by Renee Rose
But right now, in this moment, I’m buoyant. Flying, even.
I close my eyes and listen to my own heartbeat pounding against her back. It slows with her breath.
And then I’m grateful. I kiss her neck, her shoulder, her ear. I find her temple and press my lips there. “Thank you,” I murmur. It’s not like me to thank anybody. I’m not that guy.
I’m the asshole who takes what he wants.
And I just did.
But now I’m thanking her. I would do anything she asked of me at this point.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“You want some food, baby?”
“I don’t have time before work,” she murmurs.
Something closes off in my solar plexus. I can’t stand sending her off to work after what we just did. Especially not to work for me. Especially not cleaning. My girl shouldn’t be cleaning rooms for a living. She’s a fucking professor.
I may have had a minor fetish for her prancing around my suite in that tight little pink dress, but it feels dead wrong.
Still, I can’t offer her money for sex, instead. I’m not going to make a whore out of her.
“You’re not working today,” I growl.
She stiffens, whether it’s from my bossy tone or what I said, I can’t be sure. Her hair falls over her face, curtaining it from my view. “I just called in sick three days in a row. I think I’d better show up.” She lifts her head and meets my eyes in the mirror. “And you’re not calling in for me. I don’t want people knowing I’m sleeping with the boss.”
My jaw tightens and I pull out to dispose of the condom. The fist in my solar plexus squeezes harder. Everything’s wrong about this, but I can’t quite figure out how to make it right. And I’ve even had a decent night’s sleep. Fuck, this girl has me ass over heels for her.
I want to say you’re fired. I really do. But I know she needs the money. And also, I’m a terrible, selfish bastard and the worst part of me wants to keep her here, under my thumb. Under my watch. I like her calling me her boss, as wrong as it is.
I button my pants and take my phone out of my pocket. I call Samuel, the head of housekeeping, while Sondra skirts around behind me and gets dressed.
“Listen, I need to talk to you about Sondra Simonson, the housekeeper who cleans the penthouse suites.”
“Yes, Mr. Tacone.”
How am I going to make this work in a way that doesn’t piss Sondra off or embarrass her? It may not be possible. Samuel is going to have to know I’m fucking her.
I sit on the edge of her bed to watch her dressing. “I’m trying her out for a new position.” I wince when Sondra whirls around and glares at me. “She won’t have time to clean the other two penthouse suites. Only mine. I have some additional personal assistant and errand work for her to do when she’s in my suite.”
Sondra puts her hands on her hips. Her lips press into a thin line.
I put the phone on speaker so she can hear how calmly Samuel takes this. “Of course, Mr. Tacone. Starting today?”
“Yes. I’ve already spoken to her about it, but you can tell her to report directly to my suite when she begins.”
“Any change in her hourly?”
“Yes, double it.”
Samuel clears his throat. “Absolutely. I’ll let HR know, unless you already have.”
“I haven’t. Tell them to make it effective today, but this new position is on a trial basis.”
“Understood. How long is the probationary period?”
I flick my gaze back to Sondra. How long can I keep her? How long before she smartens up and leaves? Before she finds the kind of job she deserves? Before I stop ruining her life?
“Four weeks.”
“Thank you, Mr. Tacone.”
I hang up without thanking him back, because I’m that kind of asshole.
Sondra looks torn between being pissed off and crying. Tragically, it’s a look I’ve put on her face before. Several times.
I hold my arms out. “Come here, please.”
There. I even said please.
She probably would’ve come without it, but I’m trying to soothe her. She walks over to me, wariness flickering over her expression.
I pull her to stand between my legs and stroke the sides of her hips. “He doesn’t think anything, baby. He knows I would fucking nail his dick to the wall if he even considered thinking something about my personal life.”
Her lips tug up in a reluctant smile. “What’s this personal assistant job?”
