“You like sweet things?” I ask, crossing us to Union and heading for Mama Angelo’s. We’re walking because this place is safe for me, especially Mama’s. “Call the contacts. Have them meet us at Mama Angelo’s Bakery on Clinton.”
He doesn’t disagree. He knows the score. He’d probably do the same to me if this trip were the other way round. So much for trust. I smile and stuff my hands in my pockets, high-end shoes walking us along the long roads. I stop outside a particular brownstone, looking up through the trees at the window on the top floor. It’ll give time for old Gorgio Consetti to see me from his opposite window. Should set the drums going quickly enough for cover to come follow my ass around.
“Got my dick in something for the first time up there,” I mutter. Fuck knows who to. Maybe myself. Or Quinn. It’s evocative down here, though, reminding me of things I’d forgotten. Friendship. Camaraderie. “Amelia. Her mother was one of my father’s whores.” Quinn chuckles. “What?”
“Seems like we both got our dicks off in the same way first time round.” Did we? I smirk at him. “Maybe that’s just the way it is in our world,” he says, walking onwards with a scowl and dragging out his phone.
Another few turns and the smell of Mama’s hits us both in the face. Donuts, pastries—nothing fancy, just all the old Italian goods baked fresh every day. She’s been here for so long I don’t remember the place without her in it. Her old man’s gone, died about the same time mine did, but what Mama doesn’t know isn’t worth knowing. Still.
I push on the door, the old bell ringing like it always did, and walk into the run-down place.
“Help ya, sir?” a woman says instantly. I look her over, noting the dirty apron and tired eyes, then glance around the interior and gesture for Quinn to sit in the back-corner booth. Same everything, even down to the stains on the wall.
“Two plates of cannoli.”
She nods slowly, her eyes tracing the ink climbing out of my shirt collar, and eventually hurries to the counter, fingers fumbling for plates as she blushes. It amuses me. Stupid women. False smiles and some ink, and they all come begging. “And tell Mama Benjamin’s here,” I call back, heading for Quinn to sit beside him.
“The fuck is this, Vico?” he says, removing his coat.
“Bonding.”
“What?”
“Trust, Cane. That’s what you wanted from me, wasn’t it?” The waitress comes over and dumps two full plates of cannoli in front of us. It’s the most food I’ve seen on a plate in years. I dive in, mouth salivating around the cream that oozes out. “This is home for me, Quinn. I don’t bring just anyone home.” He nods and looks at his plate, probably unsure if he should eat the mess. “It’s good. Trust me.”
I stare out at the road as we eat, watching as three cars turn up. I don’t know any of them, but I do know the first man who steps out of another one. Ferdinand Consetti. That’s old school. Gorgio's eldest grandson. I smirk at them all filtering out of their cars, lining up and lighting smokes. No one even thinks about coming over to us.
“Your boys?” Quinn asks.
“Mmm.”
He takes a bite of cannoli and points behind them. “That other car coming in is Denago’s. You met the cousins at my wedding. They'll lead it from out there, but Ricardo is New York's contact.” I gaze at the black Lincoln pulling over, wondering how much he’s organised without me. “I met with them yesterday while you were with Nate, put the odds on the table. Nothing’s set fast.” He takes another cannoli with his fingers this time. “This is good.”
Mama comes into the room, breaking the quiet. Her hands are wide as she approaches the table, eyes firmly directed at the little shit she knew all those years ago. Me.
“Benjamin Vico,” she says, waving me into her. I stand, respect pushing me into her embrace. “What business have you here?” I nod out of the window, showing her what business is coming my way. She glares, hands wringing her apron. “Columbians?” she says, Italian mutterings getting louder in her audacity. “You bring de Columbians to me?”
“He brought them,” I reply, tilting my head towards Quinn and sucking my spoon.
