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5

SAbrINA

T he acoustics in this old tenement building are something else. As I lie here and blink at the dark ceiling, my ears pick up a concert of creaks and distant echoes. I can almost imagine I’m ensconced within some ancient, haunted mansion. This fantasy would feel more realistic if the plaintive wail of city sirens would stop getting in the way.

Plus there’s the racket of Nico and Livy screwing each other’s brains out in the other bedroom. That really distracts from the haunted vibe.

Anyway, I have other reasons to feel keyed up. For one thing, the bed I’m currently lying in belongs to Monte Castelli.

I didn’t ask him to give me his bed.

I didn’t expect him to give me his bed.

But he insisted on giving me his bed.

Monte acted like any other option would be taken as an insult and I couldn’t very well argue with him. After all, he picked me up at the airport. He bought me tampons and gum and chocolate. He even bought a couple of t-shirts and a comfortable pair of shorts so I’d have something to sleep in tonight. I didn’t even think of this but he did.

The least I can do is behave like a gracious visitor and sleep where he wants me to sleep.

Earlier, I tried to awkwardly express my gratitude but Monte merely nodded and didn’t look up while rummaging through his narrow dresser. He extracted a few items while I sat on his bed in my New York tourist pajamas and waited.

Monte left the room in a hurry after muttering, “Go to sleep,” in a rather terse, borderline rude way. He shut the door behind him without another word.

Before today, if I’d been forced to guess where Monte Castelli sleeps, I would have described an unmade bed in a dim cave that’s littered with empty beer bottles and random gun bullets while naked women leer from the wall posters.

Wrong on all counts.

Monte is a neat freak. Or at least he’s far closer to a neat freak than I am. His bed was tightly made with military precision, the lone piece of clutter was a rumpled shirt that he promptly dumped into a closet hamper and the only wall art is a giant map of the five boroughs.

I’ve already made the mistake of inhaling when my cheek was pressed to his pillowcase. The jarring hint of his cologne affected me in a way I’m not proud of. I flashed back to the way my legs wrapped around his waist during the airport piggyback ride and felt a deep tug in my lower belly with a rush of heat. Then I pictured the impressive flex of his forearm muscles as he steered the car to Manhattan and I needed to roll away from the Monte-scented pillow before I used it for something unspeakable.

Thoughts about Monte’s body might be avoidable if I wasn’t lying in his bed. Monte is the same brash, sarcastic, arrogant guy that he always was. I’m never sure where I stand with him. After most of our banter sessions I’m stuck with the unpleasant feeling that he has somehow gained the upper hand.

After the fact, I always think of better retorts that would knock him on his heels but by then it’s too late. All I can do is brood over what I should have said. Most of all, it really is an injustice how he just gets hotter all the time.

A second injustice is that my favorite vibrator is at the bottom of a suitcase currently being held hostage at the airport. I’m horny enough to use it no matter where I am. There’s no doubt an epic orgasm would help chase away the lingering menstrual cramps and help with my sleep problem.

As I kick off the puffy comforter, the air conditioner lodged in the room’s single window shudders on and then starts puffing out cool air. This room might be quite uncomfortable without it. Summer nights in the city tend to be sticky and humid.

No matter how I try to breathe deeply and summon serenity, my mind still races. All the images from the long day keep replaying and smacking into each other. Monte stars in too many of them.

There’s really little point in staring at the ceiling with nothing but my turmoil and sexual frustration to keep me occupied. Lately I’ve grown fond of card tricks. The tactile feel of the cards has an old fashioned charm that’s been lost in the digital world. Shuffling them in my hands is always a pleasant way to spend some nervous energy. Maybe that’s what I need right now to stop feeling so edgy.

Monte surprised me when he fulfilled my entire shopping wish list. I knew I was pushing my luck. I always do. Yet I can’t seem to help myself when it comes to him. Maybe I should make more of an effort to overcome this character flaw. Otherwise, I’m likely to end up alone with my vibrator forever.

The shopping bag with the playing cards was left somewhere on the floor. My fingers feel around on the nightstand for the small table lamp but I can’t seem to find a switch or a string to turn it on so I grab my phone and press the flashlight feature.

