The Man in Black_A Standalone Mafia Romance

by Soraya Naomi

  Why does he keep seeking me out and why is he helping me navigate my way through this job? Is Michael this protective of everyone else? I hope he isn’t, because there’s an attraction brewing, and I don’t want it to be one-sided.

  “Were you done?” he asks suddenly.

  “Yes, I just came out here to have a coffee, but I’m going home.”

  “I’m leaving as well. I’ll drop you off,” he says.

  I show him a slow grin and when my brow arches in question, he continues, “To make amends for my previous behavior and for creeping you out – it’s the security director inside me. Let’s go.” Without waiting for an answer, he turns around, leading the way into the bustling kitchen where no one pays us any attention as I gladly follow.

  After Michael takes my coat from the rack, he holds it out for me. Sliding my arms into the sleeves, I feel a surge of excitement when he touches the bare skin on my neck. Then I grab my purse and he escorts me through the restaurant toward the entrance. Michael places his hand at the small of my back, yet when I peek down at the point of contact, he seems to realize what he’s doing and, to my disappointment, he pulls back.

  Once outside, we jump into his sleek, dark blue BMW and he flicks on the heat, warming the interior instantly. Casually steering with one hand, Michael pulls out onto the street.

  “I could get used to this. I had a driver last night and now again tonight,” I cut through the silence.

  “Have I been demoted to driver?”

  “You are my driver at the moment, which was your own choice, I might add,” I point out, and he laughs unrestrainedly, the low rumble in his chest raising gooseflesh on my arms. “I could also get used to your decadent lifestyle.” I waggle my brows.

  “You should. Now that you work at Palermo,” he says, entertained.

  “I have to wait for my first paycheck.”

  “Oh, yes, the paycheck.” He gets serious. “And then you’ll move, right?”

  “Yes sir,” I retort, to which he sends me a feigned scowl.

  “I’m merely looking out—”

  “For the employees, I know, I know,” I finish sarcastically, wanting to believe that it can’t be normal for him to show this much interest in just any employee.

  “Yes, merely looking out for you guys.” He keeps looking straight ahead, his wide mouth tipping in a lazy, devastating smile.

  “Because it’s your job...” My tone is pseudo serious, and he purses his lips together to hide his amusement, making me think that I’m breaking through the wall of grief he’s built around himself.

  “Right.” He focuses on the moonlit road in front of us as he says, “Stop looking at me.” And out of nowhere, his hand shoots out to my cheek and he turns my head forward, which makes me laugh as I playfully smack it down.

  “If I can’t touch you, then you can’t keep touching me.”

  “I think we’re past that stage since you defy me constantly.”

  “Defy?” I repeat and he furrows his brow as if he shouldn’t have said that, but I think it’s funny. “I’ll try not to defy you again, sir.”

  He peers at me before concentrating on the icy road again, and we continue in comfortable quiet. The more I’m around Michael, the more I realize that there’s so much more to him than being a pensive security director.

  When he parks the car in front of my run-down building, I fidget with my fingers and ask, “Do you want to come up for a tea or coffee?”

  “Sure,” he replies, astounding me, and switches off the engine to take the keyless entry device in hand.

  I climb out to lead him through the entrance and we hike up the rusty metal staircase to the third floor, the lights flickering in the hallway. When I unlock my door and close it behind us with force, Michael frowns, inspecting the doorframe as we crowd the tiny square entry area of my apartment, his presence even more imposing now that we’re inside. He doesn’t belong in this dingy place with his classy attire, but he doesn’t say a word as I take a few steps into my living room that’s sparsely furnished with a loveseat covered with plum satin pillows that faces a small flat screen TV sitting on top of a cedar cabinet.

  Michael looks at all the pillows yet remains at the door and points to the frame. “The door doesn’t close correctly.”

  “Yeah, I have to jam it shut.” Tossing my purse on the couch, I unbutton my coat.

  Michael reaches for the handle and tries to pull the door open again with no luck until his second attempt. Touching the latch, he says, “Do you have a screwdriver?”

