parli
Italiano?”
She shakes her head with regret. “No. I never learned to speak it. I can understand it okay just from hearing my grandparents talk, but that’s it. I want to go there someday. Did you know if you’re Italian American you can get Italian citizenship? And college is free to citizens there, so I could go to college in Italy.”
“Is that what you want?”
She shrugs and I decide it’s not.
“I’ll take you there, angel. Show you the Old Country.”
A little blush creeps up her neck, and I decide she likes that idea but won’t let herself accept it. Just like she couldn’t just ask for help with her cousin. She takes a bite of her fish and even though she doesn’t make a show of it, I can tell she’s satisfied with her creation.
“It’s good, no?”
“It turned out.”
“Don’t be modest. It’s delicious.” I have to slow my shoveling down so I don’t clear my plate in minutes and make her work seem insignificant.
She’s a dainty eater, her soft lips closing delicately around the fork tines in a way that comes off way too sexual for my cock’s comfort.
“So how long have you played piano?”
Her interest in the piano is funny to me. It’s not a talent I share with anyone but family, so I’m not used to having anyone talk to me about it. “Since I was six. It was Christmas-time and I was at a mall with my ma. Some old black guy with a Santa hat was playing ragtime piano, and I stopped to watch. I’d never heard the sound before, but more than that, I was fascinated with how fast his fingers moved. When he was finished with the song, he invited me over and taught me how to play Jingle Bells.”
“And then your parents put you in lessons?”
I choke on a snort, then wipe my mouth with a napkin. “Very funny. No, not exactly.”
“So, what happened?”
“So, I went home and begged for my own piano. And my dad called me a pansy and told me boys don’t play piano. And then I went and punched my brother Paolo.”
It’s her turn to snort. “Isn’t he older?”
“Yeah. I didn’t pick on the babies. Punching your older brother is fully allowed, though. Then I could get the beat-down I was craving and have a reason to cry.”
The shock on her face tells me I should’ve stopped at yeah.
“Too much. Sorry.”
“No, no.” She works to hide her dismay. “So, then what happened?”
“So, my ma had a fit. She blew up at my dad, and when he wouldn’t budge, didn’t speak to him for four days. And I got a piano. My dad told me if I didn’t practice every fucking day, he’d burn the thing. I practiced every fucking day.” I give her a rueful smile.
“You must be good.”
I grin. “State champion at age twelve.” I scrape the last of her delicious sauce off my plate.
“Do you want more? Was that enough food?”
“I always want more, angel. But I don’t need it.” I pat my belly.
She rolls her eyes. “I’ll make more next time. I don’t like fish reheated, so I didn’t make extra this time.”
I like how she’s eager to please. In this aspect, not any other. It turns me on. I pour myself more wine and sit back to watch her eat.
Marissa
Even though he told me state champion, I was unprepared for how incredible Gio plays. His fingers dance over the keys playing an incredible classical song I’ve heard in movies. Or elevators.
I stand behind him, admiring the ease with which he holds himself, how he looks over at me and winks, like he knows I’m blown away and thinks it’s funny.
“What song is this?”
“Solfeggietto in C. It sounds more impressive than it is,” he tells me. “It’s actually just scales.”
I laugh incredulously. “No, it’s pretty impressive.”
But I’m getting itchy. If I stay much longer, Gio’s going to think we’re having sex. I’ve already sat down over wine and dinner with him—which I know was probably a mistake. I wish I didn’t find him so damn irresistible.
As if Gio picks up on my tension, the moment he finishes the song, he gets up. “I’ll drive you home.”
“Or just to the train station. I can take the L home.”
“The fuck you are.”
I roll my eyes, but I knew he was going to say it, and I can’t deny the little flame of warmth it ignites. My dark hero. Obsessed with my safety.
I go to the kitchen to clean up.
“Leave them,” he orders. “I’ll clean up this time.”
“Spaciente,” I say. Sorry. “A chef never leaves her kitchen in disorder. It’s the cardinal rule.”
Gio’s eyes are warm on me as he leans in the doorway and just watches me move around. I’m lightning fast—every chef is. There’s no place for slow in a kitchen.
“I’d help, but I’m afraid to get in your way,” Gio observes.
“You would,” I confirm, starting the dishwasher and corking the wine. I wipe down the countertops and wash and dry my hands. “Let’s go.”
“Seven minutes, twenty-eight seconds,” Gio says, looking at his phone. “Impressive.”
