It was bad. Worse than bad.
But it wasn’t unrecoverable. He would try to minimize the damage to her when he destroyed her brother’s organization. Would take pleasure in the fact that he was hurting whoever had hurt Aria Fiore, because he knew if it wasn’t Primo Fiore himself, it was someone in the twisted sickness of his organization.
It all made perfect sense until she lifted her eyes. Then the heat that had sparked to life between them at the club expanded into a full-fledged wildfire.
And that was when he knew he was fucked.
11
His hands were strong on her chin and yet surprisingly tender, like he was afraid to hurt her.
Like she was something to be protected and cherished.
She was scared both to leave and to stay. Afraid to walk out of the office and never again feel the swell of need in her body, the strange knowing of someone she didn’t know. Afraid of the destruction that would be wrought if she didn’t.
“I asked you a question.”
His voice was gruff, and she could suddenly imagine the way it would sound in bed, intimate and rough with need. The idea set a pulse beating between her legs, made it hard to breathe. She’d thought his eyes were brown when she’d first seen him at the club but now she saw that they were almost black, an infinite universe of mystery that would take her a lifetime to explore.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said.
“It matters to me.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” he said. He sounded almost confused, the first time she’d heard even a note of uncertainty in his voice.
He was still holding her chin, his body only inches from hers. He was almost as close as Malcolm had been in the kitchen the night before and yet she felt none of the revulsion that had coursed through her body then.
This was the opposite of revulsion — the desire to slip her arms around his neck, to press closer to the fortress of his chest, the muscled peaks and valleys visible under his tailored shirt. The desire to be wrapped in his arms.
She took a step back and his arm fell to his side. She thought the spell would be broken then. That the small distance she’d put between them would call forward the reason she’d come to see him — to protect Primo, not to engage in lustful thoughts about his enemy.
Because that’s what this was. What it had to be.
She didn’t know Damian Cavallo. Anything she thought she saw in his eyes — tenderness and reason and security and maybe even the same kind of loneliness she tried to ignore in herself — was just a projection.
She wanted to believe it but the thought rang hollow. The city was full of beautiful men. Successful, powerful men who went to the gym every day to hone their bodies, who ruled empires both legitimate and illegitimate.
Aria had never felt a thing for any of them.
“I’m trying to help you,” she said. She wanted to put them back on safer ground, but she also needed to be honest. “And myself. No good will come of this for Primo. Don’t you think I know that?”
He turned to face the window, silent for so long she thought maybe he intended to ignore her until she left. When he finally spoke, the curiosity in his voice was laced with something like pain.
“Why don’t you leave him?” he asked. “Why do you stay when he hurts you?”
“Primo doesn’t hurt me.” She said it too quickly, coming to her brother’s defense as always.
He turned around. “He may not have done that,” he gestured toward her face, “but I think we both know you’re in pain. And I think we both know that pain is because of Primo.”
His words struck a chord, some melody in her body that knew Primo was to blame for her predicament. A song she’d tried to ignore for as long as she could remember.
But the fact that he was right only made her angry. Who was he to make pronouncements about her brother? What gave him the right?
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I think I do,” he said.
“You’re wrong.” Even as she said it she wasn’t entirely sure she believed it. She felt known by him, even though it didn’t make an ounce of sense.
Silence stretched between them, his body silhouetted against the sun setting beyond the city. He looked at her for a long time before he spoke again.
“No one can free you,” he said. “You have to do that yourself, and I suggest you do it quickly. Primo’s story — and its ending — has already been written. It’s not too late for you.”
“So you won’t give me more time?” she asked.
“Will you pledge to leave him? Get out while you still can?”
She sighed, knowing she was defeated. “I… I can’t.”
“Then more time won’t change anything, however much you try to tell yourself it might.”
There was something dark in his voice, something that made her think he wasn’t talking about her and Primo at all.
“You’re a cold-hearted bastard,” she said.
A sad smile touched his lips. “That would be the least of it.”
“I hope he ruins you.” She hated how much she didn’t mean it, but reminding herself that he was Primo’s enemy — and therefore hers — was all she had.
“And I hope he doesn’t do the same to you,” he said quietly.
She turned away, hurrying for the door, desperate to get away from him. From everything he called up in her and every lie he wouldn’t allow her to tell herself
12
It was after two a.m. when Damian finally gave up on sleep. He pulled on his jeans, slipped his phone in his pocket, and walked bare-chested to the living room where he poured himself a drink. Then he climbed the stairs to the private rooftop patio.
The city was spread below him in all its dirty glory, and he leaned against the railing as he surveyed it, a king marking his kingdom. Except tonight he didn’t feel like a king.
He felt like a man — a feeling he didn’t relish.
He wasn’t a fool. He knew it was Aria Fiore’s influence, lingering like her perfume after she’d left his office earlier in the day. He’d had to leave to escape it, an alluring blend of black orchids and spice that conjured up heavy draperies, velvet and satin and naked flesh.
