There’s someone else here.
I focus my hearing into the living room where Lucy and I played cards. A shuffling of feet on the floor. The tap of a glass on the end table. The give of the stiff couch cushion as they sit down.
I relax. Only one man would be so bold as to make himself this comfortable in a killer’s house.
I walk down the hallway to meet him. He sits on the couch with one ankle propped up on the opposite knee, casually slouching as he scrolls through his phone and sips water from a drinking glass. Not one visible wrinkle on his trademark black suit and tie. He’s barely aged since the day I met him over a decade ago. Agents older than me say the same. No one’s sure how old he is exactly. No one’s ballsy enough to ask.
You don’t question the Angel of Death, as we call him. But he prefers Spencer.
His golden eyes target the flowers at my side. “For me?” he asks dryly. “You shouldn’t have.”
I drop the roses onto the coffee table. “An assignment for Zappia, actually.”
“So, not for the trollop I found wandering alone half-naked in the kitchen this morning?”
I keep my expression frozen as my gut clenches. Depending on whatever mood he happened to be in, leaving Lucy alone might have been a very fatal mistake.
“No,” I answer. “But if you don’t mind me asking...”
He stuffs his phone into his breast pocket and waves, already bored. “I sent her on her way.”
My nerves ease up. “Thanks.”
Spencer sets both feet on the floor. “You’re not here to sleep around with the locals, Hart. You’re here to pay attention.”
“I can do both.” I lean a shoulder against the archway. “Antony’s spooked.”
He raises a brow. “Why?”
“The Lutrovas are back in town.”
“Is that right?”
“Can’t confirm it just yet, but he wants me to stay close for a while. I have to attend Enzo’s restaurant opening tonight.”
He nods. “Keep me updated,” he says, his tone rougher than usual.
“You didn’t come out here to critique my choice of one-night stands, Spencer,” I say, easily reading his piqued expression. “Cut to it.”
He wipes a bit of fluff off his pant leg. “I assume you received Myra’s message?” he asks.
“Black has gone dark,” I recall. “Await further instructions.”
“You haven’t heard from him, have you?”
“No,” I answer.
“Your squad?”
“No.”
“And Fitzpatrick?” He doesn’t blink. “No word from him?”
“Of course not.”
Spencer stands up, briskly buttoning his jacket out of habit. “We lost track of Black and the others in Colorado,” he says. “He cut off communication after he blew up a hotel in Denver and the Boss ordered him to pack it in and come home. Needless to say, the seizure of Mr. Fitzpatrick has now been reassigned to a more capable agent.”
I exhale hard. Mercer’s obsession with Fox finally went too far.
“On the bright side,” he continues, “we got a possible lead on Fitzpatrick nearby.”
I tilt my head with interest. “How nearby?”
“Iowa.”
“That’s very nearby.”
“Nearby enough to assume that if the Lutrova brothers are back in Chicago, then he is, too.”
“You think they’ve taken on Fox as a hired hand?” I ask.
“I think we should be prepared for anything.” His phone vibrates loudly in his breast pocket. He answers it and promptly lowers it to his side, not bothering to cover the microphone. “You stumble on Fitzpatrick, you take him out,” he says to me, his golden eyes gauging my reaction. “That’s not a problem, is it?”
I stare straight ahead. “Looking forward to the opportunity, actually.”
“Good.” He walks into the hall. “I’ll be in town until all of this blows over. Keep your eyes and ears open.”
“I will,” I say with a nod.
Spencer glares at the bouquet again, his stern countenance spelling out the rest of his orders.
Ditch the trollop.
“By the way,” he pauses, “with Black MIA, we’re going to need someone to take his place.” He glances at me. “You don’t mind if I drop your name with the Boss, do you?”
I straighten up off the wall. “No, sir. Not at all.”
He nods in approval before continuing through the house. “Hello, Puppet,” he says into his phone. “How are you?”
The front door opens and closes behind him.
Dammit, Mercer. Why couldn’t you just let him go?
If I know Fox as well as I think I do, then Mercer isn’t coming back. The rest of our squad isn’t either. Lots of talent down the fucking drain because Mercer didn’t want to share his toys.
I pick up the roses and bring them to my nose again.
A big promotion. A hot date tonight.
All things considered, today is turning out to be a damn good day.
Chapter 8
Lucy
I lay my foot on the beam and bend over to stretch my hamstring. It twitches with delicious pain, bringing memories of deep pleasure to my mind as Cynthia drones on from the center of the room.
“Let’s keep moving, everyone. We’re burning daylight…”
My mind wanders, lingering even more on Dante’s body towering over mine. Muscles and scars. That tattoo. I can still feel his hips grinding against me, thrusting deep inside me, making me—
“Lucy.”
I jolt out of it as Cynthia’s harsh voice charges through my ear. “Sorry, Cynthia…”
She glares at me with her arms crossed. “Are we somewhere else today?” she asks, her wrinkled mouth pursed in annoyance.
I shake my head and swallow the desire down my throat. “No, ma’am.”
