Seeking Vengeance: Possessive Mafia Romance (Hunting - Mafia Romance Book 1)

by Eden Summers

  But it’s early on a Thursday night, so nobody with a glowing reputation has arrived yet.

  It’s just us, the bartender, and two couples who would’ve shed a couple hundred bucks for a once-in-a-lifetime experience that reeks of egotistical exclusivity.

  I buy my companion a drink, pretend to listen to her life story, and flash my winning grin whenever I feel it’s necessary. But I can’t hold her gaze. She’s nothing in comparison to Denver. Not with her over-the-top bubbly personality or her constant need to flick her hair as if she’s involved in some fucking pathetic mating ritual.

  Problem is, my dick won’t cooperate. He’s still all in, demanding something to numb the infatuation I hold for someone else.

  “Have we met before?” The woman asks in a garbled rush. “Do we know each other? Because I’m sure I’ve seen you around. Your face is familiar. Handsome, too. You’re like this quiet, mysterious type. It’s so chill.” She pauses for a breath and a sip of her cocktail, then giggles to herself. “This is surreal… But damn, I really need to pee.”

  She’s fucking high—the frantic speech, the glazed eyes.

  I’m fully aware I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel, and I still can’t stop.

  When she stands from our booth to go to the bathroom, I escort her, always a fucking gentleman. Then I wait in the hall, my shoulder leaned against the wall, my arms crossed.

  These minutes alone, with the bass thumping beneath my feet from downstairs, and my hunger building for a stranger, only increase my impatience. My fucking addiction.

  I have to find Denver.

  The restaurant staff told me her reservation was made under the name Adley Javernick. A ghost. Someone who doesn’t exist in Colorado or any of the surrounding states. Not even online.

  She covered her tracks, which only reinforces my belief that she was spying for underhanded reasons.

  I’ll make Bishop return to Perfezione tomorrow. He can obtain the security videos from my friends in management. If I’m lucky, she may have fled our hotel rendezvous toward the restaurant, maybe caught a cab and been lax enough to use a credit card as payment.

  “You waited for me?” The brunette saunters over from the bathroom, her lipstick reapplied.

  “I did.” I push from the wall, hating how much she’s a poor substitute. Hating myself even more for moving forward regardless. “I thought we could use a little privacy.”

  I grab her hand and drag her into me. She giggles like a child and I slam my mouth to hers to shut her up. But this isn’t Denver. The kiss is awkward, her lips taking too damn long to match my rhythm.

  What I picture with my fantasy girl is far more brilliant.

  Fated and perfect.

  The only reason I keep my mouth fused to hers is the knowledge that I need something more than my own hand to gain relief from my suffering. Five fingers and a sweaty palm won’t dislodge the woman commanding my thoughts. I’m not sure anything will.

  I keep our lips meshed and drag her hips into me, settling her against my cock. She moans, the vibrations filtering along my tongue, into my chest.

  I picture the most brilliant blue eyes. The lushest thighs. The sexiest coy smile.

  With rough hands I spin her, making her face the wall. I guide her flush against the cool plaster, her long hair cascading over her back, the sight a hundred times easier to manipulate in my mind.

  This is what I want. What I fantasized about on the jet home. The slim waist. Beautiful hair. Athletic legs. I close in against her, my mouth on her neck, my hard dick pressing against her ass.

  “You’ve made me crazy,” I growl into her ear. “Fucking mindless.”

  She giggles, the sound stifling the illusion. It goddamn slingshots me from fantasy to sickening reality, the hardness of my cock taking the brunt of the downfall.

  “Shh.” I clasp a hand over her mouth. “You don’t want anyone walking around here to see us, do you?”

  She whimpers in agreement and wiggles her ass against me.

  “Good girl.” I close my eyes, willing myself to see her again. To picture Denver. “From the moment I saw you, I knew I had to have you.” I graze my teeth along her neck, delighting in her shiver. “So confident, yet so pure.”

  She whimpers again and this time the sound is masked by my palm.

