Beauty and the Barracuda

by Winter, Nikki

  The other woman sighed deeply. “This is why we can’t be friends.”

  “You want me to lie to you, Sammie, to tell you that you made some huge, irrevocable mistake. You want me to tell you that you should completely regret your time riding Luc’s hambone, but I refuse to, and do you know why?”

  Samara eyed her. “Because you want to say at least twenty other euphemisms for penis?”

  “That’s exactly why!”

  “What is wrong with you?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” Nyssa answered quickly. Maybe a bit too quickly if the way Samara’s eyes narrowed was any indication.

  “While you’re laughing, would you like to explain why you were dragging in at ten this morning?”

  Nyssa’s laughter slowly died as she waved a hand. “I spent the night at Sunny’s.”

  “Oh.” Samara then lifted a shoulder and said, “Meh.”

  That made her sit up. “Meh? What do you mean meh?”

  “What do you think I mean? You just said you spent the night at Sunny’s.”

  “Yes, and you said meh.”

  “Because it’s not exactly unexpected, Nyssa. You sleep in his bed more than you do your own.”

  “So?”

  “So nothing ever happens.” Samara then went silently before slowly turning to look at her. “Unless of course you’re annoyed because something did happen.” She tilted her head. “Did you and Sunny—”

  “No,” Nyssa cut in before she could even finish the sentence. “We didn’t.”

  “But your face says you did. Nyssa, you’re blushing. The same woman who once told another girl in school that she’d caught said girl’s boyfriend learning what a personal foul was in an extremely intimate way via the basketball team point guard is blushing.”

  “Firstly, don’t make it sound like I was just going around terrorizing innocent people. She wouldn’t stop fucking with me so I mind-fucked her, end of story and”—Nyssa waved a hand—“if I’m blushing it’s because I’m in the throes of a hangover and still nauseous.”

  “You’re in the throes of bullshit, is what you are.” Samara sat fully up. “What exactly happened between you and Sunny last night?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Deceiver!” her sister bellowed.

  “You’re insane.”

  “Am I? Or can I just see through that thin veil of deception?”

  “No, insane…that’s you.”

  Samara flopped around like a two-year-old. “Tell me!”

  Nyssa rolled her eyes. “There’s nothing to tell—”

  “I will call him. You know that, right? And if I call him, he’ll tell me everything I want to know, so you may as well do it yourself and make everything easier on the both of us.”

  Jesus Christ… “I kissed him, all right? I kissed Sunny!”

  Her sister blinked. “Oh.” She stood and headed for the kitchen. “Meh.”

  Nyssa got to her feet and followed. “Meh? What does that mean?”

  “What do you think it means?”

  “It means you want me to go into a blind rage before I strangle you to death and bury you in a landfill.”

  Samara cast her a glance over one shoulder. “I feel like you have that written in a diary somewhere.”

  “I do,” Nyssa whispered. “Along with poems about death and dismemberment. They’re mostly centered on you and all the shit you used to do to piss me off when we were kids!”

  The other woman went rummaging through her fridge, appearing completely unconcerned about the threat. “You’re out of lunch meat.”

  “Samara!”

  “What?”

  “You’re making me crazy!”

  “Satan already did that! Don’t blame me for his works!”

  “Satan and I don’t have our mandatory meeting until Sunday when Ma calls me for church and I fake sick so this is all you!”

  Samara’s lips twitched. “Why are you so cranky?”

  “Because you’re being weird!”

  “Am I?” Her brows lifted. “Or are you being weird?”

  Nyssa folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the kitchen counter. Her place wasn’t overly large but it was cozy. She didn’t cook much but when she did, her kitchen always got a toasty feel to it, which definitely came in handy during Philadelphia winters. Right now she wanted to stuff her sister in the oven and see how toasty that made the place. “I’m not being weird.”

  “You are. You’re acting like you wanted something to happen between you and Sunny.”

  “Something did happen. I kissed him.”

  “Did it take place while he was riding your horse and carriage?”

