“Are you going to deny me your name?” She doesn’t take her hand back. Doesn’t chastise me for taking a few liberties. “Or do you want me to play the guessing game?”
“Ali?” One of the women she’s with calls her name, but Miss Rubens doesn’t acknowledge her past the minute shake of her head. I can feel her friends’ stare, their curiosity, but more than that, I love her reluctance to break this little tit for tat. “We’re heading to the dance floor. Will you be okay?”
Her concern for Aliana is the only reason I don’t dismiss her myself.
“I’m fine. Text you in a bit.”
“If you’re—”
“I am.” A hint of annoyance flashes across her expression, but it’s soon replaced by a smirk matching my own. “Go have fun with your boyfriend. I’ll be here.”
“Okay.” The four walk away while I take another sip of my drink, an action the beauty next to me watches, and when her small, pink tongue darts out to lick her bottom lip, I offer her a taste.
“Drink.”
“Name first.”
I chuckle at her demand, amused by the way her hand goes to her slightly cocked right hip. “Bossy too?”
“I can be,” Aliana says, and the serious demeanor she tries to hold on to crumbles as a low giggle follows. “It’s about the only thing I learned from my dad that’s useful.”
There’s no missing the hint of animosity in her tone. It’s quick, and evaporates the second the words slip past those plump lips.
“I’m sure you’ve learned a lot more than that.”
“And I need you to quit stalling and tell me your name.”
“Take a drink, and I will.”
“Fine.” She tries to take the glass from me, but I shake my head and tip it against her lips. They part, just a small opening, and she take a tiny sip. Not even a third of a shot, but I don’t comment as I’m fascinated by the way she savors the warm notes of smoke and dried fruits before swallowing. “That’s actually pretty good.”
“I know.” And because I can’t stop my impulses when it comes to this woman, I lick the bloody rim where her lips touched. There’s just the slightest bit of saliva there, and I hold back a groan at the small taste. “Perfect amount of heat to sweet with an earthy tone.”
“Agreed.” Her answer is a bit huskier. Her eyes, which I didn’t notice until now, have small flecks of green within those brown orbs and seem a little darker. “It exceeded my expectations.”
“One more.” Taking a step closer, I offer her the last bit in the glass while leaning down until my lips are just against her ear. There’s a shiver that runs through her body, goose bumps rise and spread while a groan reverberates through my chest. Sinful fucking woman. For a second or two, we remain still, just the rise and fall of our chests until I give her what she wants. “My name is Callum Jameson, my Venus. At your service.”
6
Four hours ago...
“You’re late.” Those are the first words to come out of my father’s mouth the moment I enter their formal living room the Saturday after his last visit. No warmth. No asking how I’ve been since they’d canceled the last family dinner without a single explanation. “Where have you been?”
“In traffic.” My reply is just as short, and his lips thin, but before he can respond, my mother walks back into the room with another woman right behind her. My cousin’s wife. They’re dressed in a similar fashion, conservative black dresses with delicate strands of pearl around their necks. There’s also the matching updos, for my mother a tight bun high on her head while the other prefers it at the base. They’re the epitome of Stepford wives, and the tray holding two drinks in my mother’s hand finishes the ensemble.
Without acknowledging me, she walks over to Dad and hands him his drink. “Dinner will be served soon, dear.”
“Thank you, Ada. Please set the table.” He demands every meal to be catered to him: cooked, plated, and nearly fed to him.
“Of course. I’ll be right back.” As she speaks, my cousin’s wife, Alicia, makes eye contact with me, and her disdain drips from every pore. I’m dressed in a simple pair of dress pants and a company shirt, having come from a meeting with a potential donor for the Conte House. And while normally Aurora handles these setups, I took over the pet project as it’s the class I teach that would benefit the most.
“Do you have something to say, Alicia?”
“No.”
“Then please refrain from looking at me in that manner or I’ll be enticed to—”
“Why can’t you ever act like the young lady I raised you to be?” My mom steps closer to Alicia, almost shielding her, and I chuckle. But what can I expect from her? She’s used me as much as my father exploits me. My stealing has procured them both enough money to retire and buy more than one private island, while I don’t get a dime. She’s just as guilty.
A chuckle escapes me while my chest tightens. Not that I’ll ever show them. “You raised me?”
“Of course, I—”
“Liars never make it into Heaven.”
Her gasp is as fake as the tears that brim in her eyes. “How dare you speak to me like that.”
“Because a fact doesn’t change no matter how you plan to twist it. It always unfurls.”
Alicia’s husband, Jorge, walks into the room then. His face is tight, and his eyes are narrowed while the heavy scent of tobacco infiltrates the room. “Prima, watch your mouth or I’ll be forced to knock it closed.”
“Silence!” My father’s sharp tone cuts through my cousin’s threat, leaving it hanging mid-air without any weight to it. There’s the anger in his eyes that catches me off guard. Since when do you defend me? “You don’t threaten my daughter, Jorge. Know your place inside my home; you touch her, and I’ll return the favor to your wife.”
