by Sadie Black
"Good morning gorgeous," he whispered against the back of her head. "Did you sleep well?"
The touch was electric, sending jolts of delight through the rest of her body. Ciara hummed and closed her eyes, reveling in the sensation. Luka was fantastic.
"I had an amazing sleep, and I had a great dream to go with it. I bet you'll never guess who was in it."
"Mm. I'm drawing a blank. Why don't you tell me all about what a stud this individual was. Spare no detail. Oh, and maybe talk about how talented he is, too."
Ciara laughed, pressing against his back and savoring their proximity.
"Him? Well, that's a little presumptuous, don't you think? Maybe I was dreaming about myself."
It was Luka's turn to laugh. He nuzzled against the back of her head and kissed her hair. The sweet affection between them that morning was perfect. Ciara marveled at the thought that every day could start as wonderfully as that day did. If Luka was serious about marriage, if it hadn't been something he'd said in the heat of the moment, this would be her new reality. What a blessing that would be.
"You've got a big ego, but you're not so full of yourself that you'd brag about a dream like that. That's something only I would do. No, I know you were dreaming about someone else." His fingertips barely grazed her side, sending shivers down her spine.
"And from the noises you were making when I woke up, I think you were dreaming about a man. So tell me all about him and how wonderful he is." Against the back of her head, Ciara could feel Luka grinning. "I promise I won't get jealous."
How was it that she'd found a man so perfect? Luka hooked his arm around her and stroked her stomach as he waited for her reply. Although he was short tempered at times, everyone had their flaws. Ciara herself had little patience, and at times was too ambitious and self-absorbed.
The important thing was, knowing Luka had made her aware of her shortcomings. When she was at his side, she aspired to be the best version of herself possible.
"Well, he was slender, but sexy. A good looking white boy — probably Italian, if I had to guess. He had this messy dark hair and this expression when he looked at me like I was going to be his no matter what. He came into the room, climbed up on the bed I was sitting on, pushed me against the mattress, and then..."
"Then what?" Luka's hand had crept down her stomach to trace patterns across her lower abdomen. Had Ciara been more awake, she would have wanted him to continue to dip downward, but she was too tired to give Luka the attention he needed.
"Then he leaned in close and whispered in my ear that he was going to make me breakfast. A big breakfast. And that was the sexiest thing he could have said."
Luka broke from her side and rolled onto his back, laughing.
"Alright, I walked into that one. What do you want for breakfast? I'll make all your dreams come true."
He really was amazing. Ciara rolled over so she faced him, drawing the sheets into a pile to rest her head upon.
"Make me the Belmonte special," she said. "I'm not picky."
"You got it."
A stiff roll brought Luka to the edge of the bed, and he stood. Before he left the room, he pulled a black bath robe from his closet and shrugged into it. As far up as the condo unit was, the robe was unnecessary, but she found it quaint. Domestic. It was hard to believe that she'd come into Luka's life anticipating a party boy and had found a man ready to get serious and settle down. Life was unpredictable, but she'd failed to notice how much so until she'd come to New York.
Luka left the room, and in the minutes that followed she heard him rifling through pots and pans in his open kitchen. A drawer opened, and then another. Wood clacked against marble. Then, a hissed cuss of pain. Ciara pressed her lips together to hold back a laugh and crept from bed.
Luka's dress shirt from the night before lay on the floor, and she slipped it on, buttoning the lower buttons to lend her some modesty. More or less dressed, she left the bedroom to find him chopping onions in the kitchen, one finger already nicked, tears streaming down his face.
"I know that I'm an amazing human being," Ciara said as she approached, a slow sway to her hips, "but we only just parted ways. No need to cry. Besides, I got lonely and came to find you, anyway."
"Haha," Luka rolled his red eyes upward, more tears falling as he did. "It just so happens to be that the Belmonte special requires pain and suffering to make the food taste extra tender."
