Page 27 of His Wicked Wants (West Coast Mobsters #6)

CHAPTER 24

GAbrIEL

I sleep solidly and dreamlessly but I wake early, and that’s when my mind starts replaying the night before. Nero Andretti’s thick, hard cock in my mouth, stretching my lips to their limit. The smell of him. The sight of him. The humiliatingly desperate need I had for him to treat me badly, to degrade me.

Even the way he halfheartedly tried to throw me out afterward, like I hadn’t seen the tenderness in his face when I first took him into my mouth.

All in all, last night with Nero was…hot. Sexy as hell, actually, in a way that reached into something primal within me. But weird, because I’ve never done anything like that before—and also annoying, because I’m over the hot and cold treatment I get from him.

I’m wide awake now, hard in my pajama pants, even leaking a damp spot through the thin cotton. I can’t stop thinking about how it felt to be forced to lick up my own cum from those leather shoes…

It should have been humiliating. It was humiliating. So why does it make me breathe harder just to think about it again? Why am I reaching down to squeeze myself through my cotton pants, why am I giving in and spitting into my hand before stuffing it under the waistband, gripping myself with slick fingers and thinking about Nero Andretti commanding me, Clean off that mess you made, every drop , the taste of the leather so unexpectedly bitter that it made my cum taste sweet?—

And why, as I soak my pajama pants with a long groan, am I wishing I could do it again?

Seconds later, my phone buzzes, and I reach over with my non-sticky hand, worried at such an early text. It’s from a number unknown to me, and it’s just a single image attachment, a medical report…

An STD report.

Everything on it is listed as negative, which is the first thing I check from sheer habit—and then I look at the patient name, confirming what I already suspect: Nero Andretti has sent me what seems to be his most recent STD screening.

We did get carried away last night. Fell into things without discussion. It’s been a while since I’ve been with anyone, but I’m on PrEP and my latest tests—which I photograph and send back—were all negative, too. So this gesture from Nero feels oddly considerate, an attempt to make me feel safer with him.

He’s dangerous. But he’s careful enough to think about consequences when it comes to me. With my heart beating faster than normal, I head for the shower, eager to see him again.

The sun is peeking over the rise, silhouetting those trees that Nero just can’t abide for some reason, as I head out to do my early morning rounds. Not much changes on the estate day to day, but I like to keep an eye on the projects that Julian has tasked me with. So I visit the maze, the redwood grove, the pool area—silent and cool at this time of the morning—and end up at the manor house with only a few minutes to spare.

Nero is already waiting there for me. His eyes are hidden behind sunglasses although the sunshine is still weak, and he wears a soft white cashmere sweater over dark blue jeans, and heavy work boots—so unlike the smooth Italian leather of his shoes last night…

He sees me looking at them and smirks, and I know I must be flushing. “Good morning, Mr. Carstairs,” he drawls, for the benefit of the house guards, I assume.

“Mr. Andretti. Good morning.”

“We could take my car,” he says. “The guards have done a spectacular job detailing it.” Behind him, one of the guards rolls his eyes, and I have to look away quickly before I laugh. “But it will be very conspicuous, of course.”

“Let’s take mine,” I tell him. “No one will notice it.”

And with that, we head over to the garage, where my humble Ford has been taken out to the front as I requested last night, ready for me to drive out.

Nero puts the seat back so he can lounge with an arm behind his head, and I can see he’s closed his eyes under the shades. “How did you sleep?” I ask, once we’ve gotten out of the gate and are on the way.

“We don’t have to have small talk just because I came in your mouth last night,” he sighs.

Stung, I ask, “Is that why you texted your results this morning? So we wouldn’t have to discuss them?” He gives no response. And just like that, I’m back to being infuriated with Nero Andretti. “My car, my rules,” I snap. “And my rule is, we make conversation.”

“Then talk. No one is stopping you.”

“Okay. Then I’ll tell you about the community garden. Yvonne started running it two or three years ago, and when I came in, I was able to use my skills to expand the crop space and double the yield—triple, in some cases?—”

“You’re very chatty for a man whose tongue was cleaning my shoes last night,” he says, as though that would be likely to shut me up. “But perhaps you liked it?”

“Perhaps I did,” I shoot back.

I mean, the truth is, yeah, maybe I did. I got off on the memory of it way harder than I expected this morning. But I’ll be damned if I let this asshole kink shame me. “Do you do that with all your dates? Get them to shine your shoes?” I hope it sounds cynical, but the truth is, I’m actually interested.

He’s silent for a moment, and I don’t dare break it. “There is something about you in particular, Gabriel Carstairs, that makes me want to humiliate you,” he says at last. “To degrade you—and to make you enjoy it. And so I like seeing you on your knees for me.”

