by Howes, Ann
“Watch out for this one.” Marco taps Truman’s rear with a scuffed motorcycle boot, sending him out the kitchen door to join the rest of his pack in the backyard. “Go on, Dog. Go get your dinner.” To me, he says, “He has a nasty habit of stinking up the room.”
“I’m aware. Truman and I have become well acquainted.”
“Truman?” He shoots me a glance, then dumps spaghetti into a colander in the sink. After it drains, he returns it to the pot, adding olive oil and fresh basil leaves.
“As in Capote. What’s his real name?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Usually refer to him as Dog.”
Hmm. I put my phone on the table, and contemplate why no one’s bothered to name the poor mutt. He may be ugly, but he’s clearly loyal. And to me that’s far more attractive than good looks. After I’ve poured the wine, I carry a glass over to Marco.
“Salute.” We tap glasses as the kitchen door opens. Before even looking, I feel him enter and everything stops. My heart, my breath, even my blood.
What doesn’t stop, however, is the ability to take him in with that laser-focused giddiness of a schoolgirl. Sporting more stubble than yesterday and hair still wet from a recent shower, he looks predatory and dangerous, and so damn sexy it sets my nerves buzzing.
Our eyes catch for a long moment and it’s a miracle my legs hold. Even when the dogs threaten to bombard the kitchen and he throws a leg across the door, blocking them from following him. Only when he turns to shut it, am I able to drag my gaze from him but not before I notice he’s carrying an empty bag of dog food. Something about that, how he cares for those dogs, rushes through me, compounding that persistent, needy ache between my legs. He makes me want to breed, have babies with him.
In my peripheral, I covertly watch as he rolls and tosses the empty bag into the garbage then moves to the sink, pumps a soap dispenser, flips the faucet lever and lathers up.
Lord.
Even the way he washes his hands is hot and I’m rethinking my decision to keep my distance from him. He snatches a kitchen towel hanging from the oven handle, dries himself, then places it back in its original place.
“Would you like some wine?” I offer because one of us has to break this ridiculous tension.
He turns to me slowly, as if planning his next move. That handsome face is intense and those eyes are now a dark blue and…determined. Like he’s made a decision and he’s going to stick to it, while stalking the few steps from the stove to where I’m leaning with my back against the table. Next thing his feet straddle mine and I’m trapped against his warm, hard body. I can’t move, not even an inch, even if I wanted to, which I don’t.
Pressing a palm on the table behind me to support himself, he angles in, forcing me back and tilting his head. My lungs seize. Then the bastard smirks when my eyelashes flutter from his breath skating across my face and stopping at my ear. Shivers rush through me and I know he feels them because he tenses slightly and I see him swallow. The decanter clinks against a glass, I hear wine pouring and then slowly, so very fucking slowly, he pulls back, capturing my gaze.
Okay.
He wants to play dirty.
Well then. Before I think twice about the consequences, I touch the tip of my tongue to the corner of my lip, then drag my teeth across the bottom one.
He hisses, closes his eyes. It’s a long second before he murmurs in my ear, “Careful, De Luca. Don’t be starting any fires.”
Fires indeed.
Fires everywhere: in my body, in my blood and in my heart.
“You two done?” Marco asks.
Crud.
I squeeze my eyes shut and pull in my lips; I’d completely forgotten we weren’t alone. That’s the power this man has over me.
“For now,” Gianni answers, but to me he mutters, “Game on, De Luca.” As he pulls away I can’t help feeling a tiny victory when I notice the semi bulge in his jeans.
“Good, ’cause dinner’s ready, dude. Help yourself, I’m not serving your ugly ass.” Marco grins as he unties the frilly apron and tosses it onto the back of a chair.
He sets a plate loaded with spaghetti and several meatballs on the table and pulls out a chair, motioning that I should sit. If he notices my flushed face, to his credit, he doesn’t show it.
Once everyone is seated, we dig in. I sprinkle freshly grated Parmesan on my meatballs and taste.