She tuts at him with more hand gestures, then more Italian, and then reaches over and fusses his hair. He smiles the whole goddamn time. Seems even Mama's not immune to his charms. I chuckle and eat more cannoli, remembering her doing the same to Tony when we were kids. It tells me she likes him, and if Mama likes someone, they’re normally worth liking. She’s got an inbuilt detector, something that gives her the ability to see through false honour.
“Your company has improved, no? But Italiano, Benjamin, per favore.” Mmm. Well, I’m the only Italian worth a shit in New York anymore. There’s no one left to fuck around with now. The last one, Sergio Angelo, got killed in a raid years back, as she well knows. He was her son after all.
Fucking FBI scum.
That was the year I changed everything about how this town was run. No small organisations running alongside each other anymore, just one. Mine. They worked for me, or they ended up dead in a warehouse somewhere. I didn’t give a fuck which one at the time. One of my only friends had been killed because of complacency and arrogance. Everyone deserved my goddamn wrath for those eighteen months. Tony and I provided it, building an empire at the same time that no one fucks with now.
“You go lock yourself in, Mama,” I mutter, nodding her to the back and waving the waitress there, too. “Stay down.”
She grumbles off as the two guys Quinn’s brought in cross the road, both of them dressed as we are. That’s what this world is now—a facade around what used to be, no matter the intent still hiding beneath clothing. The Consetti boys hover in the background, three of them wandering across the road as the door pushes inwards. I take another cannoli as Quinn nods at them, his frown focused on the guns under their jackets.
“You leave that shit outside,” he growls. “And be slow, boys.” I don’t know why he’s said it. They don’t bother me. Both these fucks will be dead in an instant if they even think about pulling, but I stare at the pair of them over my food anyway, waiting to see if they do what he says. It’ll help prove this thing he’s got going on, give me some of that trust he’s offering. One of them mutters to the other, handing his Glock over and watching it being taken out to one of the Consettis to hold. “Good,” Quinn says as he walks back in. “Don’t ever bring guns to my family again.” I frown slightly at the word, my eyes still looking at the Columbians. I’m no family of his. “Negotiations don’t involve goddamn threats, Ricardo.”
Family. I watch the two of them talking for a while, watch the way this Ricardo defers to Quinn each time a trade is discussed. He’s good at it. Cool. Agile in the way he’s getting what he wants out of these boys without too many threats. It doesn’t stop me noting that nothing is coming from the other one, though. He’s nervous of something, twitching, regardless of his slight sneer. My ears quiet the sounds of Quinn talking, my eyes focusing in on this other one. He shifts in his seat, his own eyes trying to evade mine. I can almost hear that heartbeat quickening with every word. I don’t like it.
Something’s off.
I glance at the boys outside and lean back.
“I don’t negotiate,” I cut in, eating the last of my cannoli off my fingers. “There is no negotiation.”
“Give me a fucking break, Vico,” Quinn says, his hands still crunching those goddamn dice as he laughs. I’m not laughing. What the fuck does he think is funny? I wipe my mouth and focus in on the other man again.
“You two do as he says and then you get paid.” That’s the deal as far as I’m concerned. There will be no deviation from it. I don’t trust them for shit, especially this one.
The slight snarl that comes from the dick I’m looking at has me up and flipping the fucking table in his face before he knows what’s hit him. He reels back, feet scrabbling the floor to get away from me. Ricardo backs off, his hands in the air while this dick pulls a gun from somewhere. Quinn’s up and at
my side before I’ve climbed over the upturned table to get to the cunt. He draws out a Berretta, aiming it down at whoever the fuck this dick is, but it doesn’t stop the shot that goes off at him.
I turn and pull my own piece out, watching as blood sprays from Quinn’s shoulder and sends him reeling backwards. Another shot comes through the window before I get the damn thing aimed, firing into the back of the fucker on the floor. The body slumps down to flat, blood coming from his abdomen as he drops his gun.
I haul in a breath as I point my own piece down at him, aiming at his fucking head.