“I wonder if that says more about you or me,” I say, but my voice is a little unsteady. “Why does everything have to be about power with you?”

“Because everything is about power, Gabriel. In your little world, it’s true too, isn’t it? The big plants overshadow the small, steal the sunlight.”

It’s an imperfect metaphor, but I understand his meaning all too well. “You had power in Italy, right?” I ask. “Why did you come here if you were so happy, so powerful?”

“I did not come willingly, little gardener. But I plan to make the best of it.”

“But—”

“Please,” he sighs. “You asked how my sleep was, and I will tell you—not good. I’m not used to such an early morning. So let me rest, if you want me to find in your favor regarding these herbs and vegetables.”

“Look, I just?—”

“We are not friends,” he says sharply.

“We are lovers,” I point out.

“We are not lovers, Gabriel. We shared a few moments together. They were very nice and you are a very devoted cocksucker. I am glad I sampled you. But now it’s done. Now for God’s sake, let me sleep.”

I bite my tongue, hard, because the instinct to argue is so strong. I want to pull over by the side of the road and really let him have it—but why bother? He’s just told me himself, hasn’t he?

He’s had me. And now he’s lost interest.

Unfortunately it seemed to work the other way around for me. I’ve had him, and now I’m desperate for more. But I won’t let this supercilious jerk have the satisfaction of seeing me pine for him.

In one last move of defiance, I turn on the stereo and turn it up, louder and louder, until I see him wince.

It’s some time later when I finally make the last turn into the area, and give Nero a nudge. Somehow, despite the Pogues playing at full volume, he managed to fall asleep—or is doing a great impression of it.

He looks around, his brows twitching together. “This is near the Los Angeles Port.”

“Kinda.” I point to the old abandoned buildings straight ahead. “This is where we enter for the growing spaces. The distribution building faces the other road over there—” I point. “—but it’s accessible from inside this way, too.”

But Nero looks troubled, his face only growing darker as I drive closer and park. “Come on,” I say, getting out.

He’s very cautious as he gets out of the car, looking around and up. He says something in Italian.

“What?”

“Too many sniper vantage points,” he repeats in English, pointing up at the tops of some of the Port cranes that can just be seen over the top of the building.

“I’m more worried about the Port Authority or the council shutting us down than someone taking out a hit on Yvonne or me,” I tell him.

He just shakes his head. I want to argue with him, but I confine myself to rolling my eyes, just like the house guard, as I turn to remove the padlock and chain from the door. “Better get inside before someone blows our brains out, I guess.”

He regards me with cool eyes as he brushes past me into the building. I should probably keep my mouth shut. No doubt he’s seen more than one man get shot in the head. I head after him, and watch with mingled pride and nerves as he takes it in.

The community garden growing area is held in a cavernous, half-finished building that was abandoned like so many construction projects from the last economic downturn. The sun filters through in some areas of the unfinished roofing but we also have a multitude of grow lamps that we salvaged from other garden centers around LA and the occasional marijuana outlet, too, that provide light where the sun doesn’t reach. Where the drywall should have been installed, we’ve built row upon row of vertical hydroponic shelving units. Pipes intended for plumbing have been repurposed to support climbing vines. Near the middle, in what would have been the building’s central atrium, we’ve set up several water tanks to collect rainwater, and they connect to a DIY irrigation system that waters the plants through a maze of PVC piping and drip lines.

“This is quite a business,” he says, prowling around.

“We hand out a thousand units a week,” I tell him proudly, but he just glares at me. “What, now you hate charity as well as trees?”

“If your charity could cause problems for the Family, then yes.”

“It won’t,” I say stubbornly.

We continue walking through to the second room, and once again, I see thunder rather than sunshine crossing his face. “You only wanted to come out here as a formality before you try to shut us down,” I say at last, stopping dead in one of the rows.

“I wouldn’t be trying to shut you down,” comes the casual rejoinder. “I would just do it.”

The extraordinary urge to tell him that he’s not the boss of me rises up, and I take a breath to calm myself. “Look, Yvonne already told me she’s willing to pay you protection money if that’s what this is. So congrats. You made a dollar. Just tell me what it will cost?—”

“It’s not about that.” He turns to me, serious and somber. “If I wanted a few grubby dollars from you people, I would have taken them the first night I walked in. I am telling you, Gabriel, that the situation in Los Angeles is more fraught than you know. If our enemies see you as a soft target?—”

“Then how do we not be a soft target?” I demand. “Because I’m not shutting this place down. If it’s so dangerous, I’ll…” I suck in a breath, because it hurts to say this, but I mean it. “I’ll quit. Remove all Castellani connections altogether. Let Yvonne find someone else to run things with her.”