“I know,” I say with a cocky smile. My prowess in the kitchen is one thing I don’t worry about.
I gather my things and we head downstairs, Gio taking the handcart and crate from me and pulling it himself. “What’s your favorite thing about cooking?” Gio asks in the elevator on the way down.
“My favorite thing?” I almost don’t want to tell him. Don’t want him to feel like he’s doing me a second favor here. But he is. “It’s the menu creation. So I enjoy this job.”
“This job.” he repeats with a nod, like he’s reminding himself he’s a job to me, not anything more. “Couldn’t you do more of that at Milano’s?”
I shrug. “Milano’s is a cafe. Pastries and coffee. Some deli foods. It’s not a gourmet sit-down restaurant.”
The elevator doors open and we emerge in the underground parking area. Gio moves closer to me, as if to shield my body with his as we make our way to his SUV.
“Couldn’t it be? I’m just thinking— you already have your own place. Why are you working for another chef when you could be doing it for yourself?”
I shake my head. It’s not like I haven’t dreamed of having my own restaurant. But it would be a nice restaurant. Not some washed up cafe in Cicero. “We don’t get the kind of clientele it takes to support the kind of restaurant I’d want.”
“What kind is that?”
Jesus, this guy is relentless. And these aren’t personal questions, but to me they are. They’re at the very essence of all my hopes and dreams. And every one of them bares another bit of my soul.
“Fine dining. Like Michelangelo's.”
He loads the handcart in the trunk, then holds the door open for me. “And you love everything else about Michelangelo's?” he asks when he gets in. “Like you’d rather that were your full-time job?”
I snort. “It is my full-time job. Milano’s is my home life. But yeah. Honestly? Sometimes I wish the shooting had...” I stop because it’s too wicked to even say out loud.
“Closed the place down?” he finishes.
I exhale and drop my forehead into my fingers. “I shouldn’t say that. I’m a terrible granddaughter.”
Gio’s quiet for a long time, letting me stew in my shame. “I know a shit-ton about being conscripted into a family business,” he says gruffly.
I jerk my head up and look over. It never occurred to me that Gio might not enjoy his business. All I see is the power and money. Maybe he has no taste for the violence. Well, crap—he got shot in the gut for it, didn’t he? Almost died?
“I’ll bet you do,” I say softly. I clear my throat. “Anyway, yeah, I’d rather just work at Michelangelo's. Except without my direct boss, because he’s disgusting.”
I sense Gio’s body come alert, even though I didn’t say it. I didn’t say anything, yet he somehow seems to know. “Disgusting how?�
� he asks sharply.
Tingles run over my skin. I can’t decide if I’m excited or nervous about the threat I hear in his voice. The fact that I know his protectiveness is still aimed firmly at me.
No, this is a problem.
This man is dangerous. Like breaking-legs dangerous. Shooting kneecaps. Busting ribs. I may hate working with Arnie, but I’m not going to send a mafia hitman after him.
Well, I don’t know if Gio’s a hitman, but he easily could be.
“Never mind.” My voice sounds scratchy.
Gio cuts his gaze from the road to me. “What’s his name?” His tone is deadly.
I shake my head. “I’m not telling.”
Gio’s lip curls and he looks downright scary. “The fuck, Marissa?”
My heart’s beating fast, like I’m the one in danger and not my asshole handsy boss. “I don’t trust you, Gio.”
He flinches and the color drains from his face, along with the anger. “Huh,” is all he says.
I want to say more—to say it better so he’s not offended, although this whole thing is crazy. Since when do I need to be so worried about hurting the feelings of one of the heads of the most powerful crime family in the country?
I don’t. I shouldn’t. This man pretty much owns me, even though he hasn’t flexed that power much, he could. I shouldn’t have to worry about him getting butthurt when I don’t want him to throw someone in Lake Michigan with cement shoes for me.
Gio
My fist smashes through the drywall of my bedroom too easily. I squeeze my fingers into a fist, relishing the pain. At least I’m feeling something. First time in months. Although the self-disgust doesn’t exactly answer my question for why the fuck I’m living.
Cristo.
She doesn’t trust me. I guess she fucking shouldn’t. Because I want to kill that stronzo boss of hers. The one who’s done something disgusting to her.
And I know it’s something I’d wanna kill him for, because she wouldn’t tell me.
And fuck if my need to fix this for her, to exact a little justice, isn’t all-consuming. I smash my fist through the wall again. Two more times.