  “I’ll make sure you never forget me.” I hitch her skin-tight dress higher with my free hand, dragging the material over her thighs to her waist, then yank at the flimsy string of underwear until it breaks. “You’re mine.”

  “Oh, wow. You’re so dominant.” She tilts her head away from my hold on her mouth, glancing at me over her shoulder. “When did you first notice me? Was it tonight or has this been going on for a while?”

  “Quiet.” I speak through clenched teeth. Through pure frustration. “Don’t talk.”

  “But I need to know. I want to understand.” Her words continue to run a mile a minute. “How long have you been obsessed with me?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. Clench my teeth. Shit.

  My cock falls limp like a turncoat little bitch.

  After dealing with a day-long half-mast dick, the fucker decides no flags will be flying tonight.

  Fucking great.

  “This was a mistake.” I step back, my jaw tight with tension, my palms slick with sweat. I should’ve fought this shit out instead of trying to fuck it.

  “No, it’s not.” She turns, her mound on display. “I want this. I really want this.”

  She’s nothing like Denver. I don’t know how I convinced myself otherwise. Her makeup is overstated. Her clothing cheap and tawdry. And that face. Jesus. What the hell was I thinking?

  “Cover yourself and return to your friends.” I right my jacket. “This isn’t happening.”

  “But I want it to.” She grabs my lapels, attempting to drag me into her. “I’m so horny.”

  I snatch her wrists. Tight. Her mouth gapes with the impact, her eyes wide. “I said, this isn’t fucking happening.” I shove her arms away. “So lower your goddamn dress and go find your friends.”

  She blinks. Slow. Stupid.

  “Fucking walk,” I growl.

  She snaps rigid, her chin hitching a notch. “Fuck you.” She glares as she scrambles to lower the hem of her dress. “You’re crazy.”

  No argument there.

  “You’re a piece of shit, too.” She raises her voice, no doubt attempting to bait me into an argument. “Fucking weirdo.”

  The bartender comes into view at the end of the hall, his eyes on me. “Everything all right, boss?”

  “We need security.” I start toward him.

  “You wanted me, motherfucker,” the woman rails. “You wanted me.”

  No, I wanted Denver.

  This piece of fluff is nothing in comparison.

  The bartender jerks his chin at me in understanding, then focuses on the woman as I continue walking away. “I think you need some fresh air.”

  “I don’t need anything, you son of a bitch.”

  I don’t listen to the rest of her plight. I get the fuck out of the VIP area, opening the door to the consuming noise of the lower level, then don’t stop until I’m in my car.

  The days pass. The obsession doesn’t.

  I can’t quit going over my time with her, rerunning our conversation, trying to work out her angle. If she’s a scorned lover, why eavesdrop in a packed restaurant? Why risk being recognized?

  I don’t bother attempting to sate myself in another woman. Instead, I shuffle my tight schedule and fly back across the country.

  I return to the Italian restaurant where the Costas have a weekly standing reservation and make my way through the staff entrance at the back. Emmanuel may have claimed his favorite seat in the house, but I’m the one who pays to watch every minute of his meals.

  “You’re back sooner than usual.” The head chef shoots me a glance as he flips something in a sizzling frying pan. “I might be able to retire early if you keep this up.” />
  “Maybe.” I slip a folded stack of cash into his pocket as I pass and continue to the swinging doors leading to the dining area with Bishop at my back.

  Usually, I don’t have to make my presence known. I can sit in my rental from the street out front and eavesdrop on their conversation via earpiece thanks to the listening device under their table. But this time, I’m not here for them.

  It’s her I’m after. The woman who doesn’t fucking show.

  I’m forced to walk out of there like a chump while Bishop wordlessly questions my motives, his judgmental stare increasing my annoyance.

  I repeat the trip the following Wednesday, my impatience building when dreams of blue eyes haunt me on the daily. It’s not normal. Denver triggered something and I’m not sure how to shut that shit off. But again, she doesn’t show.