“You don’t want to quit.”

“No. But if that’s what it takes?—”

He stalks toward me, a panther about to pounce, and I take an instinctive step back so that I’m pressed up against the wall. “It does not make you noble to sacrifice yourself,” he growls at me.

I just blink at him. His eyes are stormy, the caramel chips flinty. “I’m not sacrificing myself. I’m doing what’s necessary for?—”

“You are sacrificing yourself.” His hands come up to grip my biceps. “You think you would do anything for this place—a few tomato plants and a few zucchinis—don’t you see how stupid you’re being?”

“Don’t you understand why I have to?” I plead back. “Look, tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. Whatever you say.”

“Whatever I say?” His fingers tighten on my arms. “What if I wanted your mouth again? What if that was the price?”

“I…” I stare at him, wary now, wondering what point he’s trying to make. “You said you didn’t want me anymore.”

“And I don’t. But you still need to be taught a lesson, little gardener.”

Flushing, I tell him, “You want a blow job in return for protection? That’s pretty cheap work, Nero, considering your usual price. But I’d pay that, if you asked.”

“What if I want more? Your body?”

I think I’m as red as the tomato plants he just slandered. “I—if that’s what you?—”

He lets go of me abruptly and walks away with a huff of frustration. “Show me where you distribute these illegal goods.”

It takes me a second to collect myself, and then I set off for the next part of the building, with a “This way,” thrown over my shoulder.

The distribution center is set up almost like a grocery store in some parts and as a serving buffet in others. We’ve used freecycled metal shelving units to create organized aisles for canned and bottled goods, including tomato sauce, preserved fruits, and even a few jars of honey from Redwood. I see Nero pause by the homemade herbal tea blends and glance back at me. Mismatched wooden crates stacked against one wall hold root vegetables that can withstand room temperature. We harvest the more perishable items closer to distribution days, and they go in the buffet section in metal baths that can hold ice underneath to keep the produce fresh and crisp.

Nero’s incredulous expression has returned. “You must be protected by angels to have been distributing out of here for so long without attracting attention,” he says at last. “But angels won’t be much use when PacSyn or the Bernardi splinter group do take notice of you.”

He pulls out his phone and I grab at his wrist. “Don’t,” I plead.

With his other hand he seizes my wrist, harder and harder until I let my fingers unclench from his. “I would advise you not to touch me without permission. Now,” he goes on, letting my wrist drop, “what exactly do you think I’m about to do?”

“I think you’re calling your boys in to dismantle this place.”

I’d been so sure he’d be persuaded, once he saw it. Would understand how important it was. But I should have known. He told me himself, after all.

Nero Andretti is a bad man.

“I am calling my crew in,” he tells me. “But not to destroy your work. You said it yourself, this place feeds hundreds. That is good business.”

“You—what? Wait, we can’t start charging people for?—”

“I’m not suggesting you do,” he sighs. “Gabriel, with your sad green eyes, don’t you understand that there are more important things than money?”

“Don’t you? ” I retort.

“I need to speak to my people,” he says, turning away from me as he hits the call button. A few minutes later, after hushed discussion, he returns to me. “It is settled. My crew will watch over this place for you until I can speak to Sandro.”

“ Sandro? ” I echo wildly. “No, seriously, you can’t?—”

“I can do whatever I want,” he tells me. “Now let’s go.”

It’s the way he said it—so offhanded and so final, as though my wishes are of no consequence. I won’t put up with it. “No.” It’s low, stubborn, and there’s warning in the word.

But all it does is pique his interest. “No?” He laughs. “A moment ago you were willing to open up your ass for this place. Now I offer you protection—free of charge—and you try to refuse?”

“Because it’s not free of charge. The price is Castellani Family involvement. Do you think I don’t know what you plan to do? Recruit . You would use this place to recruit desperate kids who would see what you have and think they could have it, too. But it doesn’t work that way, Nero.”

“Of course it does. The strong take what they want. If these desperate children in your imagination are strong enough, they can grow up to seize whatever they like.”

I shake my head obstinately. “I’m not going to sell these kids to you. I’d rather shut this place down. And so would Yvonne.”

He studies me for a long moment. “Let’s go,” he says at last.

“I’m not going anywhere until you promise me?—”

“Enough,” he says sharply. “Don’t test me, Gabriel. You will not like the outcome. Now, move.” He grabs my arm and marches me with him back through the building, holding me tight as though I might run away at any second.

But if there’s one thing I’m not going to do, it’s leave Nero Andretti alone for a single second—no way I’m giving him a chance to take over this place and turn it into some recruitment center for the Castellani Family.