Mmm. “Whose recipe is this?”
“My mom’s…family secret,” Marco says. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to marry you.”
“Ha! Somehow, I don’t think I’m the girl for you.” I send him a coy smile. “I think you might prefer blondes with pretty green eyes.”
He nods but says, “Well, then numbnuts here will have to marry you.” He ticks his head and flicks a thumb at his cousin.
That comment makes me almost snort wine out my nose, but I manage cover it with a little cough.
“My nuts are certainly not numb,” Gianni counters, looking at me. “Blue, maybe.” It takes everything to keep my face blank and not allow myself to hope his blue balls are because of me. If I think I’m going to one up him, I’m an idiot. This game he wants to play is too dangerous. He’s too dangerous and too experienced at getting what he wants.
I take a sip of wine, savoring it, allowing time to compose myself then steer the conversation elsewhere. “I’d like to see Billy tomorrow.”
“Marco will take you. Unfortunately, I have commitments I can’t get out of.”
“I can go on my own.”
“Not happening,” Gianni says.
“I know you’re busy too, Marco. I’ll take Billy’s Land Rover. You guys don’t need to babysit me every moment of the day.”
“Yeah, we do,” they say together, then look at each other and shake their heads.
Ooo…kay.
“You can’t drive anyway,” Marco says, registering the look on my face. “Not with your hands like that.”
Gianni only glares. “And don’t think about pulling any more stunts like you did yesterday. He wants you to engage with him. Don’t give him that.”
“What did you do?” Marco asks, cocking the brow with the barbell.
“Um…I kinda told him to fuck off.”
“Ah, shit.”
“He sent me a dick pic. I was grossed out and had a momentary lapse in judgment.”
“A dick pic?”
Gianni lets out a feral growl at the reminder. Marco tenses and there’s a similar deadly expression in each of their eyes, leaving no doubt to their family connection. I suspect they got lessons from their dads, how to look badass 101.
Although, probably wasn’t a good idea to remind him about the photo.
“That fucker’s gonna make a move,” Marco says. “I can feel it.”
“Yep.” Gianni nods. “Question remains how far he’s going to go.”
“Okay, so…” I ask both of them. “What should I prepare myself for?”
“Could be anything,” Gianni answers. “Just be aware of where you are and who you’re with.”
As I’m taking another bite of meatball, my phone pings with a new text. I jump and everyone else freezes. First, I’m relieved when I see it’s from Marshall, my building manager, then my head jerks back, when I read it.
Are you okay?
Why’s he asking me if I’m okay? Suddenly a cold and tingly feeling touches the back of my neck.
“What’s up, De Luca?”
“I don’t know. Need to make a call.”
Both men stop eating and watch me as I rise from the table and walk out the kitchen to the hall. The meatballs feeling suddenly heavy in my stomach.
“Shelley?” Marshall answers after the first ring. “Jeez, girl, you almost killed me, I’ve been so damn worried.”
“Marshall, what’s going on?”
“Tell me you’re okay? If you’re not say up yours, Marshall.”
I almost want to laugh, but he doesn’t call me out of the blue for nothing. “I�
��m good but you’re starting to freak me out.”
“Girl, your apartment was broken into.”
Good God!
Coincidence?
“I was worried after what happened, you know, the other day. Thought that punk came back and hurt you. You don’t have anything of value in there, do you?”
I’m stunned and can’t speak, except for a whimper.
“Your neighbor called me a few minutes ago. She was gone the whole weekend and when she got home noticed your door had been drilled open. I’m here at your unit now. What you want me to do? Call the cops?”
“No!” My voice comes out a little louder than I intended. “Please don’t call the cops. Can you wait inside until I get there? I’m on my way.”
“Shelley…?”
“I’ll be there in thirty. Please, Marshall, let me see what’s up, then if I need to call them, I will.”
I hear him sigh into the phone. “Sure. I’ll wait. But I’m not happy about this.”
