Page 11 of The Criminal’s Cure

“Well, I could certainly use a drink after that. How about you?” I ask, holding the door for Madison as we come in from the garage.

Usually, after there’s some kind of issue or complication on a job, I can’t sleep.

I’m up for hours unable to turn my brain off, but tonight, my nightcap has more to do with the fact that I want more time with Madison.

I enjoy talking to her when we’re not at each other’s throats, and tonight, it almost felt like we were a team.

She’s tough, and she’s good at what she does, and even though I don’t want to admit that this could be more than business, the line is starting to blur.

She’s lived here for two weeks, and it’s almost too easy how seamlessly we’ve settled into a routine.

I’d forgotten how good it feels to have another adult to come home to.

To share some of the household tasks with.

To talk to someone who doesn’t eat, sleep, and breathe the Italian Mafia the way most of my friends and family do.

Madison is like a much needed breath of fresh air in this house.

“It’s two in the morning,” she says, looking up at the clock as if that’s going to make any difference to me.

I don’t respond as I open the liquor cabinet and get a bottle of Macallan 1824 from the back. It’s a special occasion scotch, but tonight is as good of night as any. I reach for a second glass and raise my eyebrow at her.

When she sits at the island instead of continuing to protest, I get my answer.

I pour two glasses, sliding one across the counter to her. “It’s a nice night. Why don’t we go out to the patio?”

“Sounds great.” Madison follows me out the back door and finds a cozy spot on the couch as I flip on the fire table.

The sky is full of stars, and the moonlight reflects in her eyes as I sit across from her.

She’s so fucking gorgeous with that sleepy smile that part of me wishes I could whisk her upstairs for an entirely different kind of nightcap.

Maybe that would get her out of my system and I could finally concentrate on all the other shit I’ve got happening.

That would never happen, though. Once would never be enough with Madison, and I know that for a fact.

“How was work?” I ask, stretching my arm along the back of the couch, careful not to touch her.

Madison lets out a sharp laugh, her head dipping back as her long honey curls fall behind her and graze my forearm. The move sends a wave of her perfume in my direction that’s every bit as intoxicating as the whiskey I’m drinking.

“What’s so funny?”

“You woke me up in the middle of the night to go stitch up your friend that killed a man in a drug deal, and now you want to make small talk about my day at work as if none of that happened.”

Scratching my chin, I chuckle. “Well, I guess when you say it like that, it sounds a little strange.”

“More than a little.” Madison shifts her weight. “You’re going to have to level with me here, Roman. I know you’re some kind of gang leader, but I need the specifics. I need to know exactly what I got myself involved in.”

“You’re sure?” I swallow, staring into the flames. “Because if you don’t like what you hear, you can’t just walk away. The more you know, the deeper you’re involved.”

“How much deeper can I get? I just listened to a man admit to murder and you plot a coverup.”

She’s got a point there. She’s practically my employee, and even at the end of six months, I won’t be able to let her go without some hefty non-disclosures and surveillance. “I’m not a gang leader.”

She arches an eyebrow at me, waiting for more.

“What I do is…bigger. It’s more intricate and sophisticated.”

She already knows the gist of what I do, so putting words to it shouldn’t be this hard. I still struggle, though, like somehow slapping a label on it will make her run, but she doesn’t back down.

“How so?”

Running my fingers through my hair, I lean back. “My family runs a section of the Italian Mafia. I inherited the position from my father, just like he did from his.”

Madison doesn’t answer for a second. She looks at me like she’s trying to decide if I’m telling her the truth, eyes narrow and apprehensive.

“Like The Godfather ?”

I snort. “Well, a lot of that was sensationalized for the movie, but more or less, yeah. Like The Godfather. ”

“And you run the whole thing?”

“There are parts of the group throughout the whole country, but I run everything here in Vegas. I own an import and export line that sends gun parts all over the world.”

“Just the parts?” she asks, a cautious curiosity flickering in her eyes.

“Yeah.” I nod. “Parts aren’t traceable. Parts are legal.”

“I didn’t expect the Mafia to care about what’s legal,” she quips.

For as smart as she is, that streak of stubbornness always catches me off guard.