  By the third week, I’m agitated as fuck.

  It’s not often I lose, at least not since my teenage years, yet here I am. I lost Denver. Without a trace. She slipped through my fingers and I can’t figure out why the hell it matters.

  Was it the challenge of bedding her? The thrill of a common enemy?

  “How many times are we going to do this?” Bishop asks from the driver’s seat as we sit in the rental parked on the other side of the road from Perfezione’s entry. “I fucking hate Denver.”

  “We both fucking hate Denver, but we’ll do this as many times as necessary.” Until I get answers. Closure. “If you have a problem with the working conditions, feel free to fuck off.”

  He huffs a low chuckle. “You know this is messed up, right? It can only lead to drama.”

  I don’t respond, partly because I don’t answer to him, but mostly because I’m robbed of speech as a familiar figure saunters along the sidewalk to push through the front doors of the restaurant, her beauty captivating as she speaks to the maître d’.

  She wears an auburn wig this time. A white dress. The glasses remain perched on her nose while she draws my attention to her perfect mouth etched in more subtle lipstick.

  She’s pure temptation.

  Still way too beautiful to blend.

  “She’s here.” I meet Bishop’s stare and push open my door. “This time, you better not lose sight of her if she runs.”

  8

  Matthew

  I stalk my way across the room, not giving a shit who sees me as I pull out the chair opposite hers and sit. “It’s been a while, but finally, we meet again.”

  Her face pales as our eyes meet, those gorgeous blue depths widening. “Are you crazy?” She frantically glances over her shoulder at the bustling restaurant. “What the hell are you doing?”

  My pulse quickens at her panic. It fucking vibrates with euphoria. I can’t help a grin. “Costa’s not coming.”

  She frowns. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s in Italy. There won’t be a family dinner tonight.”

  She blinks, her shoulders losing their rigidity, her expression falling. “Well, there goes a wasted flight.”

  I disagree. I think her trip here is the best money she’s ever spent.

  I’ve already discovered she lives far enough away to have to fly here.

  It’s astounding, but seeing her again, after all those days fantasizing about her, it’s hard to believe she’s more alluring than my memories allowed. Her eyes more mesmerizing. Her lips more inviting.

  She clears her throat and rests back into her chair, regaining confidence and composure. “If you knew they weren’t coming, why are you here?”

  “Isn’t that obvious?” I rake my gaze along the parts of her I’ve missed during her absence—every single visible inch above the table. “I’m here for you.”

  Her brows rise. The color in her cheeks does, too, as a timid smile curves her mouth. “That’s smooth. But I don’t buy it.”

  “No?” I rest my elbows on the table and lean closer. “Do you mean to tell me this obsession isn’t mutual?”

  She laughs and my dick takes notice of the hypnotic sound.

  So pretty.

  So real.

  I know she’s here for underhanded reasons, that’s always been clear, but there’s a gentle innocence about her, too. A fucking purity that’s so subtle it makes me ache.

  “Nice try,” she drawls. “Why are you really here?”

  A waitress sidles up beside her, placing a glass of wine on the table. “Would you like a drink, sir?”

  “Scotch. Thanks.”

  The young woman nods and leaves us to our wicked games.

  I swear the entire world ceases to exist for a few moments as Denver and I stare at each other with equal amounts of superiority and suspense. The air between us vibrates. The sexual tension crackles.

  I narrow my attention to her mouth, her lower lip now slightly pulled between her teeth. Jesus. She’s a tease. “I apologize for scaring you when we first met.”

  “You didn’t scare me.” She reaches for her wine with casual confidence, and I’m sure it’s to prove her point.

  “Well, whatever I did to make you run, I apologize.”

  She sips from her glass, eying me over the rim. There are no words between us for long moments, only a heated stare that bubbles my blood.

  I don’t know who the fuck this woman is but she’s beyond temptation.

  “Do you have a new lover since Remy or Salvatore? Is that why you took off?” I want the truth. Every last detail. If there’s another man in the picture, I need to know who to get rid of.

