Page 23 of Runaway in the Mafia (The shadows of Cosa Nostra Chronicles #3)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

VITALE

I crossed the hall from the office to the kitchen to the faint smell of spices. Indian music seeped underneath the closed oak door and crawled across the textured walls of Antonio’s long hall.

But it took me opening the door and standing in the middle of their open kitchen to find the scenery had changed. Realisation sank in. This was what he had meant by an Indian themed day. Specifically, who would be present at said day.

The sight smashed into me and shot right into my chest.

Divya and Ahana were dancing to some Indian song dressed in sarees. Fuck me. Desire made my cock thicken. My breath hitched, and for a few seconds, I forgot to breathe.

Fucking nine yards of fabric, Antonio had once told me.

I’d seen Divya countless times in one of them and had thought it was pretty.

Pretty! What Ahana wore wasn’t pretty. She shimmered like a goddess.

All sultry and sexy. It was a fucking wet dream.

Sex served on a plate. It might have been coloured in a saffron yellow and draped like silk.

But Jesus, not a single man would think with the head north of his neck.

My hands plunged into my pockets and they clenched the inner silk tight, when they itched to wrap around her bare, naked waist and graze my tongue along the silk coating her skin.

“Oh, oh, this part,” Divya squealed, and they both started to whirl.

My feet moved without my permission. I came to a stop a breath away from her. She must have poured a gallon of that fucking frangipani scent on her, because that was all I could inhale. My vision edged with lust. Red. Hot. Fire.

Her eyes were closed, and a silly grin was plastered on her face.

In that moment, she looked innocent, like she’d shed the sadness she carried on her.

It only took her a few twirls before she sensed my presence.

A frown crossed her forehead. A second later, her eyes popped open, and she jerked to a stop.

Her brain hadn’t caught up. She stumbled and crashed into me. Silk. Sex. And frangipani .

It was fucking meant to be.

My hand gripped her naked waist, pinning her to me. It may have been rough, but she was fucking velvet beneath it. She froze. I inhaled. Her scent was intoxicating. Fucking scorched me. Deliriousness burned in me. Insanity pulsed between. And in that moment, I came to a decision.

Fuck it.

Fuck Mamma’s orders. Fuck Carlo’s genes. I was going to fuck her.

My body vibrated with my decision. She gasped and yanked back.

The front of her saree stuck to my chest. I followed her gaze, and my lips twisted.

Nonno. Divine intervention. I rarely wore a tiepin.

But something had made me reach for my grandfather’s tie pin in the morning.

It held on to yellow silk like a death grip, like the man himself had his hands fisted around it.

Her breathing was shaky. Uneven. Her breasts heaved in and out.

The air was electric. The sexual tension explosive.

“Oh.”

We both jerked our heads to Divya. I frowned.

“When did you come, Vitale?”

Not yet. “Just now.”

“And this happened how?” She nodded to Ahana’s hand on her saree, entangled in my pin.

“I fell,” she squealed, and I had to wipe my hand off my mouth to cover that grin. She was so fucking nervous.

Divya obviously thought so too. But she had manners, so she walked off to the counter to get a glass of water.

“Can you just remove your tie?” Her eyes were big. Pleading. I almost wanted to oblige her. Almost.

She sighed at my devilish silence and stepped closer.

Hands fumbling with Nonno’s precious tiepin.

She was making a mess of it. I let her. Small pieces of glittery stuff were on her saree, all gold and shimmery.

My shirt and coat were coated in it. I’d probably walk out of there like a fucking carnival.

She was perfect. Her height, custom-made for me. Her soft hands were on my ribcage for a second. I got one heartbeat to inhale her before she yanked it all off, leaving a trail of broken mirrored stuff on the pin and my suit.

“There.” Her relief was palpable.

“Such violence,” I rasped softly.

From across the kitchen, Divya was sipping the glass with a glint in her eyes.

“Antonio wants you.”

She put her glass on the counter. “I bet he does.” She walked out with an evil grin on her face.

Ahana backed off three steps, but in her hurry, she was uncoordinated. She stepped on her saree and toppled precariously. I didn’t have a choice other than to step in and pull her in.

Before I knew it, my nose was trailing her, skimming from her shoulder to her neck.

If a man could die from a scent, this would be it.

Heaven probably smelled like it. I’d inhaled, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to exhale.

When I finally did so right next to the hollow of her ear, goosebumps rode up her skin. “How did you get here?”