The small pool of light turns Monte’s room into an eerie cavern. Somewhere on the street below, another siren screams past and then fades. In the next room, Livy yells “You’re the king! Fuck yeah!” Each syllable syncs with a thud to the wall.

Now I can see the shopping bag. It’s sitting on the floor on the far side of the nightstand. I’m sure I can reach it without leaving the bed.

My arm stretches. My fingertips graze the plastic bag handle.

And gravity once again proves to be my lifelong enemy as I topple right out of Monte’s bed and land on the floor. My ear piercing scream is involuntary. Regrettably, it attracts some attention.

The sounds of energetic sex screech to a halt. Footsteps come thundering. The door is thrown open and light from the hallway floods the room.

A Greek God stands in the doorway.

No, an Italian God.

One that’s easily six-foot-two with gladiator shoulders and wearing only a pair of shorts as a gun dangles from his right hand.

“Sabrina!” growls God in the voice of Monte Castelli. He crosses the room in three long strides and crouches beside me as I sit on the floor in a daze with his pillow in my lap.

“I’m fine,” I tell him.

I really am. The bed sits low to the floor and I didn’t have far to fall. All my limbs are still connected. No harm done.

Monte switches on the table lamp. He must have just had a shower. Pieces of damp black hair fall over his forehead. His gold chain is still around his neck. The fact that I find this deeply interesting probably has something to do with the way the gold cross contrasts with the impeccably defined muscles of his chest.

“What happened?” A breathless Nico now crowds the doorway. He holds a pillow over his crotch but is otherwise naked.

“What happened?” An equally breathless Livy echoes as she joins her lover. She’s toga-wrapped in a bedsheet.

“Nothing!” I wave my arm in the air. “I’m just an idiot. Everyone go back to what you were doing and pretend I’m not here.”

Monte stares at me, shakes his head, and finally sets his gun down on the table before extending an oversized paw of a hand. “Up you go,” he says in the tone one might use with a five-year-old.

“This is no big deal,” I mutter, although when I jump to my feet too much weight lands on my bad ankle and I wince.

Monte raises an eyebrow and straightens up. Then he notices his brother remains in the doorway with nothing but a striped pillowcase coming between us and the view of Nico’s dick.

“Would you get outta here?” Monte barks. “Nobody wants to see that shit.”

“Sorry,” Nico says sheepishly and starts to edge out of the doorway.

Livy giggles and wraps her arms around his neck. Her toga sheet slips.

“And keep the volume down,” Monte says. “They can hear you in Jersey.”

Nico rolls his eyes. “Look who’s talking. As if you haven’t done ten times worse when-”

His voice abruptly cuts off. The murderous look from his brother probably has something to do with the way he loses his train of thought.

That’s too bad. I was actually interested in hearing whatever story he was about to share.

“I’m really sorry for the interruption,” I say. “Feel free to carry on, you guys.”

This seems like an appropriate sendoff to encourage orgasms. Livy smiles and pulls Nico back into his bedroom.

Funny thing about Nico Castelli. He’s every bit as good looking and fiercely ripped as his big brother. And we’ve always been on very friendly terms. All in all, I’m sure I’ve exchanged far more pleasant words with him than with Monte. Nico never makes me want to scream with frustration or brood over prospective comebacks.

So why did I recoil and avert my eyes when Nico stood there with only his pillow shield while I struggled to contain my drool over the sight of his brother’s bare chest?

Don’t know. It’s a mystery.

But now I’m left all alone with Monte and he’s giving me one of his classic ‘Why are you so fucking weird?’ looks that make me feel as tall as a bug.

I’m glad I kept my bra on beneath this I Love New York tee. I don’t usually sleep in a bra. But this late night encounter might be even more awkward if my tingling, erect nipples were on display.

Speaking of erect things…

DON’T LOOK DON’T LOOK DON’T LOOK!

It’s no use. I’ve done it anyway. I’ve looked.