  “Um, I think so. Why?”

  “So that I can fix it,” he replies, studying the latching mechanism.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I comment, yet warmth settles into my limbs at the kind offer. I’m used to having apartments with flaws, and I don’t have a father or boyfriend who can function as handyman.

  He turns his head just enough to gaze at me as he explains as though his intentions weren’t clear, “I’m going to fix it.”

  “Okay.” I move into the kitchen, pulling open my junk drawer and rummaging through the papers, tape, and scissors until I find a screwdriver and take it out.

  Within three steps, I return to the entry and hold it up. “This is all I have.”

  “It’ll do.” He accepts the tool and sticks it into the top screw of the strike plate, loosening it.

  “I’m going to get out of these clothes because I smell like spices. I’ll be right back,” I say, and he nods before I go through the sliding door at the other side of the living room and into my bedroom where I have an oak bed and vanity.

  After discarding my black chef’s clothes, I change into my tight dark wash jeans and a white tank top with buttons at my cleavage, leaving the top two undone. Then I put on some perfume and brush my hair, flipping it forward to fluff it up, although as I stand in front of the vanity mirror, I realize that it looks like I’m trying too hard. Getting a clip, I secure it at my crown and smile at myself – I’ve never been this anxious around a man, but I like how nervous he makes me.

  When I don’t hear any noise, I stroll into the living room, but the front door is shut and Michael’s missing. Walking to the kitchen doorway, I see him with his back to me, searching through the top drawer.

  “What are you doing?” I demand, and he swivels around so fast that I’m shocked he doesn’t stumble.

  He scans the length of my body, leaving a fiery trail, before he lingers at my cleavage and then looks up, swallowing heavily.

  CHAPTER 14

  Michael

  “I’M GOING TO GET OUT of these clothes because I smell like spices. I’ll be right back,” Brielle comments, disappearing into her bedroom.

  I quickly tighten the screw in the strike plate and close the door, which is now fixed. Without making a sound, I tread into the living room and hear Brielle wandering around in the bedroom. Since I couldn’t get to her phone at work, I reach for her purse and take it out, noticing it’s a really old model. Continuously glancing at the bedroom door, I swipe the screen, which doesn’t require a passcode to unlock it. Foolishly trustworthy of her. Nevertheless, I must find out if she’s working at Palermo to gather info on me or the Syndicate. That’s why I’ve been hanging around her the past few days, although she has managed to amuse me with her easygoing ways. I even slipped up when I disclosed that I guarded Fallon, who’s the underboss’s wife, yet Brielle seemed to accept my explanation and doesn’t suspect anything – at least, I don’t think she does. But I have to be sure, so I check her most recent calls, emails, and pictures, finding nothing about me or my past in New York, thankfully.

  As I toss the phone back into her purse, I’m beginning to believe that this is truly a strange twist of fate and that she isn’t aware of the link between us in New York. Besides, she kept her promise and didn’t tell anyone about my gun or the altercation in the back alley. I’m positive about that fact because I checked with Marliya to see if there were rumors among the staff, and Marliya has
n’t mentioned it, which tells me Brielle didn’t confide in anyone. A secret like that would’ve caused a stir among employees.

  My gut tells me that I’m in the clear. Especially since Brielle seems to be getting more relaxed with me. Still, to confirm my conclusion, I go into the kitchen and slide open a drawer, and when I find her mail, I start to go through it, seeing nothing but unpaid bills. She must’ve made nothing before she worked at Palermo. I’m pretty sure Brielle’s innocent, and because of that, I should probably just keep my distance from Palermo’s staff from now on. I don’t want to put anyone in any unnecessary danger.

  In the middle of my search, a husky voice demands, “What are you doing?”

  I spin around and freeze when confronted with a completely different looking person. Brielle’s skintight top accentuates her curves and makes the delicate line of her narrow waist even more seductive than her full, dipping cleavage. I can clearly see that she’s all woman, no sign of the girl that I imagined whatsoever.