“I know and I appreciate you worrying about me.” I let out a little sigh of my own. “Thank you. I’ll be there soon and I’m bringing backup.”
When I re-enter the kitchen Gianni looks up, takes a look at my face and says, “Sit and start talking.”
“Ah…”
“De Luca…?”
“Um…”
“Fuck,” he grumbles, looking at Marco. “Why is it when you need women to talk, they can’t?”
“Uh…”
“Spill it, Shelley.”
So, I spill.
“Why would he break into your place?” Marco asks when I’m done. “Do you have something of his?”
I gasp. “Oh God.” I slap a palm on my forehead. “The night of Joey’s funeral he came to my apartment. Said he’d left something there and needed to get it. I didn’t believe him. I thought it was an excuse to get me to open the door, but maybe there really is something.”
“Need to check it out and we need to go now.” Gianni pushes the remnants of his food away and rises.
“Bad, bad fucking feeling about this,” says Marco. “Asshole could have planted something you wouldn’t want the cops to find.” Another look passes between them and my knees tremble.
“What do you mean?”
“Drugs…or something,” Gianni says, his eyes getting hard. “What do you know about this piece of crap you fucked, Shelley?”
“Dude.” Marco shoots Gianni a glance. Gianni ignores him, continuing to glare at me
I chew on my nail, and though I don’t like what he says, I don’t know what to say in response, because he’s right. What do I know about Dean?
Nothing; that is the truth.
10
Lights, Camera, Action
* * *
Half an hour later, as we exit from the questionable elevator in my building and step onto my floor, my palms begin to sweat. My front door is shut, but not secured. So much for my new industrial deadbolt. I realize now it gave me a false sense of security. If Dean had wanted in, there wasn’t much to stop him.
Gianni blocks me with his arm as I aim to push it open and steps in front. “What does Marshall look like?”
“Big, muscular black guy, about fifty.”
“Stay back,” he orders then nods at Marco. They both pull weapons from the back of their jeans.
What the…?
How did I not know they were carrying? More bad ass 101? Then they enter with Gianni in the lead and I can see past them down the hall where Marshall is sitting on my couch with the remote resting on his leg, watching TV.
He stands, tips his chin at them, ignoring their weapons and moves to engulf me in his big arms.
“Damn, girl. I was expecting to see your body lying on the floor when I first came in. Who’re your wingmen?”
After introductions, they stash their guns, shake hands and size each other up.
“Army?” Marco asks.
“Marines,” Marshall responds. “You?”
“Hooah!”
The two bump fists and Gianni watches, legs spread, arms folded and looking no less intimidating.
With the pleasantries done, he asks, “Tell us what you know.”
“Just what I told Shelley on the phone,” Marshall says. “Nothing more.”
“Talk to the neighbor,” Gianni says to his cousin. “See what she has to say.” Marco nods and wastes no time following orders.
“I’ll get my tools in the meantime,” Marshall contributes, “and fix the lock for you, unless you’re calling the cops?”
“No!” I say. “No cops.”
He cocks his head, but says nothing then catches Gianni’s eye. I hear Marshall mumble something to him, but I’m not paying too much attention, because I’ve moved away and am surveying the damage to my apartment.
When he’s gone I check under my mattress for the envelope in which I keep my tips. It’s still there, all fifteen hundred dollars. Almost dizzy with relief, I shove it into my purse. No way I’m leaving it here now as it’s my only means to pay rent and it’s not even all that’s due.
I cast an eye around for anything missing. Things have been moved, some drawers are open and my bed looks rumpled. But I don’t notice anything obviously gone or any damage. I check my jewelry box and my collection of silver is intact. And so is my amber heart. Obviously not a burglary, which leaves no doubt this is Dean’s work.
Then I go to check the bathroom, but Gianni blocks me.
“Don’t go in there, Shelley.”
“Why not?” Something about his voice, low and cautious, makes my tailbone tingle, but conversely more determined to see what he’s blocking.