“Well, once you’re done doing whatever the hell it is you’re doing, can you please meet the rest of us in the auditorium? We’re waiting on you.”
I glance around, suddenly realizing that I’m the only one left in the room.
“Oh. Sorry.”
She rolls her eyes before turning around and exiting the room without me.
I raise my other leg forward and lean into my stretch, this time trying not to sink too far into my fantasy.
Dante Hart.
Scumbag.
Scumbag with a huge cock but still a scumbag.
I drop my leg and spin around to catch up with the others.
“Oh!” I gasp and freeze in place.
Dante’s lips slide into a devious smile in the shadowed corridor. “Put your leg back up like that…” he says, his eyes trailing my tights all the way down to my toes. “It’s nice.”
“How the hell did you get in here?!”
He steps into the room with a bouquet of roses clenched in one hand and shrugs his thick shoulders, hidden beneath a long, black coat.
“I own the building,” he says.
“My father owns this building.”
“And I own your father. Let’s not argue semantics.”
I sigh with annoyance. “What do you want?”
He stops in front of me and holds up the flowers. “Courtesy of Mr. Antony Zappia himself.”
I stare at them with an upturned nose, refusing to take them. “Excuse me,” I mutter, passing wide around him to avoid touching him.
“You’re right—” He steps into my path and tosses the roses to the floor. “He’s a dick.”
“Well, he’s got good company, then.”
He purses his lips. “I assume that comment was directed at me?”
“You assume correctly.”
“Whatever did I do to deserve such unkind words, Lucy?”
“Ms. Vaughn.”
He chuckles. “Oh, we’re back to that again, are we?”
“Yep.” I try to pass him again, but he takes a wide stride to stop me. “I have a rehearsal. They’re waiting on me.”
“Th
ey’ll wait longer. You’re mad at me and I want to know why.”
I seethe with impatience. “Well, for starters, you left me to wake up alone this morning.”
“I had to work.”
“It was rude.”
“Oh, come on…” He narrows his eyes. “You’re not that kind of woman.”
I lean back. “What kind of woman?”
“The kind who gives a shit about cuddles and butterfly kisses.”
“I’m not — but I expect to be treated with a certain level of respect and waking up alone with a strange man wandering around your house doesn’t exactly qualify.”
He keeps his smile. “Spencer is not strange. A little odd, maybe, but far from strange.”
I look at my feet. “It was rude.”
“Perhaps I misjudged you, Ms. Vaughn.”
“Perhaps you did.”
“Let me make it up to you.” He leans in closer and that perfect cologne targets my senses again. “Come to dinner with me tonight.”
I wince to conceal the lust charging up my spine. “Why?”
“Because I enjoyed spending time with you, and I’d like to do so again.”
“Are you actually being serious right now?”
“Yes,” he answers. “Go out with me tonight.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
“You didn’t enjoy spending time with me?” he asks, already knowing the answer.
My throat clenches. “I didn’t say that.”
“Then, come out with me tonight.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I breathe a laugh. “You gangsters really aren’t accustomed to hearing the word no, are you?”
“No.”
I clench my teeth. “Mr. Hart—”
“Dante.”
“Mr. Hart, please, let me pass.”
“Come on, Lucy Vaughn.” He locks his eyes with mine, forcing me to take in the shimmering shade of blue. “It’s just dinner.”
“You do realize you’re the man holding my father hostage, right?”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” he says, smirking.
“It’s relevant because I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t.”
He holds up his hands. “Then, we agree you have no choice. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“Mr. Hart, I played my role in your arrangement with my father. I spent the night with you, I laughed at your jokes, I put out for you, and I did it all with a smile on my face.”
“Debatable.”
“That is all we ever agreed to and there is no reason for this arrangement to continue on in any way, shape, or form.”
“Sure, there is.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes.”
“Enlighten me, then,” I say. “Give me one good reason why I should go out with you tonight.”
Dante licks his lips and takes hold of me. I inhale quickly to object, but his mouth finds mine, silencing me with a firm kiss. There’s passion on his breath and it bewitches me without a second thought. His teeth rake across my bottom lip, drawing a tender moan from the back of my throat. He strikes a fire throughout my body with a single flick of his tongue before releasing my lips.
His eyes open, reflecting a crippling desire back at me. “I’ll pick you up at seven, Ms. Vaughn,” he whispers.
“Okay,” I say, barely breathing. His hands fall from my body and he turns around to leave. “Wait, you don’t even know where I live.”
“I’ll find you.”
He exits without glancing back at me once.
I grip the balance beam to keep from falling over. My lips throb, pulsing with blood, feeling the phantom tug of his mouth.
Oh, now I’m in trouble…
Chapter 9
Lucy
So, what does a girl wear out to dinner with a mobster?
I stand in front of my closet, repeating the question over and over again, glancing quickly at the clock every few moments to be sure I still have time. My hair is ready. My make-up is done.
What the fuck do I wear?