I slide my hands around to cup her ass. “I’m not gonna pay you to have sex with me, baby. Because that would be an insult, and I’ve already offended you that way before.” I slide my hands down her thighs, then up inside the skirt. “I just couldn’t have you in those other guys’ rooms. I would have to fucking kill them for looking at you in that dress. And I’d spank your ass red for doing any form of service for another man. Even if it’s your job. Understand?”
She shifts, squeezing her thighs together like I’ve just turned her on instead of spewed some irrational possessive bullshit that ought to make her run for the hills.
“Okay,” she says. “Thanks, I guess.”
I pick the phone back up and glance at the time. “So you go punch in, and I’ll order room service. What do you want for breakfast?”
Her face splits into a brilliant smile that makes me want to get on my knees and lick her until she screams again. “Pancakes and bacon. And the berries and whipped cream. And a half of grapefruit.”
I squeeze her hip and stand to give her a quick kiss. I want to spoil this girl, and the fact that she’s letting me this time produces a satisfaction almost as powerful as claiming her.
Sondra
He can’t stay away from me. I shouldn’t be so giddy about it, but I am. I know this roller coaster ride probably ends in disaster, but I just can’t get off.
I head to the housekeeping office to punch in. Of course Nico’s patronizing me by keeping me on as his personal housekeeper. If I had any pride or sense, I’d get my butt back to Corey’s place and refuse to play his out his fuck the housekeeper fantasies.
Especially considering the looks I get from the other maids when I show up.
Fuck. All 6080 Bellissimo employees probably know I’m sleeping with the boss by now.
I punch in and push the housekeeping cart up to Tacone’s penthouse suite. He’s not there yet, and I get started fast, wanting to finish quickly in case he wants to hang out.
The room service arrives before he does. It’s awkward answering the knock, but the waiter bows. “Good morning, Ms. Simonson. Where would you like the food?”
Oh holy hell. He’s giving his staff my name. I point to the table by the wall of windows and he leaves it there.
Nico comes in a few minutes later. I’m back in the bedroom, making the bed. “What the fuck are you doing?” he demands.
I should be used to his gruff manner by now, but I’m not. Still, I toss my pigtails as I turn. “What do you mean?”
“I invited you to breakfast, not to clean my fucking room.”
“I thought you got off on watching me clean.”
His lips twitch. He holds out his hand and my feet move to obey the gesture before my mind has even considered if it’s wise. I put my hand in his and he leads me to the living room and pulls a chair at the table out for me. “I definitely do, bambina. But I don’t want you to feel like a whore.” His tone is still curt. Impatient. He hasn’t sat down at the table with me, either. I get the feeling he’s not staying.
“So then I should actually do my job, right?”
He sighs. “No, fuck it. Let’s be honest. I do want you to be my whore. You’ll put on that outfit and prance around this suite for me, and I’ll pay any amount you ask of me—on the payroll or cash. So now you know. Think about your terms.”
I stare at him, too stunned to speak.
“Listen, I have to go—shit’s come up. I have family coming into town tonight, b
ut can I take you to dinner tomorrow?”
I’m reeling. Good sense says get the hell out here. The Voice of Wrong says, “Sure.”
“Good. I’ll pick you up at six.” He takes a strawberry from the berry dish and holds it to my lips.
It’s hard to meet the intensity of his dark gaze as I take a bite.
Nico turns the bitten strawberry and looks down at it, then opens his mouth and finishes what’s left.
A shiver runs down my spine. But that’s stupid. It was just a strawberry. It’s not like he just completed some mafia ritual that forever bound me to him.
Chapter 8
Nico
I’m like a Jedi knight. I swear I feel the ripple in the force field when my brother enters the state. I am no longer king of my hill.
The big dog is in town.
Junior is the first born, ten years older than I am, and scary as fuck. As a kid, there were times I was sure he would kill me. He’d hold my head under the water in the pool until I started to pass out, or sit on me and box my ears until I’d do anything and everything he asked me to. Our father didn’t tell him to lay off, probably because he raised Junior and my other brothers the same way. Violence is part of our world. It was part of our family life, too.