“No, I will finish this,” Ricardo snaps from the left. I snarl at him, kicking the other dick’s gun behind me, getting blood all over my goddamn shoes in the process. “This was not Denago, Vico.” The hell it wasn’t. I aim the gun at him instead, ready to kill this one, too, if his mouth keeps moving. “Please, Vico,” he says, hands up in the air. “This wasn’t about you. It was about Cane.”
Three Consettis crash through the door, their guns aimed. My hand lifts to them as my head snaps back to Quinn. He’s clutching his left shoulder, crimson dripping through his fingers and his ass on the bench behind me. “You brought this shit into my home?” I snap out.
“You think I knew he was gonna fucking shoot me?” He should have. I growl at this turn of events and back off to watch the fucker bleed out, a smile developing on my face.
“Alano has never forgiven Cane for the death of Rohas Denago,” Ricardo says. He moves slowly in my eye-line, his body coming closer to us. “I take full responsibility for this, Vico. It should not impact the deal.” My brows rise. Deal? There is no deal. Never will be now.
“So, you brought this shit into my home?” I ask.
“No. I… I didn’t know.” Sweat begins to drip from his brow, fear travelling through that face of his, as I keep aiming at his head. “The family didn’t know this would happen. We wouldn’t have brought him if—” I snarl and wave his mouth closed, lowering the gun a little. They should have known, too, but his eyes focused on mine seem genuine enough. Fucking families.
Quinn chuckles and I spin back to find him looking at me, his head nodding at my gun. “Haven’t seen one of those in your hands for a while.” I frown at him, not sure what that fucking means. “Wasn’t sure you even knew how to use one still with your prissy suits and politics.” Brave fucking words. I smile and aim it towards the one bleeding out on the floor, not bothering to look, then fire.
“Fuck you, Cane.”
I chuckle. Fuck knows why. Perhaps it’s these old streets again, winding up the old me who lived here and learnt his craft. Quinn gets up and looks at the mess on the floor, still gurgling breaths out, a huff coming from his mouth as he looks at Ricardo and offers him his gun.
“At least we know you don’t mind getting your hands dirty if needed,” he mutters back at me. He’s a dick, one I’m damn well smiling at for some reason. I pick up a napkin and wipe some blood from my shoes, unsure what the hell I’m smiling about. “Prove yourself, Ricardo. I’m not having this shit in my house again.”
He does. One straight shot into the fucker’s head, regardless of family connections. Interesting. That’s a big ask when family’s involved, not that I’d know anymore. I chuckle again and look at him, reading the snarl that seems genuine.
Perhaps this one is on side.
Still, there's no deal as far as I'm concerned.
“I’m amused,” I say as I stand. I’m not amused by much these days. “This has been… entertaining.” I look at the Consettis and holster my gun, ready to leave this place behind for a while. “Get this dirt out of here and clean up. Make sure Mama’s all right.” I glance at Quinn. “That bad?” I ask, nodding at his shoulder.
“No. A few stitches should do it.”
I pull out my phone to call Daniel Redman. “You’re a dick, Cane.” A dick who's going to meet my personal doctor.
“So I’ve been told.”
I snort and open the door, wondering what the hell this family is gonna bring into my world. Death presumably, and violence I haven’t been part of for a while. I smirk and button my coat, one last breath taking in the sweet smell of Mama’s place behind me. These are the types of streets where the Canes still live their lives, in their own city at least. They show their power in those back alleys and dirty corners. And for now, regardless of this being my New York, I’m happy to be indulging the same kinds of thoughts.
Six
Benjamin has spent the last couple of days out of the apartment, working with the brothers. Since the first night and the shopping trip there has been little chance to associate with anyone related to the Canes, and that is both a blessing and a curse.
On any other day, Benjamin being distracted with business wouldn’t be a problem. I’ve grown accustomed to my routine, my boundaries and where I sit within his world. But now I’ve tasted my goal, and it’s made me restless. It’s stirred unwanted memories and reminders about why I am here and what my life has been building to these last eight years.
“Where’s Hope?”