“Just don’t, you don’t need to see it.”
“Dammit, get out of my way.” I duck under his arm and flip the light switch. The noisy extraction fan spins to life and my heart stops as all the oxygen is punched from my lungs.
Lingerie Dean bought is scattered all over the counter, tub and hanging from the clear glass shower doors. Thongs, panties and two sexy teddies. None of which I had worn, still sporting their price tags. For some reason, even before Dean hit me, I couldn’t bring myself to wear them.
Now they are a statement in my bathroom and written in my red lipstick on the white tile of the shower enclosure is MINE.
MINE. MINE. MINE.
Repeatedly.
But worse, much, much worse. A pair of my sexiest and most expensive lacy panties lie on my vanity. I’d worn them the day before the funeral and discarded them to join the rest of my dirty laundry in my hamper.
They’re covered in a white sticky substance. My brain seems to have stopped working as it takes me several moments to register. I’d heard dirty stories of men, stalkers, doing things like this but never thought I’d see the day it happened to me.
The asshole jerked off and came on my panties.
I gasp, take a step back and slam into Gianni. Our eyes meet in the vanity mirror.
He knows what I’ve seen. His fingers digging into my upper arms are a clue, and the rage vibrating off him is palpable.
“I’m gonna fucking kill him,” he grinds out through that hard, clenched jaw.
Above all, Dean’s cologne lingers, clinging to the lacy bits of fabric. I’d venture a guess on my panties too. I picture him sniffing them while he jerks himself off. Maybe in another universe I’d find Gianni sniffing my panties hot, but not Dean. Never Dean.
I gag and stop breathing, not wanting to absorb his smell. An overwhelming sense of violation washes over me and my mouth opens and closes, but no words come out. Seeing me struggle, and with his fingers still digging into my arms, Gianni pivots and pushes me out of the confined space.
Outside, every attempt to suck in air falls short. No matter how many breaths I take, I can’t seem to get enough.
Gianni’s right behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. Despite his own fury, he seems to know what I need and mutters in my ear, “Keep it together, babe. I got you.” His breath against my
hair, his warmth against my body and his voice begin to break through. “I got you.”
I twist in his arms and slump into him, shaking, feeling his rage vibrate through him and nudging my nose into his armpit, pulling in his scent. If I could just smell him, the clean scent of his deodorant and that slight musky man smell, I might get through this. It’s primal, base and strangely comforting.
To both of us.
“Come on, babe,” he says after about a minute, and half carries, half leads me to the couch, helping me sit. Funny how I feel like a stranger in my own apartment. As if Dean’s vile acts and presence have made it something other than my home.
Gianni drops to his haunches in front of me. “Look at me,” he says, taking the tips of my fingers, squeezing them till I meet his eyes. “This fuck is gonna pay. That I promise you.” His words are not light. They carry the weight of generations of mafia vows made in times of war.
“I feel so violated,” I whisper shakily. To stop my teeth from rattling, I clench my jaw. “So fucking defiled.”
He drops his head and looks at the floor and I hear him take a deep breath. When he meets my eyes again, his expression is a mix of conviction and anger, yet lying beneath both of those emotions, I see concern for me.
“He’s fucked with the wrong people, Shelley. This will not go unanswered. But right now, I have to focus on what’s important. That’s dealing with this and keeping you safe. I need you to help me with that. You get me?”
I swallow down the hard lump in my throat and tamp down my anger. Then I nod.
Gianni’s expression is uncompromising and solid, but his Adam’s apple bobbing and the barely noticeable twitch in his eye are things he can’t hide. I wish I knew how he stays so damn calm. Years of watching his father, I suppose, and not reacting as expected when provoked.
I should take lessons.
I want to slash pillows or swing my softball bat at something. Maybe target practice with Ziggy, preferably aiming at Dean’s knees, but because Gianni’s holding my gaze and my fingers, anchoring me like a tiny boat on the ocean in the face of a hurricane, I don’t.