"And salty," Ciara remarked as she settled at the end of the counter, watching as he chopped.
"No. The process for adding that salty kick is less about pain and more about pleasure. In fact, if you feel like helping me make breakfast, that's what you can start wi—"
A series of three knocks at the door interrupted him before he could finish his sentence, and Luka turned his head in the direction of the sound. Ciara frowned, unsettled.
"The front doors to the lobby are locked, aren't they? So strangers or solicitors can't get in?" she asked. "Is it one of your neighbors? Do you think we were being too noisy last night?"
The carefree expression on Luka's face faded. The three knocks repeated, and he placed the knife down on the counter.
"Never had anyone come up and knock on my door," he admitted, voice betraying his unease. "You know what it probably is? It's probably some overzealous reporter coming to try to land some ground breaking interview. They're like roaches, getting in through the cracks where you least expect them to. Uh, no offense."
"No offense taken," Ciara said. She moved behind the counter, concealing the lower half of her body from sight of the door.
Luka moved away from the cutting board and started to cross the room to answer. "Tell them if you see them again, you'll call the condo's security. If you're not firm with them, you'll be hounded, and I doubt that's what you want to come home to after a hard day in the office."
"Yeah, I'll be firm. If this is some sort of sensational gossip magazine bullshit, I'm shutting it down before it starts."
Luka undid the lock and opened the door, and there was a prolonged moment of silence. From where she stood, Ciara glimpsed Luka's back, and over his shoulder spotted the head of their visitor. It was an older man, likely about Marcello's age, with thinning dark gray hair suited for his face. It was a face that looked like it never smiled. Deep creases cut across his forehead — lines of worry, lines of stress. Yet despite it all, his blue eyes glittered like sapphires. Even from where she stood, Ciara could tell they were breathtaking. Despite his age, the man was gorgeous.
"Luka," the visitor said at last, breaking the silence that had fallen between them. "So good to find you at home. You've been a busy boy lately, haven't you? Appearing on television, going out on the town, making motivational speeches... The down time must be nice. Celebrating all day and all night can be hard on even a fit young body like your own."
Although the man's eyes had not flicked her way, Ciara could not help but feel as though he had noticed her. The power that emanated from within gave him near God-like presence — such a man could see everything. This was no reporter.
"Cut the crap, Vittore," Luka growled. Vittore. The name rang a bell, and Ciara's sharp mind equated it to the mysterious V listed in Luka's contact list. His connection with the mafia. If she was right, they were in a lot more trouble than they would be from any news story.
"You know, it would be of benefit to you to respect your elders. I know your father didn't raise a disrespectful son, but you're not doing him any favors by acting out the way you are. Now, because I know you're not disrespectful, let's have a chat so we can iron out some of the problems between us. Keep in mind that I could have sent an ambassador of my word to do this for me. But as I respect you, I came all on my own, out of my way, so we could talk face to face."
"My father has nothing to do with me," Luka hissed. "Our business is our business, and he—"
"Settle down, Luka. You see, that firecracker temper of yours keeps on getting you into trouble. You keep making mistakes tha
t are too big for you to fix on your own. It's time to stop making mistakes. If you know what's good for you, you'd be best to remember our deal. Never interfere with what I tell my men to do again. Men who make mistakes that directly involve me have a tendency to disappear — even mayors."
As they spoke, Ciara's eyes darted to the knife Luka had used to chop onions. If need be, would she be able to use it to defend their lives? A man like Vittore wouldn't come out in public without protection. Maybe if she could get some blows in, would it give them enough time to get away?
"You're the one who's mistaken," Luka bit back at once. Tension squared his shoulders and stiffened his neck, posture that much more straight to lend him extra height. "You think you're some kind of hot shot? You think you own me just because you run a couple neighborhoods in this city? I've got some news for you, Vittore, maybe you didn't get the memo: I fucking run this town. Between you and me, I think it's best that you be leaving. I've got the strength of New York behind me — what have you got? A couple thugs?"