“Giuseppe,” her tone was all cracked and edgy.

Fucking Giuseppe. How was a fucking eighteen-year-old getting all the action?

“Is he picking you up as well?”

She nodded, and the movement brought the back of her ear to my lips.

“Good,” I murmured and stepped back. Didn’t really want to do that. What I wanted was to push her down on the kitchen counter and fuck her to next Sunday. But I supposed there was a time and place for it. It definitely wasn’t the place for it. But it was fucking high time.

It was past nine when she called him. He, like the good little errand boy in training he was, came and informed me.

That put me in a fabulous mood. I had to reward him for that.

Gave him warehouse guard duty that he’d been dying to have.

But just to be sure he didn’t get himself killed, I asked Batista to go with him.

Then, with a whistle on my tongue and cigar in my hand, I drove off to my consigliere for the second time in one day.

I parked in his driveway and didn’t bother to go inside. Didn’t want his knowing looks and words full of shit. Shutting my door with a soft thud, I walked to the passenger side, put my hip on the hood, and waited for her to come outside.

I wasn’t going to marry the woman. But I was going to fuck her. I couldn’t erase an image of her. Naked, black silky locks tousled on my fucking silk sheets. I’d do anything to get her there. Anything.

Signing that contract hadn’t brought me any relief.

But the decision to fuck her. A hot damn yes.

My headaches were gone, and I hadn’t felt this light-hearted for a long time.

I couldn’t remember when. Long before I killed the man who shared my genes.

Long before I’d caught him cheating on Mamma. Again and again.

I shrugged and lit my cigar. Bygones. I had a task, and it started with an F and ended with K.

Two letters to bridge and a witch in between.

A breath of tobacco and my lungs filled with satisfaction.

Finally, I could enjoy a cigar again. I frowned at the hand-rolled paper held within my fingers. Just when I was doubting its abilities.

The door clicked open, and the drift of her voice, together with Divya’s, came my way. I’d parked just around the corner, out of sight from the front door, but unfortunately not from the office. A small movement in the curtains brought my attention to it. Fucking Antonio.

It didn’t matter anymore. I just needed to fuck her once. To get her out of my blood. Then I’d marry… Bianca? Rosetta? Fuck, I really should look up this woman’s name. Whatever she was called, I’d marry Andrea’s daughter and stay faithful because fuck if I was going down Carlo’s path.

The gravel crunched softly underneath her shoes. I didn’t even have to pull my gaze off the ground to know when she saw me.

When I’d crossed Divya walking out of the front door, she’d asked me with a sparkle in her eyes if I had got what I had come for.

I’d told her it was a process. The longer it took, the larger the benefit.

I wasn’t talking about the warehouse takeover we were negotiating with Andrea.

I knew it, and she knew it. And I didn’t fucking care.

But the glare that met me when our eyes collided told me that the process might take longer than I’d like.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Sicily had ample warm days. Hot and blistering. But the nights. Those could be cold. The goosebumps on her bare arms and the silk ruffling gently on her waist were an indication of it.

“Buonasera, mia ammaliatrice.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What does that even mean?”

“Can’t come up with an exact translation.”

“Well, try.”

One day, her sassiness was going to get her fucked.

“Is it something you can call a friend?” Suspicion crisscrossed her face.

If it’s a friend you fuck. “Are we friends now?”

“I’d rather not be.”

“Fair enough.” I preferred fuck buddies.

My gaze hooked on her chest. The material was really quite flimsy. The thing she wore behind it, whatever that was called, was tiny. When she’d twirled in the kitchen, I’d seen the back of it. It was two sets of thin strings. Criss-crossing across her back. One yank and it could be off.

“Well?”

My gaze pulled up to hers. “What?” I’d lost track of the conversation. Fucking ammaliatrice.

She was impatient. A foot tapped. “Can I use it with a friend?”

I caught movement in my peripheral view. Could I fire my consigliere?

“If you want.” I was done with this. I pushed off the car and stubbed the cigar. “Now get in.”

“Uh, uh.” She shook her head vigorously. “I’m waiting for Giuseppe.”

“No, you are not.”

I strode to the passenger door and opened it.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Jesus. Fuck!” I rushed my hand through my hair. “Why does everything have to be a fight with you? What the fuck do you think I’m doing? I’m taking you home.”

“I don’t think we should be alone.”

“Stop thinking then.”