Page 7

Chapter 7

SALVATORE

I hold up a t-shirt with absolute horror, the cheap fabric rough as sandpaper between my fingers. The front of it is printed with an image of a flying saucer hovering over a desert and the words “I got probed in Rosewood, New Vada.”

Dante sidles up beside me and cackles loudly. The sound startles me. I’ve never heard him laugh before. Not a real laugh anyway. I’ve heard him snort with derision and bark out mocking laughter, but never this.

“You have to get that,” he says.

I give him a flat look. He has to be kidding.

When we spotted this little tourist trap and attached restaurant after what felt like endless hours driving through nothing but vacant desert, with Dante refusing to elaborate on the marriage bombshell he dropped, he pulled over so we could stretch our legs and eat as promised. I thought he was joking when he led me into the shop, saying we both could use a change of clothes at this point. But this bit has gone on a little too long if he thinks I would honestly change out of my five-thousand- dollar suit in favor of a kitschy t-shirt that’s probably made of asbestos.

“I have a gun, Sal, that means you have to do what I say,” he reminds me with an air of taunting and the ghost of a smile on his lips.

If the teenage employee behind the counter finds it alarming to hear a gun threat, he doesn’t show it. Out here I’m guessing it’s just a regular Tuesday afternoon to hear someone casually threaten to shoot another person. Not that I have a lot of room to talk considering the routine violence in my own day-to-day life.

“You’re saying that my options are to either wear this shirt or be shot?” I clarify blandly, and Dante nods. I glance at the shirt one more time and then back at him. “Okay, you can shoot me.”

“Fine, but don’t complain to me later when we check into a hotel and I’m comfy in my new shorts and t-shirt while you have to sleep in your suit.” He looks smug as he holds up the shorts he picked out, small enough that they’re unlikely to leave much to the imagination with the words “beam me up, Space Daddy” printed across the ass.

“I promise you, I won’t be sleeping in my suit, Angioletto.” I pin him with a heated look so he can’t misunderstand the implication.

I was set on being patient with him, taking my time to slowly build his trust in me so I could do things right. But he drugged me and kidnapped me, and I’m still unclear about that marriage comment. If he’s past decorum and civility, then so am I.

Dante huffs, snatches the t-shirt out of my grasp, and stomps up to the register where he already set a pair of alien-themed boxers and a keychain shaped like a UFO. The teenage employee rings it all up and I reach into my suit jacket for my wallet, half-surprised to find it exactly where I expect it to be. Unlike my pistol and phone, which are both still in his possession.

I set my credit card down on the counter before Dante can pull his out. While the cashier finishes the transaction, I press myself just a little too close to my angel, my fingers twitching with the urge to slip my hand underneath his shirt to feel the smoothness of his skin. He doesn’t shift away or stiffen, but he does glare at me, pressing his weight right back at me like a challenge. Push me, Angioletto, make me work for it . His jaw ticks but a flicker of heat dances in his eyes at the same time. He’s not just fighting me, he’s fighting himself. He needs permission to let go… or maybe he needs to be forced to let go.

“Here’s your receipt. Thanks for stopping in and be safe out there in the desert.” The last line is delivered with a practiced air of drama that lets me know he says it to every customer.

Dante blows out a breath and grabs the bag off the counter, rushing out while I put my card away, give the cashier a nod in thanks, then hurry after him. By the time I step outside, he’s already headed inside the small restaurant just a few feet away.

The chill of air conditioning running at full blast and the smell of grilled peppers hit me as I step inside. A young woman wearing an apron and a t-shirt with a cartoonish alien face on it—you can’t say they aren’t committed to their theme—approaches us, sweeping her eyes over me skeptically. I suppose they don’t get many tourists wearing Brioni. Or maybe it’s my disheveled state that’s drawing her attention. Either way, she dismisses me after a fraction of a second, grabbing a pair of menus and leading us to a table with the promise to be back to take our order shortly.