  “No.”

  Samara quickly made a sandwich and took a seat at the small dining room table. “Then nothing happened.” She replied around a mouthful.

  Irritated now, Nyssa took the sandwich and finished it, making sure to lick her fingers when she was done. Her sibling’s eye twitched. “That kiss was more than enough, thank you, and it counts as something.”

  Samara used the sleeve of Nyssa’s robe to wipe the plate her sandwich had previously been on before grinning up at her. “You kissing Sunny is like me kissing a frat boy—weird, awkward and quite possibly something that could end in a rash.”

  “There was tongue!” She placed both hands on the table and leaned forward. “And he mentioned it this morning!”

  “When he mentioned it, was he encroaching on vaginal territory?”

  “No!”

  “Then…” Samara sat back in her chair, stared Nyssa straight in the eye and went, “Meh.”

  It was only right that Nyssa launched herself at her sister.

  ***

  There were times in a man’s life that he just needed to brood in silence—needed to sit in a dark room with a glass of whiskey and his thoughts. Apparently that was for men who didn’t have siblings, because the moment Sansone stepped across the threshold of his town home, he knew he wasn’t alone. How did he know exactly? Oh, because he had some unnaturally sized asshole with meaty fists and tugboat feet lounging around on his sofa, with a glass of his whiskey while watching his T.V. And were those his leftovers on the ottoman across from said unnaturally sized asshole? Why, yes, yes they were.

  “Why, in God’s holy name, are you in my home?”

  Luciano Antonelli—Sansone’s adoptive brother, client and sometimes best friend—gave a simple shrug. “I enjoy my luxuries.”

  Sansone tucked in his lips. “I’m sorry, is your half-a-million-dollar home in one of the richest neighborhoods in this state not luxurious?”

  His brother sighed. “I don’t mean these luxuries,” He waved a hand around the room. “I meant the luxury of fucking with you.” Luciano grinned. “There are some things money just can’t buy.”

  He would kill him. Sansone would kill him and bury his body in the most remote part of Pennsylvania.

  “See?” Luciano pointed out. “Your face says you’re contemplating homicide and where to bury me.”

  “What do you want, Luc?” All he needed to do was brood! In silence! That was it! He’d spent hours alone in his office, pushing away his personal feelings so he could get some actual work done, and the moment he came home, he’d had every intention of staring at his ceiling and resisting the urge to seek out Nyssa.

  The other man took a sip from the glass in his hand. “I’ve been dismissed, Sunny. Used and abused. Fucked and ducked.”

  Ah, so this was the reason his home had been invaded. Sansone had known on some level that his brother and Samara had spent the night together but he found it extremely amusing that his sibling looked so despondent at the moment. It was obvious, even without Luciano’s pointing it out, that Sammie had left the heavyweight boxer with a knot in his cock. Excellent…

  Sansone shrugged off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves before making himself comfortable in his recliner. “I get the feeling you wanted to wake up to a certain radio host this morning.”


  Luciano rolled his shoulders. “Can’t say I was opposed to the idea.” He glanced at Sansone. “Clearly she felt differently.” Smirking, he added, “But hey, some bulls have only one job—being a stud.”

  And there it was. That small glimpse of vulnerability in Luciano that he never really allowed anyone to see. For sixteen years, Sansone had watched his brother grow, learn, and hurt. He’d watched the angry kid he’d originally met become a man with a heart as strong as the power behind the hands he used while in the ring.

  Unintentionally, Samara had sent Luciano back to a place where he wondered if he was good enough. Knowing Samara, Sansone could pretty much guess that she’d vacated Luciano’s bed so quickly due to her own fear that he would, quite bluntly, tell her that whatever they’d done would never go farther. She was completely right to feel that way, since Sansone’s sibling hopped beds quicker than a sailor on leave, but if she had stopped and looked just a bit closer, she would’ve realized there was more to Luciano than that.