The confrontation was different than the one she'd seen on Ryan Breece's show. Luka stood tall and proud, chest puffed out and body ready to react. Although his message was heated, he had not flown into a blind rage. Even in the short time she'd known him, he'd grown so much.
"Well, I suppose we've reached an understanding," Vittore said heavily. "It's a shame you keep making mistakes, Luka. In time, perhaps you'll learn the value of keeping your word and respecting those who helped get you to where you are." But Vittore did not push the matter. He bowed his head and turned.
"Enjoy your celebrations, Mr. Mayor," he bade Luka. "And you as well, Ms. Simmons."
Without a doubt her name had been in the news as Luka's girlfriend, but hearing Vittore speak it sent a shiver down Ciara's spine. As the old man left, Luka closed and locked the door, the returned to the kitchenette. The tension had not eased from his body, nor had his pride deflated from his puffed chest.
"If I know Vittore like I think I do," Luka told her as he returned to the cutting board and picked up the knife he'd left there, "this is far from over, but you know what?"
Ciara shook her head, still too shocked to speak.
"I don't care." The knife crashed down upon the onions, cutting free a new slice. "If he gets out of line, I'm going to throw everything I've got at him. He left. He's afraid of what I can do. I'm the man in charge, and what I say is going to go."
All Ciara could do was trust him. In a moment of tenderness, she sidled up against him and ran a soothing hand across his lower back. New York was a big city full of big problems, but if anyone was prepared to tackle them, it was them.
"How you like your eggs?" Luka asked at last.
"Over easy."
Ciara knew that no matter what, as long as Luka was there at her side, things were going to be okay.
At least, she hoped.
* * *
The End
* * *
Want to find out who really runs this town? Keep reading, book 2 is up next!
* * *
Run This Town 2
Ciara
Boxes.
No matter how many times Ciara moved, it surprised her how many boxes it took to pack up an entire life. It felt like she’d been taping boxes closed for hours, but the stack of cardboard didn’t seem to shrink. These were the same boxes she used to move her belongings to Luka Belmonte’s condo not even two weeks ago. With luck, this would be the last move for a long while.
“Why does one man need so much paperwork?” Ciara grumbled as an assistant collected her most recent stack of boxes. The tape gun at her feet was running low, and still there was no end in sight.
“Because in politics, if you don’t document every breath you take and every dollar you think about spending, someone will dig up your mysterious inactivity. Then, accuse you of walking off with thirteen million taxpayer dollars.”
Luka leaned against the door frame leading into his small office, eyes set upon her. His arms crossed loosely over his chest, wrinkling his white shirt with his lax posture. The knot his tie hung loose, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. Ciara didn’t stop her eyes from drifting down over the stretch of chest exposed.
“That’s very specific.” A stretch of tape sealed the bottom of the latest box and tore free from the gun. Ciara smoothed the edges down to make sure it was closed properly. “Did that happen to your father?”
“Dad? No. Ted Urawitz, 1946. Back then, thirteen million was a big deal. Now, it wouldn’t even pave a sidewalk.”
Since Luka’s landslide victory in the race for mayor, something had changed about him. Maturity, Ciara thought. When she first met Luka he was little more than a boy riding the coattails of his famous father. Since that time he’d grown fiercely independent and paved his own way forward. At only twenty-eight years old, and as New York’s youngest mayor, he had a lot to prove. She knew that her opinion was biased, but Ciara believed he’d prove to the city they made the right choice.
“No one will accuse you of embezzling money when you haven’t even started your first day in office yet. Are all of these papers really necessary?”
With a push of his shoulder, Luka propelled himself up from where he was leaning and strode toward her. There was sharp purpose in how he moved, almost as if he were a cat encroaching on its prey. Ciara watched as he advanced, pausing from her tape work to gaze into his warm brown eyes. He stopped just short of her work perimeter and looked down at her. Seated on the floor of campaign headquarters as she was, it wasn’t all that difficult to do.