I never took my shit out on my younger brother, though. I looked out for Stefano, protected him from our big brothers, cousins and father. And in return, he became forever loyal to me. We were three years apart, but tight. His faith in me is probably the reason I had the courage to try to do something different instead of following in my father’s footsteps.
And I’ve been minimizing my success in the family’s eyes ever since. Because the last thing I want is the rest of them moving in on my territory.
So Junior’s arrival has me on edge.
I sent Tony in a limo to pick them up at the hangar and he texts me to say he’s on his way to the casino. I head down to the front to greet them personally, because family gets the royal treatment.
My employees greet me with deference. The valet parking attendants and bellhops stop their chatter and stand erect like fucking British soldiers protecting the queen.
When the limo pulls up, I open the back door myself, helping my ma out of the vehicle. I get four cheek kisses, back and forth, and a whole lot of greeting with broad hand gestures.
Even being around the soldiers I took from Chicago—Tony, Leo and my cousin Sal—I’m stunned by how Sicilian my mom is. Vegas has rubbed off on me, softened the old world air that still hangs on Junior and my mother.
I get a back-thumping hug from Junior. Tony tosses the keys to the valet and makes sure the bellhop gets their bags from the trunk. I escort them up to their luxury suites, listening to my mom’s chatter the entire way about the latest on every family member. I’m only half-listening until she says, “The Pachino girl is out of college now, Nico.”
Only long practice of hiding emotions from the narrowed gaze of my big brother keeps me from showing anything on my face. We’re in the elevator, which makes it all the more oppressive. “Oh yeah? Good for her.”
“You need to make contact with Giuseppe,” Junior says. “I already have.”
The muscles in my neck stiffen. Now is the time. I’ve been silent on this issue far too long. “Yeah, I will. I’m not marrying her.”
My mother goes still and Junior rotates fully to face me. “The fuck you’re not.”
“You’re not boss,” I snarl.
Junior’s expression turns cold and hard. I’ve seen him kill wearing that same deadened look.
I shove my hands in my pockets and lower my gaze, forcing myself to appear more congenial. “Listen, I’ll talk to Pops about it. I think we can come to some other arrangement that’s equally beneficial for the Tacones and the Pachinos.”
There. I said it. And that’s all I have in my defense. I don’t have any other ideas because this is an issue I’ve purposely refused to think about for most of my life.
The elevator arrives on their floor and I escort them out.
Junior snorts. “You’d better do it soon, then. I talked to Pachino last week. He’s waiting for completion.”
I find it hard to believe Pachino is that anxious when no one has said a word to me about it since the girl turned eighteen. If they were in a rush, they would’ve pushed the issue four years ago.
I run my fingers through my hair.
Cazzo.
“I’ll take care of it.”
“You’d better.” The flint in his voice is the kind that brings men to their knees.
I slide the keycard into the lock of my ma’s room and open the door. “After you,” I murmur and she starts up again on her breathless report about everything and everyone back home.
Chapter 9
Sondra
“I changed my mind,” I tell Corey, my cell phone pinched between my ear and my shoulder as I pace around on the balcony of my Bellissimo suite. “I don’t want to go on this date.”
“Okay, so you don’t have to,” she says patiently. “You don’t have to stay there. You don’t have to work there. I’ll come pick you up right now.”
She stopped by after her shift earlier and I filled her in on the latest. Now I’ve called her at home to talk some more.
I peer over the edge of the balcony at the busy strip below. “A quick crazy fling with Nico Tacone is one thing, but dating him? It’s a bad idea.”
“Agreed,” Corey says. “So cancel the date.”
“I don’t even have his phone number. I have to wait until he shows up.”
“What are you really worried about? Just say it, even if you think it sounds stupid.”
Corey knows me so well.