  Luciano had been casting Samara Blackwell gazes that held a lot more than unrequited lust for as long as he’d known her. He was thoroughly and completely in love and had been since the first time he’d heard her voice. But the man known as “The Philly Brawler” wasn’t as confident as he seemed. It had taken him years to accept that the sins of others would and could never determine his own attributes as a man.

  Unlike Luciano, Sansone had grown up in a two-parent home where his mother and father had loved him profoundly. As a kid, he’d had the best of everything life had to offer. And then he’d stumbled onto someone who was the exact opposite, a kid so angry at the world that he’d seemed unreachable. But somehow, Sansone had managed to do the unthinkable—he got him to talk. When he’d sat across from Luciano all those years ago in their school cafeteria, he had no idea what to expect, really. Luc was a simple kid from downtown with a penchant for using his hands to explain himself rather than his mouth.

  He’d been abandoned and alone for so long, enraged for so long, that Sansone reaching out to him had seemed like a foreign thing. Yet the more time they spent together, the more family dinners Luciano attended at Sansone’s house, the closer they became until it formed an unbreakable bond. Sansone hadn’t befriended Luciano because he felt sorry for him. He couldn’t stand to see anyone alienated due to the shitty reputation of their parents and the fact that they, themselves, were misunderstood. A few years went by, and it only seemed right that the next step would be for his parents to adopt the kid he already called his brother. Sure enough, they’d done so and after all this time—even when he tried to figure out how he could stuff the huge fucker into his trunk—Sansone had never regretted it.

  At least not until his brother suddenly cried, “She left me in a prone, dry husk like a whore! I woke up alone, naked and cold!” He blinked at Sansone and asked in a small voice, “Am I pretty?”

  Sansone got up and left the room.

  “Oh, c’mon!” his brother shouted following him. “That was a reasonable question!”

  “No, it was you trying to make me mental!”

  “Ma would tell me if I’m pretty or not.”

  Sansone pushed open the doors of his kitchen and went in search of more food. “Ma married our father. I don’t think she’s a well woman.”

  “I’m telling Pops you said that.”

  “What’s he gonna do? Spank me?”

  “No,” Luciano answered. “He’ll tell Nyssa and she’ll spank you.” The son of a bitch grinned. “I know how much you enjoy when Mistress Blackwell punishes you.”

  Lobbing a loaf of bread at him, Sansone spun and delved into the fridge. “Fuck you.”

  “Be honest with me, Sunny. How firm are her hands?”

  “Shut up, Luc.”

  “Is there leather involved or do you like the wooden paddles more?”

  “Shut up, Luc.”

  “Ever wear a baby bonnet?”

  “That is it!” Turning, Sansone punched Luciano in the balls and watched him drop to his knees before Sansone went back to the task at hand.

  “I am going to end you,” Luciano wheezed from the floor.

  Normally he would’ve taken that threat to heart but, growing up, Sansone had been Luciano’s sparring partner. Between the two of them, the other man was the better boxer although Sansone could hold his own without much effort. There had been many times when he’d come across kids who believed he thought he was better than them just because of his privileged lifestyle. That had been when Carmine Sultana—his father—had taught him just enough moves to get him by. When Luciano had come along, Sansone learned more as he’d watched his brother become skilled at the art of boxing. Even now, he occasionally sparred with Luciano when he wasn’t trying to get him to sign on the dotted line for some deal that would triple their bank accounts and help the charities they sponsored.

  “Fucking shut it. I’m trying to make a meal,” Sansone snarled, stepping over the other man as he made his way around the kitchen, grabbing chips and a beer.

  “Here’s a question for you, you cockless, unhinged bastard,” his brother said, finally getting back to his feet. “Why is it that you’re here and your Audi is missing? The same Audi that you refuse to let me take anywhere.”

  “Because baby Jesus borrowed it this morning; said something about cleansing every place you’d stepped into around the city,” he mocked.

  “Oh, fuck off. Nyssa has the car, doesn’t she?” Luciano took a seat at the table and leered. “Which means either she came over extremely early this morning, or left extremely late.”