  Focus, Michael!

  Clearing my throat, I drag my gaze up as she frowns at me. However, since I’m already a few steps ahead, I hold up the screwdriver. “Where does this go?”

  “Oh, first one.” She gestures to the drawer closest to her.

  Sliding it open, I lay the screwdriver inside, but as I try to close it, it sticks. Brielle steps next to me and bangs it shut just when I notice an exposed socket right above the stove.

  “This place is a fire hazard.” I lean forward to touch it, but she shifts in front of me, and with her ass in my groin, she effectively pushes me backward.

  I rear back as she circles around to face me, muttering, “That’s not even the worst of it.”

  “What do you mean?” I probe, her jasmine perfume hitting my nose.

  “Nothing. What do you want to drink?”

  I tilt my head. “What else needs to be fixed around here, Brielle?”

  “If you want to fix everything in this apartment, you’ll be here for days.” She cocks her hip and removes the clip at her crown when some strands fall out, her blonde hair framing her smooth, heart-shaped face before it tumbles down, ending at her waist. She looks...luscious without her chef’s uniform and with her hair wavy. Even more so when she combs a hand through it and sweeps it to the other side.

  While I attempt to concentrate, I repeat in an even tone, “What needs to be fixed?”

  She rolls her eyes and starts counting off fingers, starting with her thumb. “Well, for one, the microwave rarely works. Second”—she unfolds her pointer finger—“the water pressure in the bathroom doesn’t work properly—”

  “Where’s your bathroom?”

  “You don’t have to check it, Carrion.” She stands her ground to block me from relocating to the living room.

  “I will anyway, Duchenne.” I lift a brow and whisper, “Or is there something in your bedroom I can’t see...?”

  She looks down, hiding a grin, and goes into the living room while I feel my lips twitching at her obedience. Then my gaze flies like a magnet to the sway of her curvaceous hips and well-rounded ass as I follow her through her bedroom and into the bathroom. Brielle steps inside the tiny space to slide open the green plastic curtain that’s suspended from an acrylic railing and leans into the stall before grabbing the showerhead.

  As she rotates the knob, she aims the showerhead at the tiles and explains, “The water barely has any pressure.”

  At that moment, I note a sharp kink in the shower arm and warn, “Wait—”

  But the shower head jumps in her hand and the stream of water makes an arc around the small bathroom, ending on me and spraying a line across my chest as I jump back and she grips the head with both hands.

  I hold out my arms, scowling, yet as she stands motionless like she’s terrified of my reaction, her fearful green eyes charm me, and I can only smile.

  A worried crease crosses her brow. “I’m so sorry.” She rotates the knob to turn off the water.

  “Don’t look so scared.” I grip my drenched shirt and peel it off my chest. “You look like you’re afraid I’m going to shoot you.”

  “I’m not sure you won’t,” she says, showing off the dimples in both of her cheeks, and I feel more entertained than annoyed.

  Particularly since she bolts into the bedroom and opens her closet, digging out shirts and sweaters. “Let me see if I have something for you to wear.”

  As I move to the bedroom, I reply, “I’m not going to wear your clothes.”

  “But you’ll be freezing.” She stops with a yellow sweater in hand and gazes at my torso before her stare snaps up.

  I flash her a grin. “It’s fine.” As I unbutton my dress shirt, I see her eyes round again, but I have on a shirt beneath it, so I pull it from my pants to let it hang loose on the sides to dry faster. “Get me your toolbox and I’ll fix the water pressure.”

  There’s a long hesitation while her throat works. “It’s under the sink.” Pointing to the bathroom, she gives me a skeptical look.

  Without delay, I turn back to the bathroom and dip down to find a small box with some tools, and I easily adjust the pressure within five minutes. After putting her tools back, I return to the living room, a blanket of warmth hitting me.

  “I turned on the heat so that your dress shirt will dry quicker.” Brielle holds out her hand, and since the wet shirt is cold, I shuck out of it and toss it to her.