I just told her I run part of the Mafia and have access to everything that entails, and she still gives me a hard time.

I don’t know what it says about me that I actually enjoy it.

“If you’ve got a legitimate business, it’s easier to hide the less…legal things.”

Madison presses her lips together, eyes darting away as her fingers trace the top of her glass. She wants to ask, and when she looks up at me through those thick, dark lashes, my heart races. She’s got no fucking clue what she does to me.

“What less legal things do you do?”

“Never drugs. That shit gets messy, and too many people get hurt,” I say.

“We’re mostly in big ticket gambling and counterfeiting.

It’s easy to do in a place like Vegas. Obviously, issues come up, and we have to handle them in some unconventional ways, but it’s like any other business.

I look at profit margins and target demographics and potential investors.

All of that stuff. At the end of the day, it’s about making money and monopolizing the area. ”

When Madison finally speaks, I barely hear her over the flicker of the fire. “Okay.”

I expect her to say more, and when she doesn’t, I burst out laughing. “I tell you I run a section of an international crime organization and all you say is okay?”

Madison bites her lip, pulling a smile as she does. “I don’t know what to say. I knew from the beginning that your job was dangerous and highly illegal, so Mafia leader tracks.”

“It’s called a Don. I’m a Mafia Don.”

“ A Mafia Don ,” she repeats. “I guess I understand why you didn’t tell me that before I agreed to work for you.”

“Would it have changed your answer?”

She considers her answer and then shakes her head. “No. As long as you’re paying off my debt with real money and none of your counterfeiting bullshit.”

“You’ve got my word. Your money will all be legal.” I chuckle. Her answer surprises me a little. I’ve had Madison pegged as a quintessential good girl. Sensible. Responsible. A rule follower. But if the idea of the Mafia doesn’t send her running, maybe I’ve been wrong.

Maybe there’s a little more mystique and adventure underneath all of that common sense and restraint. Maybe there’s a girl desperate for a little wild and crazy, and maybe I’m just the guy to give it to her.

How do you follow something like that up?

Roman just gave me the rundown of his job as the head of a major criminal organization and he lounges back on the couch so casually, you’d think we were talking about the weather.

He even tried to pass it off like he’s a regular CEO, as if I haven’t witnessed firsthand how wrong that is.

Mention of the Mafia alone should have been enough for me to end this right where we’re at.

To get my things, move out, and forget, I ever knew the name Roman Molanari.

I’m still sitting here, though, and it’s not because he slapped a pair of cement boots on me.

It’s because I’m intrigued—and probably delusional.

At this point, I’ve been up for almost twenty-hours, and I can barely keep my eyes open as we talk, but I’m not ready for the night to end.

This almost feels normal, and I like normal with Roman—when we’re not arguing or butting heads or dealing with some sort of criminal crisis, that is.

He’s easy to talk to when he isn’t ordering me around, but even that doesn’t bother me like it should. In fact, I kind of like it.

I don’t know how long we’ve been out here, but it’s long enough that the ice in our glasses is completely melted, and tiny droplets of condensation drip down the side from the heat. Between the fire and what’s building between us, it’s intense.

Roman relaxes back, legs spread wide, one arm draped across his lap and the other dangerously close to my leg. There’s plenty of room, and either of us could scoot over, but we don’t.

When I look up at him, he captures my gaze with a pair of stunning crystal eyes that make my stomach flutter.

“Do you like it?” I glance away. Those are the kind of eyes that a girl could lose herself in. And if I’m not careful, I will.

“What? Being in the Mafia?”

I nod. “You said you inherited the position from your father, which usually means you were just given it and didn’t have a choice. Would you have chosen it if you had an option?”

A strange look washes over him as if he’s never considered the idea. He swallows, scratching his stubbled chin. “It’s been a tough year. I don’t know if I have a good answer for that.”

Roman’s body clenches, his fingers gripping so tightly to the glass in his hand I’m afraid he might crush it. My question struck a nerve, and I wish I hadn’t asked because it shifts the mood. He doesn’t say anymore and the subject dies.

A few minutes of silence pass between us, and when he turns to look at me, whatever pained emotion was there before is gone. It’s like he flipped a switch, turning off any bit of vulnerability or candor he had and taking back the reins.