I hear voices drift through the lobby into the living area, Torino’s voice alongside his. Benjamin’s bark forewarns me of the mood he’ll be in when he reaches me. Twelve strides through the entrance and he’s standing before me. The air charges as soon as he enters, as if he’s emitting his own energy force. Power circles him, and it’s intoxicating.
Part of my role is to anticipate everything he might need or want, and I know enough about him to know that he needs me now. He needs to show his power—take it back—in the one way he can count on.
The gentle click of a door tells me that the apartment has cleared. One look at his brooding face tells me that whatever Benjamin has planned, neither of us will want an audience.
I stand my ground, waiting for him to make his move. He peels back his suit jacket to leave him in a crisp white shirt under his tailored vest. The ink on his forearms ripples as he rolls up his sleeves, revealing more and more black and grey. The tattoos fascinated me to begin with. I’d lie in bed and study them when Benjamin was sleeping. The intricacy of the needlework is incredible. Every time I looked at him, I’d find another part of his masterpiece to wonder at. Now, when I look at them, I see them as a part of who Benjamin Vico is—his history, his story. They help craft the character he is. Of course, many people don’t see the beauty I see. All they focus on is the power that he holds in his hands, but they don't see under his clothes like I do. They don't see the art beneath the armor.
The slap that knocks my gaze causes an explosion of pain across my cheek, waking me sharply from my introspection. I should have known better. I take a second to compose myself and bring my stare back to him.
“That’s better. Eyes on me.”
He hooks his finger over the neckline of my shirt and pulls me towards him. My feet carry me forward, careful not to lose my balance and fall. His playfulness is short-lived as his grip on my top turns and he tears the fabric from my body. My breathing quickens, but I force myself to remain calm. It’s an unusual feeling, being turned on by his sheer dominance over me yet scared to think what’s coming next.
One of the first times he brought me back to this apartment, I made the sorry mistake of flinching and backing away. I’d worked so hard to get his attention without him realising, and playing hard to get, that when it came down to it, he intimidated me more than I wanted to admit. He ended up chasing me down, like a lion running down its prey. He was vicious and all consuming, and I’d never orgasmed so hard in my life. Now I’ve learned. I anticipate and hold firm, standing up to him because I know I can take whatever he gives out.
My nipples pebble beneath the sheer fabric under his gaze as he stands and watches. His scrutiny is intense, but it builds the excitement inside me, the same type I thought I could dismiss so easily when we first met. He strikes, bending to take my nipple into his mouth, his teeth closing around the tip. The little hiss of protest I let out only goads him on. He
needs that from me, enjoys the sound of my pain.
As he continues to bite at my chest, his hand slides up my leg, and I know my panties will be in ruins when he gets his fingers on them. He yanks at the material, tearing them from my body, and then sinks his fingers so deeply inside of me that I gasp from the impact.
“Your cunt is so fucking hot,” he growls, getting up close to my skin. “Bend over and give me your ass.”
I spin around and lean on the arm of the leather sectional, planting my hands firmly to get ready for what's coming. He drags my skirt up, tearing at the lining as he forces it over my hips. My lungs heave air in, almost as desperate as he feels, while my body vibrates with a need burning slowly in the pit of my stomach.
His tongue slides along my spine, teeth nipping on the way back down to remind me who he is.
“Such slender legs,” he mutters between bites, his hands roaming up my thighs. “Perfect in those fuck-me heels.” I close my eyes to his words, trying to keep my balance against his weight on me. “Do you like knowing that every man you walk past is thinking of these heels digging into their back?”
“No, Benjamin.”
“They all want their dicks in your pussy, Hope. They want you screaming under them, your heels against their skin.”
The slide of his tongue continues, his fingers reaching higher and higher up my thighs. “Tell me why you wear them.”
“For you,” I groan out, willing his hands higher. “You like me in heels. Everything's for you.”
He stills and backs away from me, all contact removed.
I don’t turn around. I wait, desperate for the contact he’s promising. He won't be pushed. Never. It's me who waits, me who begs. Me who endures.
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