  She catches it effortlessly in the air and drapes it over the radiator below the window. Then she motions to the couch and the round coffee table that has two mugs on it.

  “I made us tea. Sit. Your shirt will dry soon.”

  I take a pillow and fling it aside. “You have a lot of pillows...”

  “It’s cozy.” She swipes all of them off the couch onto the floor, and to my surprise, she claims a seat next to me, but the couch is so small that her warm thigh is touching mine.

  I try to scoot over, but there’s nowhere to go, and she diverts my uneasiness by asking, “How come you’re so handy?”

  “How come you’re so not handy?” I retort with a smirk, and she makes a face, shifting forward to get the mugs and offering one to me with a sincere smile. Meanwhile, I’m very aware of our point of contact, a sense I haven’t experienced in a long while.

  Accepting the drink, I lean back and notice a row of self-help books on the shelf that’s hanging on the wall. Actually, all the titles are about spirituality and mindfulness. I glance at the books and then at Brielle, who sips her tea, peeking over the rim at me.

  “What’s with all the self-help books?” I probe around a grin.

  Her lips curve up. “I knew you’d ask that. You want to know everything about me but can’t even answer a few questions of mine.”

  I watch her without moving, impressed since she’s the first woman to actually call me out on my lack of manners. Ordinarily, women let me get away with it.

  Nonetheless, I answer her earlier question, “I’m handy because I was always the man of the house. My father left before I was born.”

  As she calmly assesses me, she mutters, “Is that why you have a gun? Or did you start carrying one for work?”

  “I started carrying one for work,” I say, which is the truth. Joining the mafia means having a gun at all times.

  “So did you grow up in the Loop with just your mother? Or do you have siblings?”

  “Yes, and no siblings. My mother never married again. I grew up and graduated business school in the Loop with Adriano and Luca.”

  “You’re smart to have stayed in touch with them – you have good connections. I’m lucky to work at Palermo.” She sets down her mug on the table, giving me a perfect view of her sensuous cleavage, but I look away when she straightens.

  If she only knew what goes on at Palermo, she would run since she’s indirectly linked to the mafia now. Though I’m sure she’s not aware of any of it, so I can be less guarded now, thank goodness. I’m worn out after another week of barely any sleep. />
  Pointing to the books, I don’t even repeat my question, and she knows exactly what I’m asking.

  “Are we bargaining for information now?” she comments.

  “Apparently.” I take a sip of my drink, feeling nice and warm with the heat cranked up as I rest the mug on my knee and laze backward.

  Brielle extends her legs and plants her feet on the table, our shoulders touching as she drops her head back onto the couch and replies, “I have a lot of issues, which is why I have an abundance of self-help books.”

  I chuckle at the unexpected answer. “What?”

  “I’m kidding.” The corners of her eyes crinkle, and she turns her head to me, taking a moment of quiet contemplation.

  Our faces merely an inch apart, I note the flecks of emerald in her irises, fascinating me with her spirit and keen intelligence as she seems to get melancholic. While she’s been open and direct since I met her, now she turns her focus forward, away from my inquisitive stare, and her husky voice drops to a whisper, “I actually started reading those books after my parents died. I wasn’t into any of it until I started one and it helped me move on during a time when I was stagnant.” She grabs my attention.

  “How did you grieve your parents?”

  “They say time heals all wounds, and that’s partly true.” She fidgets with her fingers. “Time allows new memories to push back old ones until one day, you start to forget the faces you once loved. Sometimes I have a hard time recalling what my mom looked like, and it grows more difficult every day. And even though that saddens me, it does help me move on. Another self-help book then helped me to not be angry about what happened, to not stay stuck in what if or why me, which is self-destructive.”

  As she sighs, she leans further into me, and I allow it, not recoiling like I usually do with everyone else because I understand her words perfectly. It’s as though I’m looking in the mirror as the lines in her heart-shaped face harden, and I can tell she’s fighting the same self-destructive emotion that’s eating me up inside.

  “What made you angry after they died?” I ask.