My eyes (TRAITORS!) conduct a full scale sweep down Monte’s broad chest and stray lower. Either he’s stuffed a pair of socks down his shorts or something else is going on there. If those shorts would just spontaneously slide down about three inches I’d have the answer.

“Hey.” Monte snaps his fingers in front of my face. “Are you finished turning cartwheels in the dark or what?”

“I wasn’t turning cartwheels.” I move past him, snatch the shopping bag off the floor and extract the deck of playing cards. “But I apologize for disturbing the entire household. Why were you running in here with a gun? Did you think I was being attacked by the air conditioner?”

He swipes the gun off the table. “Habit. You scream. I get a gun.”

Next door, good times have resumed. Bedsprings creak. Livy’s voice moans, “Oh yeah, just like that. You really are the king.”

She should try to be more creative with her dirty talk. She keeps repeating herself.

Monte walks over to the adjoining wall and bangs on it with his fist. Livy must be arriving at a pivotal moment. The moaning simply grows louder.

“Where the hell are you going?” Monte says when he sees that I’m leaving the room.

“I’m thirsty and I want a glass of water. Am I allowed?”

He follows me down the hall to the tiny kitchen. I’m hyper aware that my ass says BIG APPLE BOOTY. This is not ideal.

Once I reach the kitchen I’m stuck because I have no idea where the glasses are kept or if any exist. For all I know, two strapping single brothers have no use for regular drinking glasses.

Monte opens the cabinet above the sink and pulls out a tall glass. He turns on the faucet and watches the water fill to the brim.

“Tap water?” I say and then realize I sound like a snob.

“Won’t kill you.” He drinks half the water to prove it before refilling and handing the glass over.

I get a pathetic thrill out of touching my lips to a glass that he just drank from. Monte leans his hip against the sink and crosses his arms over his chest. As I slowly sip the water, I watch him over the glass rim. There’s a faraway look in his eyes as he stares in the direction of the tall window that opens to the fire escape.

Monte hasn’t undergone any kind of metamorphosis over the past year. He’s essentially the same. And yet as I recall the grim set of his jaw when I asked about the bruise on his face, I can’t deny that the danger always smoldering within him is closer to the surface now. It doesn’t take much imagination to picture him among the brutal men who populated the world I was born to.

In theory, I despise the mafia. It’s a life of blood and vengeance with a steep body count. I’m deeply relieved both of my sisters have managed to extricate themselves. Daisy is married to a cheerful hamburger chef who has probably never held a gun. And although Annalisa’s marriage began as a mafia alliance, she and Luca are among the few who have successfully made an exit.

But as I stand here beside a man whose strong hands have surely committed violent acts that would make me shudder, I’m turned on anyway. Unpacking this will take some work.

I spill out the remaining water in the sink and set the empty glass on the counter. “Do you have anything stronger?”

His eyes cut back to me. “There’s some Coke in the fridge. Help yourself.”

“Caffeine is the last thing I need right now. I’m already having trouble sleeping.”

Monte snorts. “Maybe you shouldn’t have devoured so much chocolate today.”

“I devoured the proper amount of chocolate.”

“Proper for what, a Christmas elf?”

“Why do you have to be so contrary? Are you willing to share your alcohol stockpile or not?”

“I’m fresh out of box wine and mimosas. I doubt you could tolerate anything stronger.”

“As if you’ve ever been an expert on my tolerance levels.”

Monte shrewdly rakes his eyes over me before foraging in another cabinet. He unscrews a large rectangular bottle. “A friend of my dad’s owns a whiskey distillery in Tennessee. The guy sent a whole case of this shit a few months back. I don’t want to hear any complaints when it burns your tits off.”

“Charming turn of phrase,” I mutter as he tips the bottle back and takes a swallow.

He grimaces, wipes his mouth and offers the bottle. The gleam of a challenge flares in his eyes. Stubbornness wins over common sense. I copy his barbarian move and drink straight from the bottle.

The heat of a thousand suns explodes in my mouth. Volcanic lava sears my throat. My eyes sting with tears and the bottle starts to slip from my fingers.