Both he and Alicia tense, faces becoming ashen. My cousin moves closer to her as if to act like a shield. “Uncle, how can you—”
“You don’t threaten another man’s property.”
And there it is.
A word that cuts deep.
Destroys every bit of hope that for once, he’d be there for me.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Just eat and leave. A mantra I play on loop, forcing my emotions to the furthest recess of my mind where my heart can’t dominate. Instead, ice fills my veins, and my expression mirrors the emotionless pit I become to survive near these people.
Because they’re not my family. Never will be.
“My apologies, Tio. Won’t happen again.”
“Good.” For a few minutes, everyone stands in place, unmoving, unblinking, until my father takes a sip of his drink and waves his hand in the air. The other occupants let out a quick sigh while I remain still; I don’t trust them. “Please set the table and have our meal served in twenty minutes.”
“Yes, dear,” Mom says, voice meek while her hand grips Alicia firmly. As if worried for her. “We’ll get to it right away.”
They move toward the archways leading out and I follow, but the throat clearing makes me pause. My head turns in his direction, and his amused eyes are focused on me. “Not you.”
“Okay.” I acquiesce with a neutral expression, knowing what’s coming and the small bit of leverage I have at the moment. He needs me, and without my help, they’d never pull off what he hopes to accomplish. “I’ll stay, but he leaves.”
“You’re pushing it today, cousin. You don’t have a say—”
Dad holds up a hand, and Jorge stops mid rant. “He’ll leave.”
“You can’t be serious! She’s in no position to demand anything.”
“Am I not?” I arch a bitch brow and dare him to say something to piss his precious uncle off. Wimp. “You also forget I’m his daughter. Ruthlessness runs in our blood.”
“Uncle Diego, do you hear her? How can you just sit there and not correct her behavior?”
“Like this.” Before my cousin can move back, my father stands to his full height—towers over him while bringing d
own the not empty tumbler on his face. The sickening crunch is as loud as my gasp; the blood that now pours from the wound on my cousin’s nose is disgusting. Dad hits him three times before stepping back, holding out the now-cracked glass for me to take. I do so, moving close and then retaking the few steps separating us quickly, while my father offers Jorge a handkerchief. “That’s the last warning for tonight. Go home, son. I make the decisions here, not you, nor do you have any leverage over me. Keep that in mind, and this little incident won’t happen again. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Go eat and head home.”
Holding the bridge of his nose with the fabric, he turns and does as asked, but not before sending me a hateful glare. His disdain for me is no secret nor is it a sweat off my brow. Jorge looks to my father for approval, wants to be his child, and has tried to one-up me all my life.
He has a seat at the city council.
He has an Ivy league education.
He does as he is told without question.
He’s a sexist jerk that follows my father’s ideology to a T.
“Take a seat, mi hija.” Picking my battles is prudent. I won a small battle against the others, but not the war. So I do; I pick the chair furthest from him and sit with my head held high and shoulders straight. This makes him chuckle. “You are a lot like me. So stubborn.”
“And yet, I’m the one risking everything.”
“For the family, we all make certain sacrifices.” His words pull a scoff from me which he ignores, choosing instead to stand and come sit beside me. “Name your price.”
“W-what?”
“What do you want? I won’t give you this opportunity again.”
“My freedom.”
“At the moment, I have to decline that request. You get one more.” My stomach sinks; I knew he wouldn’t give me the chance to back out. But what truly guts me is the menacing glint in his eyes, the victory smile on his lips. “Especially now that I’ve been offered something too beneficial in exchange for your hand in marriage.”
My world stops.
All sound vanishes for a while. I have no idea how long, but I come back to the chanting of the word no over and over again. It’s hoarse, so full of despair, and it takes me even longer to realize the person speaking is me.
There’s wetness on my cheeks. My breathing is labored.
“Don’t do this to me. This isn’t the 1800s where women were traded for cattle,” I manage to choke out while bringing my hand to my chest. I press down hard as if hoping to squash the sensation there. It’s automatic, the distress and pain, and my breathing becomes labored.
“Breathe.”
“You can’t—”
“Breathe, dammit!” But I can’t. Just the thought, thinking that I’d be trapped for the rest of my life—that my plans to move overseas in the next two years would vanish—caused my throat to close up. My body shakes. My vision blurs. “Last warning. Get a hold of yourself.”
“Please.” That’s all I get out as his hand wraps around my throat and squeezes, forcing me from my panic and punching straight into fear. There’s a difference in the two, a teetering edge that slams you back into reality where you can breathe but are being blocked not by your nervous system but by a physical presence.
“Calm yourself.”
“Dad, stop.”
“Are you ready to quit being childish?” My chest burns, the limited air he’s allowing only reigniting the panic within me. I’m fighting it, trying to stay alert, but the tighter he holds me, the more it grows. Dad’s face comes closer, his eyes staring straight into my wide ones. “I’m willing to listen to your reasoning, but you better have a very compelling reason as to why I shouldn’t force this on you. Nod if you understand.” I do, minute, but the movement is there. “We can shelve this conversation for now, but we will revisit. I’m only allowing you this respite because I need your head in the game and the artifact in my hands within the next ten days. Now, ask me for a favor, and I’ll grant it.”