  “Or,” Sansone replied in a whisper, leaning toward Luciano, “I committed manslaughter last night, stuffed the person in my trunk, had to get rid of the evidence and I now have to kill you too.”

  “You’re being awfully evasive.”

  “No, I’m trying to subtly tell you to mind your own goddamn business.”

  “Threatening to murder me is subtle?”

  “I could’ve simply reached across the table and slammed your face into it repeatedly while speaking in broken sentences and screaming erratically,” he pointed out.

  Luciano sat back and nodded. “Yes, but then I’d have to break your hands and slap you with them. Ma wouldn’t approve of that particular action.”

  Sansone flipped him the bird.

  Tapping the table rhythmically, his brother asked, “So…get any closer to slipping your”—he made a popping noise—“into her?” Then he whistled.

  Rubbing his temples, Sansone questioned, “Luc, how much do you weigh?”

  The other man shot him a confused look. “As of right now, I’m about 275. Why?”

  “Just trying to figure out how much cement it would take to drag your overgrown ass under water.”

  “Well that’s harsh. I find myself a little hurt.”

  “Si sta andando a trovare te molto male in un momento!”

  “Don’t threaten me in Italian! I hate it when you threaten me in Italian!”

  “Stop pissing me off!”

  “But it’s so easy! It brings me unfathomable amounts of joy!”

  Sansone jabbed a finger in his direction. “Do you want to wake up tomorrow with your hands glued to your face again?”

  Luciano deflated. “No.”

  “Then shut the fuck up and let me eat my food in peace.”

  “But—”

  “Tranquillo!”

  The silence he demanded ensued…for all of five seconds.

  “Just tell me whether or not Nyssa’s a screamer.”

  Sansone launching himself at his brother was a totally logical move, and he didn’t regret it for a moment, goddammit!

  Chapter Four

  Nyssa had learned a long time ago that the concept of power was an extremely misconstrued thing. Power didn’t come from raising the fears or anxieties of others. It didn’t come from a family name or the number in your bank account. True power came from being able to affect a person just by entering a room.
It came from a dominant stare, a coercive curve of the mouth. It came from the capacity to glide into another’s presence so incredibly fluently that they temporarily lost all thought. That was power. And it radiated off Sansone Sultana in waves. It was something Nyssa couldn’t control or manipulate; it was something that controlled and manipulated her. She’d made a promise to herself that she’d never be put in this position again, and yet here she was.

  Nyssa hadn’t been into the office for three days, purposely keeping her distance until she was finally capable of rolling out of bed and squaring her shoulders in the face of something that had grown entirely too strong—her attraction to her best friend. There was only so much she could do to shove that part of her desires into the back of her psyche but after that kiss…there wasn’t anyplace to hide. Sansone invaded every waking moment, monopolized every memory from the last eight years.

  There was a reason she hadn’t had a successful relationship in all that time, and he was at the heart of it. Nyssa had dated NFL coaches with less intensity than Sansone. Just the way he titled his head at moments while listening to her speak left a burning aftermath of lust in her gut. The quirk of his brow, the muscle that leaped in his jaw when he was annoyed, and the simple indentation of his bottom lip distracted her like nothing else. His sharp intelligence, sarcastic wit, and ruthless perusal had all earned him the nickname “The Barracuda” in their office. A simple roll of Sansone’s shoulders gave her pause, and when he said her name…

  Nyssa sucked in a deep breath and swallowed to regain moisture in her mouth as she stepped lightly through the parking garage and easily walked into Blackwell & Sultana.

  She made her way past the security desk and flashed a quick smile at the guard who regularly posted there. “Mr. Wayne.”

  He nodded. “Miss Blackwell.”

  Still smiling, she eased on past the potted plants, smaller offices, interns, and the waiting area, coming to a stop at her assistant’s desk. Smirking, Nyssa leaned down until she could whisper in the woman’s ear, “If you’re going to sleep at work, at least have some class and do so in the lounge like everyone else.”