Page 63 of The Bonventi Hitman

Sensing my chill, Gabriel sets his drink on the floor, removes his jacket, and drapes it over my shoulders.

"It's always a shame to cover you, but I'd rather you be comfortable," he says with a smile.

"Thank you," I say and sip my champagne.

He picks up his drink and puts a hand around my waist. "This way."

We walk down the hall and enter a small room. It's dark, and the light in the room flickers, trying everything it can to stay on.

I notice some crates, boards, and a bookshelf.

"Is this where mobsters came to read?" I say jokingly.

Gabriel laughs. "Yes, every Thursday between 10 and noon."

We both laugh.

"Actually, I wanted to show you this," he says and walks over to the bookcase. He pulls on a book, and the wall pops forward.

"Okay, that's pretty cool," I say as Gabriel pushes the bookcase to the side.

A hidden room—who doesn't like that?

I follow him inside, and he presses a lever. The bookcase slides shut, trapping us in.

"Don't move," he says as his flashlight from his phone shines around the room.

"There," he says as a corner light turns on. It's an Edison-style bulb matching the others and mimicking the same warm glow of the lights outside.

It's a small room with a desk, some chairs, an old couch, and a few old paintings.

"Some say this was Capone's original office."

I walk over and take a look at the desk. It's simple and looks like any old desk you'd find in an antique shop.

Noticing what appears to be an old typewriter, I point to it and ask sarcastically, "Did he write his?—"

I feel Gabriel come up behind me and pin me against the desk. His left hand wraps around my waist, and his right comes up and grabs my throat in a gentle but firm way.

He presses into me, and I can't move.

I feel helpless, and I love it.

I gasp as I feel his breath against my neck and close my eyes when I feel the hardness of his body against me. "Gabriel," I say, my voice dripping with desire.

"Shh," he whispers, his hand tightening around my throat. "You think you could wear something as revealing as this dress around me and not get punished? You're mine," he says and gently kisses my cheek. "And I want you now."

I suppose any other woman would be terrified if a trained, deadly mafia hitman was standing behind her, his hand firm on her throat. But apparently, I was different. There's something about the way he claims me that sets my blood on fire. I've never felt more alive, more wanted, than I do in this moment with him.

I was made for him.

I try to look over my shoulder to meet his lips, but he tightens his hold and turns my head forward. "You don't need to be kissed. You need to be ruined."

He maneuvers his left hand under my dress, and a few seconds later, I feel it sliding off my shoulders and onto the floor. My body arches as he takes his left hand and rubs my breasts, his fingers gliding across my nipples, giving each one a firm squeeze. I whimper as the pleasurable pain runs through me. I push my ass into him and feel his erection through his pants. He leans into me, making sure I feel everything.

"Put your hands behind your back," he commands me. I do, and immediately feel him.

"Undo my pants," he growls, still holding onto my throat. It takes me a moment, but I do and I hear his pants hit the ground. His left hand briefly leaves my breast to slide his boxer briefs down before returning.