by Rose, Renee
Gio shoots me a startled look, like he can’t believe I just made nice to another human being.
“That’s the drugs talking,” she says easily, and it occurs to me that it’s not the first time a patient has said that to her. I have to swallow down a mouthful of jealous prickles. The kind that make me want to mark my territory so firmly no guy ever looks at her again.
I catch Gio studying me and attempt to make my face blank. Or angry. Fuck—what did my face used to look like before Desiree? I don’t feel like the same man I was a week ago.
“So who came over from Italy?” Desiree asks conversationally as her hands fly over the wound, cleaning, bandaging. “Your father?”
“Our grandfather moved the family over when our father was ten.”
“And you all still speak fluent Italian?”
“He went back to Sicily to marry our mother—it was sort of an arranged thing, so we’re first generation American on both sides,” I explain and frown when I catch Gio watching me again.
“Where’s Paolo?”
“He’s around. Want to see him?”
“Nah, just making sure he’s okay.”
“Yeah, he’s good. You were the only casualty on our side.”
He glances at Desiree. “And on theirs?” he asks me in Italian.
“She speaks Spanish,” I warn, also in Italian. Which means she can probably understand us. But I tell him, anyway. “All dead.”
Desiree stiffens.
Fuck.
Gio nods and watches as Desiree preps his other arm for the IV. She inserts the needle and gets the drip running. Gio closes his eyes when the painkiller hits him, the taut lines of his face relaxing.
“You want the TV on or anything?” I ask, but he doesn’t even open his eyes, just shakes his head, sinking into rest again.
I look at Desiree. Things are getting too intense between us. Every minute I’m with her I fall in deeper—and I can’t. As much as I want to claim Desiree forever, she wants—needs—a different man. And if I’m going to let that happen—let her walk away when this is all through, I need to stop acting like we’re dating or a couple. We need a chance to catch our breaths. No wine and pasta and a hard fucking on the countertop tonight. But the what-to-do options are pretty limited considering how housebound we both are. “How about pizza and a game of gin rummy?” I suggest as we walk out of Gio’s room.
She shoots me a funny look. “Um, yeah. Okay.” Her voice sounds surprised, but willing.
“Joker’s wild,” I tell her.
Her soft laugh is sweet and yielding. “Joker’s wild.”
Chapter 10
Desiree
I wake up on the wrong side of the bed the next morning. I don’t know—maybe it’s just too much for me to process—grieving my little boy, being held in quasi-imprisonment by Junior. Having feelings for said captor and not wanting them.
I’m mixed up, muddled up, miffed.
I do my usual rounds with Gio, then shower and dress. Instead of looking for breakfast, I put on my new leather jacket and walk out the front door. I need a break from the house and I’m feeling prickly about still being a prisoner, even though Junior treated me like a princess yesterday.
I’m not surprised to hear the door fly open behind me. “Hey.” It’s a sharp, commanding bark.
I’m not dumb enough to keep walking. I stop, but don’t turn around.
“Where are you going?” Junior strides purposefully toward me. He’s already showered and dressed himself, looking impeccable as always in a finely tailored suit.
“Back off, bossman.” I give it right back to him. “I’m going for a walk.”
It’s not cute foreplay this time. I’m not feeling sassy, I’m downright bitchy, and he’s not amused. “Don’t speak to me that way.” It’s a low command. The kind that is certain of being obeyed.
I find myself flushing, because he really doesn’t deserve my nastiness. Not today, anyway. Still, I don’t back down. “Listen,” I tell him, hands on my hips. “I’m doing my job. I’m all in on taking care of Gio. I’m trusting you to hold up your end of the bargain and pay me and let me go when he’s up and around. But trust goes both ways. You show a little, too. I need some fresh air, so I’m taking it. I’ll be back in twenty minutes, okay?”
His mouth firms into a thin line and he stares at me for a long moment. He looks as weary today as I feel. After a moment, he tips his head in the direction I was walking, as if to say, “then go.”