Luckily, Monte has the reflexes of a cheetah and plucks the bottle from my grip before I drop it on the floor.

And he’s laughing now.

I’m standing here gagging and gasping as the flesh peels off my throat and he’s cackling up a storm like he’s sitting in the front row at a comedy club.

Just when I’m about to hoarsely call him an asshole, Monte makes a faint attempt at redemption. With a tiny gesture of chivalry, he refills the water glass and hands it over.

I’ve never drunk a glass of water so fast. I need to catch my breath when I’m finished but at least the fire in my throat has subsided and I don’t want to die anymore.

“Warned you,” he says with a smug look.

“You didn’t win,” I croak. I need to clear my tortured throat before I can choke out another word. “My tits are still intact.”

“There’s nothing to win, Sabrina. Why are you so game-obsessed?”

“I don’t know. Why are you so sex-obsessed?”

He rolls his eyes. “As if you don’t blurt out sex references ten times more than I do.”

“That’s a complete exaggeration,” I object.

But inwardly, I’m cringing.

My hangups with intimacy aren’t prime conversation fodder. Especially not with a guy as absurdly hot as Monte.

Besides, he’s not wrong.

Sex fascinates me. I’m guilty of letting this obsession creep into conversation around people I’m comfortable with. I really really wish I knew how to enjoy sex outside of my daydreams but I don’t. I’ve tried. Always a failure.

However, this is definitely not a slice of life tidbit I’m interested in sharing with Monte Castelli. Good lord, the mocking would be merciless.

Monte ends the discussion by looking away. Maybe he senses that he’s touched a nerve. I’m grateful he’s chosen not to push. In spite of a few mild verbal spats, he’s been really cool since I called him from the airport this afternoon.

“I’ll answer your question,” I say. “But I’ve earned the right to sit down.”

A crinkle of surprise carves itself between his brows. “The couch is open.”

On the short walk to the living room couch, I pull the playing cards from the box. The weight of them in my hands is reassuring as I take a seat and curl my legs underneath me.

Monte sinks down on the opposite end. The couch creaks under his weight. He’s less confused now. Simply curious.

With intuitive precision, I start an overhand shuffle of the cards in my hands. “My childhood home wasn’t exactly a delightful place. My father treated my mother like dirt. He resented her for giving him daughters instead of sons and he resented the three of us girls even more. There were always men from my father’s entourage hanging around and the mood was constantly tense and troubled, as if something horrible would happen any minute.”

When I take a break to split the deck in half and shuffle them riffle-style in my lap, Monte simply waits. His dark eyes stay patiently trained on me until I finish tucking the cards neatly together.

“You know how close I am to my sisters. Anni and Daisy are everything to me. I have my sisters to thank for the fact that I wasn’t miserable and never felt unloved. But Anni had her competitive ice skating and she was fiercely independent. Meanwhile, Daisy was everyone’s favorite with a million friends. And that’s where the three of us have always stood. Daisy is the sweet, beautiful sister. Anni is the strong, talented sister. I’m just kind of the geeky, big-breasted sidekick who got stuck with the genetic leftovers. But I am good at games. Life doesn’t come with a set of rules. But games do. The gaming world is the one place where I know how to win.”

I fan the cards out in my hands, push them back together, cut the deck in half, shuffle with impressive speed, and then perfectly fan the deck out across the narrow coffee table. I’m pleased with my work.

“Pick one,” I say to Monte.

He eyes the cards. “What for?”

“Quick hand of Blackjack.”

“No thanks.” He yawns. “Not a fan of games.”

“Fine.” I flip over a card in the middle of the pack.

King of Hearts. If the next card is an Ace, the hand is a Blackjack. Sort of. Some people might insist that it doesn’t count if you’re just playing by yourself. No one to beat.

I flip over another card anyway.

Monte grunts at the sight of the card. “Nine of Spades. Even I know what that means.”

The death card.

My superstitious streak doesn’t run deep but it does exist. Particularly right now, when drawing the death card reminds me of the old woman who used to wander into the villa’s gardens sometimes.