Her visit had haunted him, the bruise on her face making him itch to hunt down Malcolm Gatti — the most likely suspect — along with her coward of a brother. He had a unique brand of hatred for violence against women, no doubt a result of his upbringing. He didn’t need a shrink to tell him that.
But the sight of the bruise on her lovely face had called up something primitive in him, forcing the reason he was usually able to count on to take a backseat to fury.
He wasn’t a stranger to violence. Some would say it was a blight on humanity, but he knew the truth: it was a necessary evil. There was no reasoning with violent men. They only understood force.
Pain.
And yet he typically felt in control when dispensing it. Violence was one of many tools. A smart man used the best tool for the job, not because wielding it felt good but because it was the wisest course of action.
He had not felt in control when he held Aria Fiore’s face in his hand.
He had felt decidedly not in control.
It was a warning sign if there ever was one. His business required focus now more than ever. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by a woman. He was pushing away the voice that insisted she wasn’t just any woman when a chirping sounded from his pocket.
He pulled out his phone and looked at the name on the display before answering. “What is it?”
There was a brief silence on the other end of the phone before Cole spoke.
“There’s been a fire,” he said. “At the shelter.”
Damian straightened. “The women and children?”
“They all made it out alive,” he said.
“But?”
“The building’s a lost cause,” Cole said. “You might want to come down here.”
&nb
sp; “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
He disconnected the call and set down his glass, sprinted for the stairs. Cole would have picked him up if he’d asked, and he could easily have removed his personal car from the garage where he paid to keep it, but the subways would be quicker than either scenario. He pulled on his clothes, grabbed his wallet, and shrugged on a jacket as he was walking out the door.
He heard Aria’s voice as he made his way underground and onto the train.
That’s why I’m here. To warn you…
He didn’t believe she’d known this would happen — but she’d known something was coming. She’d tried to warn him.
There is no honor code for my brother.
He’d taken her at her word, but even he couldn’t imagine a move like this. Hitting someone’s headquarters would have pushed the boundaries of acceptability in their world.
Burning a shelter for domestic violence victims was the work of a monster.
He kept his cool all the way to the Bronx. Through the city’s underground tunnels, across four blocks on foot. It wasn’t until he came upon the emergency vehicles scattered across the pavement, the shelter still burning in the background, Carol Lewis sitting at the back of an ambulance with her arms around a woman and a small boy he recognized from the hallway at the shelter, that his blood started to boil.
A man in a blue uniform tried to stop him as he crossed the boundary set up by the police and fire departments. Damian reached into his pocket for his wallet and flashed his ID.
“Sorry, sir. This area is off limits,” the fresh-faced officer said.
“I don’t think you know who I am,” Damian said though clenched teeth. “Go tell the detective in charge.”
“I don’t need to — ”
“Trust me when I say you do,” Damian said.
The man turned away reluctantly, crossed the pavement to talk to a tall figure in plain clothes. They exchanged words and the other man looked up, met Damian’s gaze. A moment of recognition passed in front of his eyes before he leaned down, said something to the officer in uniform.
“Go ahead,” he said when he came back, waving Damian in. “Sorry about that.”
Damian ignored him as he hurried toward Carol. Relief was visible on her face when she looked up, saw him making his way toward her. She leaned down, whispered something to the woman next to her and got up to meet Damian a few feet away from the ambulance.
“Damian,” she said. “Thank you for coming.”
Tears had left a dry creek bed across the soot on her face, and he reached out to embrace her. “Is everyone all right?”
She pulled back and nodded. “Some of the kids were having trouble breathing, but the EMTs got them on some oxygen and they seem to be doing better.” She looked at the building, still burning in front of them. “I just don’t know how this happened. Where will I put everyone?”
Damian was fighting a monsoon of anger, had to work to keep his voice steady. Carol didn’t need anger from him now.
He put a hand on her shoulder. “I have that covered.”
“Damian!”
He turned to see Cole coming toward him.
“Give me fifteen minutes,” he said to Carol. “I’ll have more information for you then, but don’t worry — we’ll get through this.”
She nodded and headed back to the ambulance where the woman was holding the coughing boy.
“Sorry I wasn’t here to meet you,” Cole said when he reached Damian. “I was talking to the fire chief, trying to get some details.”
“And?”
“Kerosene in the basement near the boiler. Bastards didn’t even try to hide that it was arson. We were lucky it’s not cold enough for the heating system to kick in yet. It would have been a lot worse.”
“Tell me about the renovation in Greenwich.”
They weren’t the words he wanted to say. Not the words reverberating through his mind.
I’m going to make them pay.
Cole seemed momentarily confused by the question. “They’re just finishing up the trim in some of the room, tile work in one bathroom.” He shrugged. “A week tops if we push.”
“Heating and plumbing?” Damian asked.