I turn and flounce off, walking with long, angry strides—the kind designed to burn off frustration. I don’t look back until I’m halfway down the block, and when I do, I find Junior trailing twenty feet behind me.
Nope. No trust on his part.
He’s probably freezing his ass off without a coat, too.
I’m not going to feel bad about it. He’s the one who decided I needed to be supervised on my walk around the block.
Or three. I walk a long loop and by the time I arrive back at the house, I’m feeling more like myself. More awake. Alive. A little sassy. A little sorry.
I stop at the sidewalk leading up to his million dollar house and look back at my tail. It’s ridiculous what the sight of him does to me. The flutters in my chest at his large, fit frame, flutters in my belly over his frown.
Because I still think I’m right and don’t want to say sorry, but I also want to make nice, I wait for him. When he arrives, my body moves toward him of its own accord, and suddenly I’m leaning my forehead against his chest. It’s not quite surrender—more like beating my head against a wall.
And that wall is him.
It takes two beats before his arms lift and circle me. “You okay?” His gruff voice holds genuine concern.
I nod against his chest. “A little out of sorts.”
He rubs the back of my neck. “Me too.” He pulls me away from his chest and grips my jaw, tilting my face up. And then his lips descend on mine, his kiss a punishment—hard and claiming.
I yield to it, open my lips to let his tongue sweep in.
He starts off hard, but by the time he’s finished, his lips and tongue are in exploration, tasting me, teasing me. When he breaks it, I’ve forgotten why I was in a snit. He stares down at me. His expression is inscrutable, but his thumb strokes my cheek lightly.
“What’s your real name?” I ask, somewhat breathlessly. It’s like I need something from him—some concession, something personal.
Something stiffens in his face. “Santo.” He doesn’t like saying the name. Maybe it reminds him of his father, and the memories aren’t good.
I know he feels trapped by his father—I felt it in every word he spoke about his situation. That’s why I encouraged him to leave it all.
It had nothing to do with me trying to make him into someone I could be with long term.
Nothing at all.
I shiver and he turns me toward the house. “Let’s get some breakfast.” We head into the house and then straight through to the garage.
“My car!”
It’s there beside his beautiful Maserati. I had worried about it sitting in the hospital parking lot, but never imagined it was right here the whole time. That kind of makes escape plans more simple—not that I’m still plotting that sort of thing.
“Yeah. I wanted it somewhere safe,” Junior says. “Don’t get any ideas,” he warns, ruining any appreciation I might have felt for his thoughtfulness.
He opens the door to the Maserati and reaches across me to put the keys in the ignition. “Start it up if you get cold. I’ll be right back.”
Well. That’s a sliver of trust, isn’t it? He left me with the keys in the ignition. I could totally take the car and leave.
Of course, he’d kill me.
Literally.
So he probably knows I’m not going any further than a walk around the block without his permission. And that’s why I really need to stop turning molten every time he touches me.
* * *
Junior
> I grab twenty grand in cash and jump in the car with Desiree, who has her pop music playing on the radio.
I don’t know why I find that so adorable.
Her barb this morning about not trusting her stuck in my ribs. She’s right. I don’t. I can’t. That’s how I was raised. The training drilled into me by Santo Tacone.
But I brought her an olive branch. I drop her phone in her lap.
She looks over at me in surprise, but I don’t acknowledge it. Fuck, my suspicious instincts already have me wanting to snatch it back, keep her from any outside contact.
But I have to trust her at some point. If I’m letting her walk out of my house when it’s all through, trusting her not to tell anyone, then I should extend the same faith now.
Still, when she immediately starts texting someone, I get tense. She’s a fucking saint, because she says to me in an exasperated voice, “I’m texting Lucy, my bestie from work. Just to tell her I miss her ass.” She holds up the screen to prove it.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
I drive all the way into the city, to Caffè Milano. Kill two birds with one stone.