Something tight but easy to take off…
I chew on my thumbnail, feeling my cheeks turn pink. Come on, Lucy. It’s just dinner. He said it’s just dinner, but…
Is it ever really just dinner? What else is he expecting here? Sex, obviously, but what else? When a girl dates an associate — or whatever — of the Zappia crime family, does that make her an accessory? By even agreeing to dinner, have I set myself up for some serious legal trouble down the road? Could I go to jail for this? What do you even wear to court these days?
Black. I’ll wear black.
I slide the hangers back, sifting through various blouses and tops until I find my dresses. One stands out near the back, something I haven’t worn in ages because it’s just too damn nice for casual outings. I don’t want to wear anything too casual and risk — you know — disrespecting the hitman who’s picking up the tab.
I slide it over my head and wiggle until the bottom reaches my thighs. The scoop top hangs on my shoulders, attached to tight, black mesh sleeves all the way down to white cuffs that hug my wrists. I slide my hands down my body, making sure the dress still fits like a damn glove. The bottom grazes my kneecaps. Perfection.
6:55, says the clock. Any minute now, I’ll hear a knock on the door and Dante Hart will be on the other side of it. He’ll say hello and tell me how beautiful I look and I’ll drop to my knees like a good girl and unzip his—
Jesus Christ, Lucy…
“It’s just dinner,” I say to myself in the mirror.
I grab a pair of strappy, black heels to slip into before making my way out to the living room.
“Oh— god!”
My heart leaps into my throat.
Dante fucking Hart is in my goddamn living room, sitting in my fucking chair.
“Good evening, Ms. Vaughn,” he says, calm as ever.
“What the hell are you doing here?!”
“Seven o’clock, right?” he asks, glancing at his watch. “I’m a little early.”
“What are you doing in my apartment?!”
He gestures over his shoulder. “The door was open.”
I shake my head. “No, it wasn’t!”
“Yes, it was.”
“I’m a single girl living alone in Chicago. I don’t leave my door open!” I point to the door, completely dumbfounded. “How the hell did you get through the chain?”
Dante grins and stands up from the chair. “Relax. I’m not going to hurt you.”
And just like that, my pulse normalizes as he glides across the floor toward me. He wears a suit, one much crisper than what he wore yesterday. Even his black coat looks pressed. He shaved, too…
“You look very nice,” he says. His deep voice echoes in my ears as if we were standing in the center of a cave.
“Oh…” I look down at my own body, glancing from my breasts down to my shoes. “Thank you. I wasn’t sure where we were going, so…”
“It’s perfect.”
I smile. I can’t help it. “Good.”
“Shall we?”
He turns around and walks to the door, but he doesn’t open it. His eyes take a long sweep of me from head to toe and I swear I catch his pupils dilating in his wicked blue irises from all the way back here.
I grab my clutch off the counter and join him by the door.
He waits, standing still as a board while I stare back at him. Several seconds pass as his eyes wander my face and I fidget in my shoes.
“Mr. Hart?”
“I’m sorry…” he whispers, his lips curling. “May I kiss you?”
I laugh. “You’re asking permission now?”
“Please.”
“Um…” My cheeks bleed red. “Yeah, I guess.”
Dante steps forward and raises a rough hand to my cheek. His thumb traces a line from the center of my li
p to the bottom of my jaw before he leans in closer. I freeze in place, unable to even breathe as his lips caress mine, pursing softly for several long, smooth seconds. Pleasure ignites in my womb, sending a thousand tiny tremors down my thighs.
“Thank you,” he whispers, our lips barely touching.
“Don’t mention it,” I squeak.
“Come on.” Dante pulls the door open and waits for me to step out first.
Oh, yeah. Sure.
I can totally walk after that.
Chapter 10
Dante
I’d hoped it was all a fluke.
Just a sudden, random feeling brought on by something keenly supernatural. Or food poisoning. Something other than the insatiable desire overwhelming the bloodlust deep inside of me.
Lucy Vaughn. Whoever she is. Whatever she is. She’s better than anything else I’ve ever done, everything I’ve ever tasted.
Spencer is right to worry.
Especially after seeing her in that dress.
“Right this way, Mr. Hart.”
The petite hostess gestures for us to follow, firing a pleasant smile at me before twisting around to show off her ass. I ignore it and gaze at Lucy instead, admiring the gorgeous gown hugging her taut, athletic curves.
Her pupils expand as she scans the entryway with curious fascination. It’s clear a fancy place like this is well outside the realms of her monthly budget.
I snatch her hand and she jerks her head toward me in surprise. “Come on…”
She lets me lead her into the main sitting room. The lighting shifts and shadows grow taller the farther away we travel from the entryway. It’s a gentle, romantic atmosphere. Every table is occupied, save the handful scattered about with Reserved signs hovering between the twin candles of the centerpieces. No one speaks much louder than a whisper across their tables, but I suspect that has more to do with choice than a requirement.
“This is fucking nice.”
I chuckle at her comment, noting the side-eyes jerking in Lucy’s direction as we pass the tables by. I squeeze her hand, nudging her to pick up her pace as the hostess swings around a table and gestures that it’s ours.
“Your server will be right with you,” she says, her voice an octave or two higher than normal in that forced-hospitality way.
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