One day Mama pitied her and invited her inside for a bowl of caponata. The woman spread out a pack of battered cards on the table and offered to tell my fortune.

Her whole fortune telling nonsense was a gimmick for sure. She was known to hang around the town square in search of tourists to scam. Still, I was curious and asked her to read my cards.

“There is love in your future. But the King of Hearts is no stranger to death.”

Mama disliked translating the woman’s words and became annoyed. Soon after, she shooed the old woman out the door and muttered about con artists.

There is no magic. Whether they’re being unveiled in a three hundred year old Sicilian villa or in Monte Castelli’s living room, cards are simply pieces of paper. And the woman’s words were just words. Fortune telling is only a game.

Still, a vague shiver runs the length of my spine as I flip the cards facedown and collect them all in my palm. “Where’s your mother, Monte? I know she’s alive. Nico has mentioned her. But you never do.”

He takes his time about answering, which is not typical for him. “She and my dad had a rocky marriage for as long as I can remember. They stuck it out until Nico graduated from high school. Then she moved to Seattle. Her sister joined her last year. She and I never really saw eye to eye and we don’t talk much. It’s just me and Nico and our dad.”

“You must miss your grandfather. I met him once. Gino seemed like a really nice man. Sal is just like him.”

Monte glances down at his chest. Among the patchwork of tattoos is a small word. ‘GINO’S’ is written in spidery script on the left side just below his heart.

“And I’m nothing like either of them,” he says but laughs off the fact. He makes a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Lots of Castelli history in these walls. My grandfather lived here most of his life. When he got too sick it was better for him to go live at my Dad’s house in Queens. But he was really happy to pass the place down to me and Nico.” He drums his fingers on his knee. “How’d you like to hear a piece of Lower East Side tenement history?”

“Absolutely.”

“Back when this building was new, an apartment would have been half this size. Families were big and they had to take in boarders to make ends meet. As many as a dozen people would have been all crammed into a place far smaller than this.”

“That is difficult to imagine.” I like this side of him. Candid and relaxed. It’s a pleasant, and likely fleeting, change from our usual fiery banter.

Monte leans into the couch and lets his head roll back. He absently adjusts the chain around his neck and stares up at the ceiling. “The Tenement Museum is just down the street if you want to check it out.”

“Maybe I will.” I scrape my bottom lip with my teeth and adjust my position on the couch. “Monte, can I tell you something that’s been bothering me?”

His head slowly turns in this direction and another loose piece of hair flops over his forehead. He still hasn’t shaved. He only wears a pair of loose black shorts. I couldn’t possibly conjure up a sexier picture than the one in front of me.

There’s a trace of wariness in the way his jaw flexes before he says, “If you want to.”

“I’m sorry about what I said that day in Luca’s car. I lied. I didn’t really look at your picture.”

“I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

Damn, I was really hoping I wouldn’t need to get more explicit. No such luck.

I take a deep breath. “We were in Luca’s car on the way to the city,” I remind him. “You were in the backseat. I sort of implied I’d seen your dick pic. A girl in my game design glass was flashing it around, claiming it was forwarded from a friend of a friend. But when I heard your name I refused to look. It felt disrespectful. I mean, we are kind of like colleagues.”

“We’re not colleagues.”

“Then associates. Call it whatever you want. Nobody should have violated your privacy that way. Who’d you send the photo to originally?”

He blows out some laughter. “Fuck if I remember. I’m sure I got something in return.”

“How adorable. Can’t you just let me apologize?”

“No apology needed. I’m not bothered if you saw a picture of my dick a year ago.”

“But I didn’t see a picture of your dick. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

“All right.” He shrugs. “Your loss.”

This conversation is rapidly becoming ridiculous. “I didn’t say I wished I could see it.”

“Good, because I’m not making you an offer.”

This guy. He simply cannot resist the opportunity to have the last word. I regret saying anything. I’m slightly tempted to throw the deck of playing cards at his head but the idea is impractical. They’d just fly all over the place and probably wouldn’t even hit him.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t have looked at my naked photo either,” I say.