He releases his hold and I cough, bringing a hand up to the tender skin. “What are you allowing?”
This is another way he controls me. I’m told what to ask for, but if I want to get out of the country and never return, I need him to think I’m being complacent. After this job, I’ll disappear. Maybe the Cancio family can hide me.
“Money or a personal favor.”
“Personal favor, then.” I don’t want his money. My response is immediate, though my tone is scratchy and my chest is still heaving.
“Ask.”
“My brothers remain untouchable.” Another cough leaves me and he stands, walking toward the water carafe atop the table next to the seat he’d occupied earlier. With the glass in his hand, Dad walks to me and holds it to my lips, urging me to drink. Begrudgingly I do, and with each second that passes, my body further calms. Not fully, but enough to control my panic. “Promise me. Not so much as a blemish on them.”
Dad is pensive as he sits back in the chair beside me. He rubs his chin, eyes on mine, but then nods in agreement. “Done, until they turn eighteen or ask to be a part of my office.”
They’re twelve and fourteen now, which gives me a few years to breathe. That, and they’re his golden children. His heirs. Their political careers are already set in stone, while neither care for the limelight.
Once they turn sixteen, I can take them with me.
“Then you have yourself a deal. I’ll bring it back.”
“I never had a doubt.” His chuckle is loud, shakes him a bit. “Now, let’s go eat. I’m sure your mother is wondering what’s taking so long. She lives for these dinners.”
“Can I go home instead? I’m not hungry.”
“Sorry, kid.” The fake remorse is another slap in the face, but I swallow it back. I just need to get through this and leave. I’ll begin planning once I’m home. “Family dinners are sacred, and you know this.”
“Of course.” With a heavy sigh, I stand and make my way toward the entryway, and I’m almost through it when he speaks again. It’s not what I’m expecting and not a single piece of me believes him, but the man knows how to hit low.
“Aliana, you might not believe me, but I do love you. You are my daughter.”
“I know you do, in a very self-serving way,” I whisper under my breath. Tears brim my eyes, but I blink them away before looking back from over my shoulder. “You just love money and power more.”
Present...
I’m frozen. Unable to so much as blink while he pulls back to stand at his full height.
Christ, out of all the men to flirt with. This isn’t good.
Because I know him. Know men like him and those that he surrounds himself with.
Just like my father, Aurora’s father, and plenty of other power-hungry jerks who step on others while maintaining full control of everyone and everything around them.
And yet, I’m not scared. I should be, but the feelings he’s bringing to life are anything but. It also doesn’t help that I’ve been drinking since leaving my parent’s house after a disastrous dinner. I’ve been here for a while—after being home just long enough to shower/change and call two friends to meet me here. This now my personal area, rented by me with no plans of calling it a night any time soon.
My inhibitions are low. My desire to control any aspect of my life is a wrecking-ball-sized force I’m not willing to subdue tonight.
Not after being pushed into a panic attack.
Not after being choked into complacency.
But instead of pulling away, I take a step closer. I also find my fingers curling in the material of his shirt, stretching it, and all the while he watches with an expression that makes my cheeks heat up while he blindly places his glass on the bar top behind us.
It’s want and amusement with just the right amount of cockiness.
This isn’t an average man; I should leave.
My father would kill me if he knew I was here flirting with this man, the
second-in-command to a family that has transatlantic criminal ties from here to London.
This I know for a fact. Because there’s a fundamental survival instinct that a lot of people forfeit in their ignorant bliss, yet I don’t.
I watch. I listen. I remember.
I want to lick each tattoo, starting from his neck and moving lower.
The blush spreads, skin tingling from my face to the top of my breasts.
He’s dangerous. Turn around and go.
However, a low whimper escapes me instead when Callum cups my cheek with a gentle squeeze, his touch lighting me from within. “You are truly beautiful.”
His accent alone incinerates any reason I have to leave.
His tone, that gravelly cadence, makes my thighs clench while the lace material covering my mound clings to my labia.
Dios mio, he’s got trouble written all over him.
“Thank you,” I say, voice low as unpleasant thoughts drifts across my processors: I’m a pickup. Just another woman in a bar with a random stranger, and I need to view it as he does. Like two people meeting and having fun. Nothing more. Nothing less. And yet, as I’m busy tracing a circle around his stomach, ignoring the way the muscles there clench while pursing my lips, I feel bothered by the thought. Why does it taste so bitter? What is wrong with me? “Now, is that the best pick-up line you have?”
Why am I even asking him this? He does not matter.
We will never be anything past what I’m allowing tonight.
Better yet, how strong were those drinks? Did Lynne order an extra shot for each?
7
I can almost make out the thoughts swirling in her pretty little head. Her expressions are honest and open while being tinged with a heady hint of anger.
Risqué: Mafia Romance (Beautiful Sinner Series Book 5) Page 5