I circle the block, looking for anything off. Cops could be watching the place after the shooting. Or Vlad’s crew. Once again, I probably should’ve called one of the guys to watch my back. I would’ve insisted Gio or Paolo bring backup if they’d come. It’s goes against my alpha tendencies to admit any weakness, though. I don’t see anything or anyone who looks out of place, so I pull in and shut off the ignition.
“You’re actually going to leave your Maserati parked on a street in this neighborhood?” Desiree asks in disbelief.
I shrug. “Used to be everyone in this neighborhood knew better than to mess with my car. Not sure if that’s still the case, but I’m gonna hope so.”
“May I drive it?” she asks as she slams the door shut.
“What?” I’m taken aback, mostly because no one in their right mind has ever asked me to drive it, other than my stronzo brothers, and I told them all to fuck themselves twenty times before finally relenting.
She beams a thousand-watt smile at me as I head to her side, protectively shielding her from traffic. “Pretty please, Junior? Come on, what does it do—zero to one hundred in four seconds?”
I chuckle, surprised at her interest and knowledge. “Yeah.”
“Let me drive it. Please? I’ll give you the best cock-suck in the history of the universe.”
My dick goes rock hard at her proposal. I have to reach down and adjust myself in my pants. “Well, fuck. That’s a tough offer to refuse.” I grip her face and kiss her again, like I did in front of my house this morning. I don’t know what my fascination is with kissing her so much, but I can’t seem to stop. She tastes like mint toothpaste and berry lip balm. Her lips are soft and full, and so fucking luscious. Seriously, I want to eat her up.
And yeah, I am the big, bad wolf.
I shouldn’t. We’re not a couple. This isn’t dating. We have an arrangement, but I know she’s not interested in continuing beyond its expiration.
“Is that a yes?” she asks when I break the kiss. I love her spunk.
“Yes.” I can’t look away. She’s all bright-eyed and flushed—so full of life. Such contrast to me. I’ve been half-dead for years. For sure since Mia’s death, but probably longer. Hell, I can’t remember when my life ever felt worth living. Like it was my own.
I’ll bet Nico doesn’t feel that way. That testa di cazzo has been living his own life since the day he graduated high school and cooked up his Vegas plan.
I force myself to break the eye contact, to sweep the streets for anything dangerous. Any observers. I don’t see anything off. Even so, I get the sweats when we walk up to Caffè Milano, the echo of shots ringing in my ears. The sound Gio made when hit. The look on his face flashes before my eyes. And then the image of the carnage I left behind.
I’m not innocent. I’ve had blood on my hands before. But that scene was pretty fucking bad. I didn’t even know I had it in me to be a one-man Terminator. I guess that’s what happens when someone shoots my brother.
The place has a few customers ordering their morning coffee at the bar. Some young people sit at tables with their computers out. An old man reads a newspaper.
“So are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Desiree asks in a low voice.
“What do you mean?” I ask without stopping my constant sweep of the area. I draw in a slow breath, but my heart’s still beating too hard.
“Are we here for business? Because you sure don’t look hungry.”
Cazzo. I shouldn’t have brought her. What in the hell was I thinking? She’s already an accessory. Now I’m just further burying her.
“Baby, don’t ask questions.”
“Are you freaking kidding me?” She keeps her voice low, but the tone is every level of pissed off. “Junior, I don’t want to be a part of this shit.”
I scrub a hand over my face. “I know. I fucked up. I shouldn’t have brought you. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Actually, I do know what I was thinking. That having her along would ease the strain. Maybe even help me smooth things over with the Milano family, because she’s the type who can lead anyone she wants around by the nose.
Myself included.
The Milano girl is behind the counter, and goes pale when she sees me, but otherwise plays it cool.
Desiree and I go to the counter and order coffee and pastries, then sit down at one of the tables. Now that I’m inside, I check out the new glass. It’s decent. Thick, double-pane. Better than what they had in here before.