Dante picks up his menu immediately, but too many hours spent staring at cacti and tumbleweeds has my patience wearing particularly thin. I reach across the table and push his menu down, ignoring the glare that earns me.

“Explain.”

“I know you’re used to barking orders at people and having them fall over themselves to obey, but has anyone ever told you that a little bit of kindness goes a long way?” That’s rich coming from the man I’ve watched break countless fingers, whose primary facial expression is a scowl.

“You kidnapped me, Angioletto,” I remind him flatly, doing my best to keep the growl out of my voice. He really is a brat, and whether he realizes what he’s doing or not, he’s trying his hardest to find my breaking point. Some part of him is dying to find out what combination of mouthiness and sour looks will earn him the spanking he’s desperate for. Or maybe that’s not what he’s craving. Maybe there’s a different kind of punishment he’d prefer, like hours of edging until he’s ready to adjust his attitude if I’ll just let him come.

Maybe my thoughts are written all over my face, or maybe he’s thinking something similar, something that makes him shift in his seat and has his cheeks darkening briefly. I’m almost curious enough about what could possibly make a stripper blush to forget my previous question. Almost .

“Fuck, okay,” he sighs. “It’s a long story and I don’t want to get into most of it, but basically, I…” He swallows hard and shifts in his seat again, drumming his fingers on the bright red plastic tabletop. “I’m in trouble. Someone’s threatening me, they broke into my apartment yesterday and left an envelope full of pictures of me.”

“What?” I roar. Forgetting that we’re hundreds of miles from Wildcliff and whoever would dare to come anywhere near my angel, I jump out of my seat. I’ll fucking kill them. Anyone who’s ever so much as had a negative thought about Dante is going to die a slow, painful death at my hands.

“Salvatore.” My name on Dante’s lips is the only thing that could break through the murderous fantasy. He stands up just enough to lean across the table, grab my tie, and haul me back into my seat. “Would you let me finish?”

“Yes, go on,” I grit between my teeth as I struggle for restraint. Maybe he knows who’s after him. That will make the task of finding the person and feeding them their own entrails slightly more expedient.

“This person, he’s a fucking coward. I don’t know who’s working with him, but they’re probably the same kind of spineless trash playing at being hard.” The rage burning in Dante’s eyes holds my attention like nothing else could. Does he realize his fingers are still wrapped around my tie? That he’s still leaning across the table towards me? “I could deal with this myself, but I decided it’ll be a hell of a lot easier to make myself too terrifying for him to touch.”

He finally sits back in his seat and lets go of my tie. I smooth it out and plant my elbows on the table, unhappy with the fresh space between us.

“And how do you plan to do that?” I think I can follow his logic, but I want to hear him say it. I want the words on his tongue so I can taste the remnants of them later when I lick between his lips for the first time.

“I think being married to a Moretti should do the trick.”

A hot shiver creeps up my spine and I smirk at him.

“That’s not much of a proposal, Angioletto. You’re going to have to do better than that.”

DANTE

I grind my teeth. I should have picked someone less irritating for this plan. My options were limited though. Alessio’s lack of seriousness would have probably caused me to shoot him, even I don’t have big enough balls to kidnap Big Daddy Moretti, and I don’t think wifing up a foot soldier would be intimidating enough to get Don to back the fuck off, so here we are.

“Sorry, I didn’t have time to buy a ring or chill a bottle of champagne,” I deadpan.

Salvatore leans a little farther across the table, still grinning at me. “That’s alright, you can make it up to me later.”

I roll my eyes. “Make it up to you? Have you forgotten which one of us has the upper hand right now? You’re my hostage, and if I say we’re getting married, then we’re getting married.”

“We’re negotiating,” he says with that damn authority ringing in his tone again. The smoothness in the way he says it instantly reminds me exactly who I’m dealing with. He’s not the average slimeball thug I spend my nights leaving bloody.

“I have a gun,” I remind him.