  “No.” She takes another sip, her gaze still linked to mine. On the surface she appears unfazed and calm. It’s her thumb rubbing over her wedding finger that’s a tell.

  I focus on her hand. On the lone digit.

  There was no ring weeks ago. I made sure of it. I don’t usually waste time on taken women. Yet for her, I’d make all the exceptions in the world. I’ll break every one of my rules just for a taste.

  She places the glass on the table and lowers her hands to her lap, deliberately out of sight.

  “I have a husband.” Her murmured admission packs a punch.

  Fuck. I don’t ruin marriages. Yet here I am, already planning the downfall of the relationship this woman has with her spouse.

  “I thought you were a scorned lover?” I keep my disappointment in check. “So is it safe to assume you cheated on your husband with Remy? Or is Salvatore more your type?”

  The heat building in my veins demands I find out who she was with—the younger, more emotional prick or the older, more conniving asshole. But I can’t push her either. My impatience won’t withstand another one of her disappearing acts.

  The slightest narrowing of her eyes is her only response.

  “Does he know you don’t wear your wedding ring? Or is that integral to your disguise?”

  Her lips part, only to have the waitress return with my scotch. We’re silent through the interruption. Neither of us move or speak until Denver reaches for her wine to take another sip.

  I don’t glance at her hand this time. I don’t dare to take my gaze from hers. I want to read every hint she gives. To see all the facets she doesn’t know are on display.

  Once we’re left alone she tilts her chin as if preparing to announce war, but instead, she says, “My husband died two years ago.”

  I straighten.

  That explains a few things. Especially the subtle glimpses of pain I’ve witnessed a time or two.

  I palm my glass. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “No, you’re not.” She gives a derisive laugh. “You’ve been trying to sleep with me from the moment we met. I bet the death of my husband is welcomed news.”

  I frown and clutch dramatically at my chest, pretending she’s not entirely on the mark. “You don’t think very highly of me, do you?”

  “I haven’t thought enough about you to bother making an assessment.”

  “Now who’s lying?” I smirk and clasp my scotch. “At least I’m honest enough to admit my infatuation. When you did th
e Cinderella routine weeks ago, I went crazy trying to find you. There wasn’t even a ruby slipper left behind for me to trace back to you. Not even a name.”

  Her lips twitch. “First of all, the ruby slipper was in The Wizard of Oz, and second, I vaguely recall you mentioning you didn’t need my name.”

  Touché.

  “I assure you I paid a hefty price for that mistake. I almost lost my mind not knowing how to find you.”

  Her lips kick even farther. Not quite a smile, yet enough to raise her cheeks and brighten her eyes.

  “Well, don’t hold out on me, amore mio. Tell me your name.”

  She contemplates me for a moment, probably wondering whether to lie while she takes another sip of alcohol.

  “Layla,” she gently murmurs.

  Victory consumes me, rushing hot and fast through my veins.

  She’s telling the truth.

  I’m not sure how I know, but I do.

  “Do you have a surname, Layla?”

  “Yes.” She answers simply, without elaboration.

  Fuck me, she’s phenomenal. All sass and charm.

  I can’t help but snicker, and it’s beyond rewarding when she follows suit, chuckling along with me.

  “Okay, Layla. I don’t need anything more than your given name.”

  She raises a taunting brow. “Good for you.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, amore mio. I’m happy to delay the exchange of information, but you’re going to eventually give me a few more details. I need to know the history of the future mother to my children.”

  More laughter tumbles from her lips. Whimsical, entrancing laughter. “You need to stop before I choke on your massive ego.”

  I’d love to give her something else to choke on. I can already picture it. Feel it. But I need to be cautious of her boundaries. I won’t risk losing her again.

  “Take off the wig.” I gentle the demand. “Let me look at who you really are.”

  Her mirth tapers under seriousness. “Not here.”

  “Then we’ll leave. I’ll take you somewhere more subdued.”

  She pauses. Hesitates. “I haven’t had dinner.”