That’s good.
I pick up a newspaper from one of the tables and pretend to read the headlines. I’m thinking I’ll slip the money into the newspaper and hand it to the granddaughter before we leave.
“Junior, I’m scared.”
I look up, surprised. Desiree doesn’t strike me as the type to admit her feelings, especially one like fear.
“What are we doing here? What’s going to happen?”
I reach across the table and pick up her hand. It’s ice cold. “Baby, you don’t have to be scared.” I don’t know what compels me—I’ve never spilled a secret in my life—but I can’t stand the thought of her nervous because of me.
She probably picked up on my PTSD being here and now she thinks something terrible is going down.
“This is the place Gio got shot,” I tell her in a low voice. “I came to make nice with the owners, that’s all.”
Now Desiree’s face is pale. She darts her eyes around without moving her head, like she’s a spy or something. “Okay,” she nods a few times, as if she’s trying to be brave. “What do we have to do?”
Her words hit me square in the chest. Shock me.
What do we have to do.
Even though I subconsciously brought her to be my better half, to be a part of my team, it was the wrong thing to do. And yet here she is, terrified, out of her element, disapproving of the whole thing, but still willing to play my sidekick.
I squeeze her cold fingers. “You don’t have to do anything. I just wanted to show my face and leave some cash to cover damages. I’m gonna put it in this newspaper and hand it to our waitress when she comes.”
Again, the over-share shocks me.
My own father would shoot me in the head for being so fucking stupid.
Maybe this is what love does to you.
Fuck.
Do I love Desiree?
I sure as hell don’t remember feeling this way about Marne. I cared for her—still do—but it’s in more of an abstract way. The way I feel for Desiree is visceral. Real. Like I’d rather stab myself in the eye than see her hurting. Or scared. And she demanded my trust, so I’m giving it to her.
I’m also placing her in all kinds of danger.
Which is why this isn’t going to work. I need to stay the fuck away from Desiree or I’ll drag her right down to the depths of hell with me.
&n
bsp; “You should quit this business, Junior. You don’t like it,” she says, like she read my mind.
The truth of her words hit me hard.
I’ve spent most of my life feeling sick over who I am. What I do. I’m a monster. I gunned down six Russians in this cafe, for Christ’s sake. Yes, they meant to kill us first, but is this any way to live?
And maybe when I said my dad wouldn’t have an identity without it, I was really talking about myself.
Sure, I’d love to just shut down shop. Move my mom to Florida and spend the rest of my days watching girls in bikinis. But the emptiness in that idea leaves me cold. What in the hell would I do with myself? What would I live for?
If my daughter Mia was still alive, maybe I’d feel different.
Maybe I’d still have a decent marriage, having something besides a dying business to look after.
“You could go legit like Nico did. Open a string of Italian restaurants in the old neighborhoods so you can look after things.”
“No?” She watches me closely, like she’s trying to tune into my thoughts. I’m not used to people trying to read me. To anyone giving a shit what I think unless it affects them.
I adjust our table to fix the wobble in it. “I don’t know, doll. The pressure I feel from my dad is fucking real. But yeah, I’d like to get out of La Nostra. I really would.”
“Then you should.”
I stare at her, feeling like I’m thrust backward, away from her and any possibility of a normal, legit life. A normal family. A woman who makes the room light up. It’s like I’m in a movie, when the camera suddenly zooms way, way back. She becomes tiny. So far away. Completely out of reach.
And I’m here, stuck being the man everyone hates. My own brothers included.
The Milano girl comes over. “Here you go, Mr. Tacone,” she murmurs as she places my coffee in front of me.
“You okay?” I ask.
She heaves in a breath and blows it out. “Yeah.” A bob of her head. “I’m okay.”
“Baby, this is Ms. Milano, owner of the place.” I purposely don’t use Desiree’s name. And of course, I’m not sure of the Milano girl’s first name. Under the table I slide the envelope of cash into the newspaper.