“I have nothing to wear,” I blurt. That’s not really what this is about, but it seems to symbolize my dilemma. I’m not prepared to handle Nico Tacone and everything it might mean to go on a date with him.
I’m not even remotely prepared to be the girlfriend of a mafia boss. And I sure as hell shouldn’t be screwing one.
This is a man who carries a gun in a holster under his arm. A man involved with crime and the underworld. A killer.
A knock sounds on the door.
Shit!
I’m still in my bra and underwear, fifteen outfits donned and discarded around the room.
“He’s here,” I whisper urgently into the phone.
“Tell him you don’t feel good.”
“But I’m a terrible liar.”
“Just tell him—”
The keycard slides in the lock and the door swings open. Right. Because he has a key and he owns me now. And I’ve let this happen. Been giddy about it, actually.
Tacone takes in my lack of dress and shuts the door quickly behind him. His eyes glitter, dark and serious. He’s in the same suit as this morning, finely tailored to fit over his large, powerful frame.
“You’re not ready.” He sounds disappointed, like I’m an errant employee who didn’t follow instructions.
“I-I—I don’t have anything to wear.” I opt for the truth, sweeping my hand around the destroyed room where my discarded clothes hang from every surface.
His mouth twitches. He strolls slowly around the room, like he owns the place. Which makes sense because he does. He picks up a jean skirt and tosses it to me. “This and”—He finds a sleeveless blouse on the bed—“This.”
“Listen,” I say, my heart suddenly pounding hard. “I don’t think this is going to work.”
His eyes narrow. “Too late.” He lifts his chin. “Put on the clothes, I have a surprise for you.”
When I still hesitate, he comes and takes the blouse and pulls it over my head. “Come on. You’ll like it, I promise.”
I’m almost relieved to have the decision taken out of my hands. He’s not giving me a choice, is he?
Except deep down, I’m pretty sure he’d let me off the hook if I were sincere. He knows when I’m bullshitting.
I pull on the jean skirt and my platform sandals, which
make Nico give my legs an approving up and down look. He gives my ass a smack when I walk past him to the door. The burn and tingle has me blushing.
“What’s the surprise?” I ask.
He smiles. “Dinner first. Then the surprise.” He escorts me to the rooftop restaurant, the casino’s fine dining establishment. I tug on my skirt as we enter, feeling underdressed.
“Stop it.” He leans down and murmurs in my ear. ”You look beautiful.”
The staff scrambles to find us the best table in the house, one that overlooks the entire strip and yet is tucked away in a corner for privacy. He orders some Yamazaki whiskey I’ve never heard of and I ask for the house red. He shakes his head. “Bring her the 2003 Bannockburn Pinot.”
“Of course, Mr. Tacone.”
When I raise a brow, he winks. “It’s good.”
“You know your wines.”
He shrugs his wide shoulders. “I make it my business to know everything that’s served, spoken or happens in this casino.”
A tingle of awareness pricks the base of my spine. The refrain that always returns plays in my head. This is a dangerous man. Never forget it.
I look at him, then survey the room. I don’t even know what kind of conversation to make. Asking about his business probably isn’t cool, considering the way he shook me down the day we met.
The next time my gaze flicks to his, it locks. He’s staring at me with that burning intensity that makes my stomach somersault. “Tell me everything, Sondra Simonson. I want to know what makes you tick.”
I’m not falling for flattery today. “You first,” I dare. “I know nothing about you except you have a lot to hide and a thing for cleaning girls.”
His lips twitch. “Not girls. Just you. And you’re not a fucking cleaning girl.”
“What am I then?”
I’m expecting some definition of our relationship, but he scowls.
“You’re an art history professor who somehow fell down the trap door into my little corner of hell.”
If he’s trying to scare me again, it doesn’t work. I’ve moved past his threats. I’m still here. I want to know the real Tacone now. “Tell me something real. Not about business. About you.”