His eyes slowly drag over to my face. The flicker of heat within their dark depths halts my breath. He hasn’t moved from his side of the couch and yet it feels like he’s drawing closer, inch by inch. “Are you really sure of that, Sabrina?”

When his voice turns to molten lust, I’m sure of nothing. The vibe shift between us crackles with risk and my heart slams against the wall of my chest.

Monte awaits my reaction with a smirk of amusement. He’s a liar when he claims he’s no fan of games. He’s playing one right now.

This is destined to be one of those moments when I’ll think of a proper retort three hours later. At present, my mind is vacant and my pulse is racing.

The hour is late and I’m on his territory. If he’s simply trying to get under my skin, he’s succeeded. If he wants to make it clear that he calls the shots, we’ll see about that.

“Yes.” I raise my chin and hold his gaze. “I’m sure, Monte. You wouldn’t have disrespected me that way.”

His silence is unnerving as I set the cards down on the table, right beside his gun, before rising from the couch. It’s a small miracle that I’m not trembling.

There’s nothing new about receiving a pointed stare or a suggestive remark from a man. Just not from him. I don’t even believe he was trying to flirt. I think he sensed he had the option to rattle me and he took it.

“I’m tired,” I say. “Think I’ll give sleep another try.”

“You do that.” Monte reaches for a throw blanket draped over an armchair. “Let’s hope this next effort sticks. Being your hero today has worn me out.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to hotly deny that Monte is any way my ‘hero’. But he did run to the airport to liberate me from cyberattack Armageddon. He meticulously shopped for every item I requested. He brought me home. He gave me his room. He charged in there with his gun when he heard me shriek.

What more could I possibly expect?

“Good night, Monte Carlo.”

“Good night, Gamer Girl.”

I’ll never know if he watches me walk away. I don’t turn around again as I retreat to his bedroom. When I swiftly close the door and lean against the wood, my sigh is a mixture of relief and confusion. This time I flip the lock.

Nico and Livy must have finally exhausted themselves. Aside from a faint giggle, the neighboring room is quiet.

It’s impossible to climb into Monte’s bed again without picturing the contours of his strong body. This bed is where he stretches out, where he sleeps. This bed is also where he fucks.

That last thought is jarring. It’s a virtual certainty that he’s brought girls back here. And when that happens, I’m sure he doesn’t stay on the couch with a throw blanket.

The sudden weight in my chest feels suspiciously like jealousy. I switch the lamp off, hug his pillow tightly, and blink at the darkness as I wonder about these other girls. If they’re pretty. If he likes them. If they yell with ecstasy like Livy when he makes them come.

I bet they do. After all, I listen to gossip. Monte has skills.

There I go again with my filthy mind. I blame the separation anxiety from my favorite vibrator.

My arms tighten around Monte’s pillow. It’s one of those real feather pillows with a solid heft to it. I breathe deeply, guiltily. I’d rather run topless down Fifth Avenue than ever admit that I’m deeply aroused by Monte’s pillow.

Shame burns my cheeks. Or maybe it’s desire. Whatever the case, I roll over and push the pillow between my legs, pretending it’s not a pillow. I pretend it’s Monte I’m straddling, his hard body that I’m grinding on amid the rise of the hot ache that promises to crest higher and higher. I mash my lips together to stifle the moans trying to escape.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t have looked at my naked photo either.”

“Are you really sure of that, Sabrina?”

Thanks to the piggyback ride, I already know how it feels to wrap my legs around him. Exciting. Powerful. Overwhelming.

When it comes to getting myself off, I could beat any world record. I move my hips and my hand dives between my legs to apply pressure to the throbbing sweet spot. My muscles tighten. The crescendo builds and builds some more. All thoughts are blotted out. The wave crashes and carries me away. When I hear myself moan out loud, I clap a hand over my mouth and finish riding out the tremors in quivering silence.

Spent and satisfied, I sink to the mattress, feeling both glorious and depraved.

After all, I’ve just fucked someone else’s pillow.

It’s possible I’m the sickest person inhabiting the Lower East Side tonight.

But I’ll choose to look on the bright side. At least I’m tired enough to sleep now.