“That’s all done,” Cole said.
“Find some sleeping bags and pillows, clothes, toiletries, food, whatever you think they’ll need for the next week until we can come up with a permanent solution. Have the men help you if they can.” He thought about the logistics of moving approximately twenty women and thirty-seven children at a moment’s notice at three in the morning. “And send at least four cars. We’ll make as many trips as it takes.”
“You got it, boss.”
He watched Cole sprint across the pavement, already on his phone, rallying the troops.
Damian turned his eyes to the burning building. He didn’t believe for a minute Aria Fiore knew this was her brother’s plan.
He’d seen too much pain in her eyes.
Everyone suffered. It was a universal truth. But there were only two responses to pain: you either became someone who inflicted it or you learned to see it, to feel it, in others.
He didn’t have a moment’s doubt that Aria fell into the latter category.
As much as he didn’t want to see her hurt — and he was still honest enough with himself to admit that he didn’t, even if he wasn’t ready to ask himself why — the action Primo had taken against the women and children of the Franklin Street shelter couldn’t go unchallenged.
Primo had sent a message: anything was fair game.
That meant Damian would have to speed up their strategy, expand the targets, hit Fiore anywhere and everywhere.
He looked around at the crying women, the children staring wide-eyed at the fire. They needed him, and that took priority over everything. He would make sure they were settled at the Greenwich property he’d planned to use as an investment.
Then he would make one last appeal to Aria Fiore before he destroyed her brother.
13
Aria’s muscles were aching by the time she reached the last row of tools. She’d come to the garden early, running through each of the beds one last time to make sure they were prepped for winter. There was no sign of Mrs. O’Rourke, but she’d spent twenty minutes catching up with Horatio Rodriguez, the garden’s coordinator, talking about their plans for spring. Then it had been just her and the garden, and she’d retreated to the shed, taking her time cleaning and oiling the clippers and shears, the hoes and rakes. She’d worked slowly, using the time to replay her visit with Damian Cavallo the day before.
What she had done was dangerous — and not just for the obvious reasons. It was out of line for her to visit her brother’s enemy. Even more out of line to ask him for a favor.
But the real danger lay in her attraction to the man who was at this very moment working toward her brother’s downfall. That Primo probably deserved it did nothing to change the impossibility of anything happening between her and Damian.
She’d been woefully careless, downplaying the attraction she’d felt at the club as lust when it was too harmless a word to describe the way he stole her breath, the way her body pulsed with need when he was close, the urge to press herself against him that was a physical ache at her core.
By the time she’d realized her mistake it had been too late. He’d been standing impossibly close, holding her face in his hand, the anger behind his eyes only adding fuel to the fire raging in her body.
He was a dangerous man. At least as dangerous as Primo and Malcolm.
And yet the danger in Damian lay not in recklessness or unfettered fury but in his cold calculation. It was no wonder she was so turned on by him. If the piercing eyes and muscled perfection of his body was cake, the refuge of his reason was the icing.
“It’s not a good idea to be in a place like this alone when it’s getting dark.”
She nearly jumped out of her skin as the voice sounded behind her. It didn’t help to turn around and
realize it had come from Damian Cavallo.
Her cheeks grew heated when she realized she’d been thinking about his body the whole time he’d probably been standing behind her. She turned her back to the workbench, oiling the already clean shears she’d been working on to hide her face.
“I come here alone all the time,” she said. “It’s perfectly safe.”
“I could argue that point, but we have more important matters to discuss.”
She turned around, sufficiently under control. “You made it clear we don’t.”
He was leaning against the door frame of the shed. She was glad his face was in shadow. She could feel the heat of his eyes on her face. Not having to stare into them was a small blessing.
“That was before yesterday. Before last night.”
She shook her head. “What happened last night?”
She’d gone back to the apartment after her meeting with him. Had ordered out and sequestered herself in her room, determined to avoid Primo and Malcolm. In the end it hadn’t mattered; Primo had come home well after she’d gone to bed. She’d found him passed out on the couch with a bottle of Vicodin open on the coffee table next to him.
“I’d like to ask you a question before I get into it,” Damian said.
She shrugged. “All right.”
“Yesterday you said you came to warn me,” he said. “What were you warning me about exactly?”
“I already told you. Primo doesn’t play by the rules. He has no honor code. Once he’s determined to hurt you, he’ll do anything to make it happen. Cross any line. And he is determined to hurt you,” she said.
She waited through a long pause for him to speak.
“He set fire to a women and children’s shelter last night,” he said.
She heard the words but couldn’t quite process them. “That doesn’t make sense. Primo wants to hurt you.”
He walked into the room and she was hit all over again with the power of his presence, the space seeming to recede behind him, as if there was no room for walls with him inside. He busied himself studying some of the tools she’d cleaned and put back on the wall.
Fire with Fire: New York Syndicate Book One Page 8