“I think I still owe you a proper apology.” Roman slants his eyes up toward me. Heat ripples through my core when he looks at me that way, and I completely lose my train of thought.

“A proper apology? I didn’t know I’d ever hear those words out of Roman Molanari.”

“Well, keep interrupting me and you might not.” He chuckles, that strong jawline flinching. “I just want you to know that I’m sorry about how things started between us. Like I said, it’s been a tough year and I’ve been under a lot of stress.”

Part of me wants to ask about the tough year , but I’m a little nervous, too.

“Apology accepted. I probably would have done the same if I were in your shoes.”

“Somehow, I find that hard to believe.”

“Okay, maybe not the exact same.” I blush, tucking my knees up into my chest and turning toward him. “But I can understand being willing to do anything for someone you love.”

Silence sits between us for a few seconds. “He’s been through a lot.”

“Does he ever see his mom?”

“Uh…” He draws in a deep, hesitant breath and clenches his jaw. “She’s…Ty’s mom…she died several months ago.”

Roman’s words gut me. There’s never been another woman around and he doesn’t wear a ring, so I assumed they were divorced or she left.

It never occurred to me she was dead, but it all makes sense.

Ty’s injury probably brought back all kinds of emotion from losing his wife, and his reaction at the time is now even more understandable.

“Oh Roman, I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how hard that is on both of you.”

“It is.” He nods. “We’re just trying to get our footing, which is why things are kind of hectic. She…She did absolutely everything for us. It’s been an adjustment.”

“You don’t have to justify that to me. It’s honestly impressive you handle things the way you do. Ty’s lucky to have you.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. I couldn’t keep either one of them safe.” His eyes darken, and he takes another sip of his whiskey. He balls his fists at his side. “Talia was murdered, and it was my fault. I was out of town and the men who attacked her…they were trying to send a message to me.”

Murdered . It’s one thing to lose a mother and wife, but to lose her in such a traumatic way feels almost impossible to get through. Poor Ty. Poor Roman. His face fades at the weight of what he told me, and I can’t imagine carrying that around.

“And you think the same thing happened with Ty…”

“It would be a huge fucking coincidence if it was random,” he says, rage pulsing through him. “And I don’t believe in coincidences. I just have to prove it.”

Reaching over, I set my hand on top of his, gently sweeping my thumb across it. “I’m so sorry, Roman. I’m sure it’s probably hard to talk about, but I’m here if you ever need to.”

He glances down at our intertwined hands, and a look I can’t quite make out flashes through his eyes—a thirst, a craving.

Neither one of us moves, but we both consider it. Consider crossing the line. Consider what it could mean. Consider how dangerous the game we’re playing right now is.

Roman and I are from two vastly different worlds, and it takes thirty seconds of conversation to figure that out.

All of my life, I’ve done the right thing.

The good thing. The sensible thing. And even sitting here with Roman feels like the opposite of that.

The man could wreak absolute havoc on my life with the snap of his fingers, which he’s already proven, but somehow that only adds to the thrill.

Between the alcohol and lack of sleep, part of me thinks a little shakeup to my world is exactly what I need.

He’s got me curious, and that’s a slippery slope.

But reality grips me just in time. There is no world in which Roman and I work.

Where I come out of this unscathed. Where we can just fool around for a few months and hope for the best. Right now, there is a very thin, very professional line between us, and crossing it is about the worst thing we can do, so instead of giving in, I pull back.

I let go of Roman’s hand and stand. “I should probably get to sleep. I was up early, and have to be tomorrow, too.”

“Me, too.” He clears his throat, eyes darting away.

Desperate for a little space between us, I take our glasses and rush into the kitchen while he turns the lights down and puts the fire out. After a few minutes, he joins me inside.

“Sorry to drag you out like that tonight. I’d like to say it won’t happen again, but most emergencies like this happen at night.”

“No worries. It’s part of my job.”

My voice hitches on that last part, a reminder to both of us. Attraction, chemistry, temptation aside…I’m here because it’s my job . Because Roman is paying me.

And in a few months, I’ll be gone.