“You caught me. Truth is, I have a thing for beautiful women and tape guns. I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to get one in your hand. If it weren’t for your meddlesome questions, I might have gotten away with it, too.”
Ciara snorted and chucked the box she was taping at his knees. Luka dodged to the side and laughed as the box rolled across the room and skidded to a stop near the door to his office.
“You’re impossible,” she accused. Luka’s grin grew.
“You love it.”
“And I love getting the office packed up before we’re charged for an extra month in rent.” A strong female voice cut through their playful exchange. Ciara’s eyes darted to the office door to find Lisa Olsen, Luka’s campaign manager, standing in the door frame.
The aging woman’s hair was bursting from the bun it was twisted it into, but the rest of her ensemble was spot on. A fitted charcoal jacket buttoned over a white blouse, and a pencil skirt clung to her curved hips. Lisa was large, but she owned her body and her look. Even at her most disheveled, Ciara had never seen her as anything but in control. “Luka, we have one filing cabinet left to pack up, and then the office is clear. Let’s get moving before I go any more gray than I already am.”
“Yes, Mrs. Olsen,” Luka agreed with a nod of his head. Still, the playful twinkle in his eyes had yet to fade. Their game wasn’t over just yet.
“Does that mean I can stop making boxes?” Ciara asked, hopeful.
“Heavens, hun, yes,” Lisa replied as she turned and entered the room once more. “We stopped needing boxes an hour ago. Luka told me that you enjoyed putting them together because of some childhood... Well, whatever he said, it sounded convincing enough. I thought it was strange, but what do I know.” She shrugged.
Oh, it was on. Ciara furrowed her brow and glared as Luka ducked into his office, snickering. Since the mayoral race ended, his mood had drastically improved. Not even the encounter with Vittore Lombardo, the Don of the Sicilian mafia, had soured them for long. Luka was on top of the world, and his optimism and determination were infectious. She knew she should be concerned about the future, but Ciara couldn’t help but share his enthusiasm. Life at Luka’s side was never dull.
Soon enough the last of the packed boxes were placed in the moving van. Ciara oversaw the process, joining Luka where he stood. Their fingers laced together, and Luka squeezed tight for just a moment. The small contact alone was en
ough to send Ciara’s spirits soaring.
“We’ll meet you at Gracie Mansion and get unpacked,” Lisa said as she climbed out from the back of the van. For a woman in business formal and heels, she had an impressive range of motion. Without a second thought, she jumped from the back of the truck, and approached the two of them. “You two can take that time to tour the place and get a feel for it. It’s going to be home one day, after all.”
It still felt so surreal. Archibald Gracie Mansion was the official home and office for New York’s mayors. Today was the first day Luka was allowed move in. At the beginning of the race, Luka was a laughingstock. But as time wore on, and other candidates succumbed to shocking scandals, Luka’s popularity soared. So many small pieces had fallen into place, as Luka’s silver Corvette pulled up the driveway of his new house, Ciara felt it all had to be fate.
“What do you think?” Luka asked as the car slowed to a stop. Pale yellow siding paired with white trim and murky green shutters loomed over them. Lush grounds, covered beneath a layer of snow, were likely just as beautiful as the building. But most striking thing about the property was its size. Ciara couldn’t believe New York had so much space for one house. The place had to have at least a dozen bedrooms, she imagined. All this extravagance for a single family seemed too indulgent.
“I think I need time to wrap my head around it,” Ciara admitted truthfully. “Back in Iowa, we didn’t really have anything like this.”
“You’re in New York now, baby,” Luka declared, gesturing to the house before them. “Live the dream. You’ve arrived.”
But as much as Ciara shared Luka’s pride in his victory, she knew this was not her dream. Her dream died alongside the article she’d deleted. Her one shot at becoming a hotshot New York reporter was down the tubes, and she was still mourning its demise.
