Page 49

I didn’t know if he had slowed, or if this moment was so significant I was experiencing it in slow motion, but it quieted, the sound of my ragged breaths filling the alley. A slight breeze made its way through the sliver of space between us, making me aware of how hot I was. I’d never felt warmer in my life.

He pressed closer against me, his jacket brushing my arms, his watch cold on the smooth skin of my inner thigh. One hand was braced on the wall beside my head, trapping me, but what he didn’t know was that I didn’t want out.

Once he’d touched bare skin, his gaze hardened, before flicking down as if in reluctance. The empty ache between my legs pulsed. I couldn’t help but to part my thighs, to imagine him slipping a hand between them. Cupping me over my thong. Pulling it to the side and pushing a finger inside of me. My palms lay flat on the cold, concrete wall on each side of me, and a buzz sounded in my ears.

His jaw tightened, and his fingers gripped the inside of my thigh. Sparks ran from the heat of his hand straight to my clit, all my blood drumming in that area. He’d only have to run a palm across the fabric to realize how disturbed I was, how wet this was making me. How much I wanted him.

But he didn’t do any of that.

He only grabbed his phone.

His thumb brushed over the thin string of my thong on my hip, pulling it down a bit before his hands left me. As my dress fell to brush the asphalt, his voice was rough against my ear.

“You already know the answer.”

He stepped back and tilted his head toward the door, in a way of telling me to get there, now.

Too breathless to do anything else, I headed in its direction, a whisper of an ache trailing behind.

“No one will ever kill me, they wouldn’t dare.”

—Carmine Galante

THERE WAS NO BETTER PLACE for me than at the heart of the Cosa Nostra. Like the last piece of a puzzle, my existence was a perfect fit.

No matter if I were a lawyer’s son, a doctor’s, or a janitor’s, I would have found my way on the wrong side of the law doing the one thing I loved to do: hustling.

I was Antonio Russo’s son, no one else’s, and for that reason I was damn good at what I did. My papà used to have a saying: Non ha il dolce a caro, chi provato non ha l’amaro. It was a way of telling me there was no room for regrets in this world, that a man had to taste the bitter before he could taste the sweet.

I’d heard it when I was seven, as I looked at the first dead man I’d ever seen: eyes open, blood pooling on the warehouse floor.

In my profession, regrets were easy to come by. They piled up, each one weakening a man’s resolve. I didn’t regret much, and up until recently I had only one that followed me around. I regretted fucking Gianna while she was still married to my father. Most recently, and more so than even that, I regretted signing the contract for Adriana.

I wanted her sister.

In my bed.

Against the wall.

On her knees.

I’d involuntarily gone over what it would take to get out of the contract, knew exactly what I would do. My family was known for breaking agreements—it was what got my papà killed, in fact. Not the best incentive, but I didn’t fear the Abellis. Didn’t fear anything at all, honestly, which would probably be the cause of my eventual demise.

I wanted Elena Abelli, and starting a feud just so I could have her was beginning to sound less and less like a bad idea every time she was near. But I wasn’t going to go through with the twisted plan my mind had created.

I wanted to fuck her.

I didn’t want to marry her.

My wife was only supposed to be a woman I could respect and who’d have my children. Not one I was so fascinated with I couldn’t think straight. In this life, I couldn’t afford the distraction. Didn’t want the attachment. And she’d fucked with my head already.

Though, as regrettable as it was, I couldn’t help but to be interested in everything that came out of the girl’s mouth. It was getting to the point she couldn’t make a move without my notice, no matter how much I tried to stop myself.

I didn’t know why she spoke so freely and obstinatel

y with me, though it was probably because she now considered me to be a fucking brother. If only she knew that when she talked back to me, I wanted to cover her mouth with my palm, back her up against a wall, and then watch the shock in her soft brown eyes as I slid my hand beneath that tiny pink thong she was wearing. Fucking pink. For some reason when I saw that, my control shook hard.

If I’d started, I wouldn’t have stopped.