His smirk widens and he sweeps his gaze over me. “Not on you. And I doubt even the most questionable quickie chapel in Los Vespar will perform a wedding with one of the participants being held at gunpoint.”

“Then I’ll shoot them too,” I mutter petulantly, hating that he’s right. I’m going to need him to actually agree to this.

He lets out a low, rumbling chuckle, and the fact that the sound makes my dick start to swell tempts me to kick him under the table. Bruising his shins probably isn’t the way to convince him to marry me though. Ugh, I liked him better when he was unconscious. Maybe I should just drug him again. Eventually he’ll have to be conscious enough to at least say ‘I do’ though, which leaves me with only one option: playing nice. Grr, maybe I could kick him just a little first.

“Now, now, is that any way to look at the man you’re hoping to marry?” he taunts.

I drag my tongue along my bottom lip and shift in my seat, pulling in a slow, deep breath to keep myself from jumping across the table to strangle him.

“What do you want?” I ask through clenched teeth.

His eyes turn molten, and all the teasing melts out of his expression.

“I was raised Catholic, Angioletto, and I may not be a religious man anymore, but some things stick. If I’m getting married, it’s going to be a real marriage, with all the commitment and benefits.”

“Sex?” I bristle and my traitorous cock throbs, a flicker of heat taking up residence in the pit of my stomach. “I have someone threatening to kill me and you’re worried about our wedding night? Jesus Christ,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose and willing my body to stop finding any part of this hot. I don’t want some Mafia thug to leverage safety for sex. I don’t . My cock jerks in abject disagreement.

Salvatore doesn’t say a word while I sit across from him fighting with myself. It’s a negotiation tactic to keep the upper hand—don’t say anything more than absolutely necessary. Maybe I’ll run back to the car and grab the gun, then we’ll see who has the upper hand. Then again, waving a gun around in here will probably get us kicked out without food and I’m too damn hungry to risk that.

“Fine,” I bite out the word, lowering my hand and opening my eyes again to see him still staring at me with hooded eyes and parted lips. Too many hours of driving, the repetitive lines of the road hypnotizing me and making my eyes tired, has clearly made me delirious. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s actually getting off on this, that he actually wants this. “We good then? You’ll cooperate?”

“One more thing,” he says. “You’re coming to me for protection, so I need you to agree to let me protect you.”

I frown. Now he’s just talking in circles. I wave my hand dismissively.

“Sure, whatever. Like I said, this guy is gutless. If I send him a copy of our marriage announcement, I think that’ll be enough to keep him away. And once I’m sure he’s moved on, we can just get divorced.”

Salvatore grunts noncommittally.

“Do we have a deal?” I ask again.

“We have a deal,” he purrs, then crooks his finger at me. “Seal it with a kiss.”

I roll my eyes again. I guess I’d better get used to it. Whatever. It’s just sex, and I’m hardly a prude. It’s a small price to pay to end this without any more bloodshed. I lean across the table and pucker my lips obediently, but the kiss doesn’t come immediately like I’m expecting. Salvatore’s chair scrapes against the linoleum floor and when I peel my eyes open again to see what’s happening, he’s right there , standing over me with a predatory gleam in his eyes that should make me sick to my stomach. There’s something different about it from the usual empty, aggressive appraisal I’m used to. I don’t have much time to try to figure out exactly what makes the look in his eyes different though. He plants one hand on the table and leans down into my space.

His breath bathes my face, and he hooks his other hand behind my neck, making a gasp catch in my throat. He hesitates for just a second, not even a full heartbeat, but it’s long enough for something inside of me to quiver and ache impatiently. No, not impatiently. I’m not waiting for him to kiss me. I just need his help, and this is the only way to get it.

His fingers dig into the back of my neck, and he drags me forward that last inch, fully in control as his lips meet mine. The kiss isn’t gentle, but it isn’t rough either. The same confident authority he wields so easily with a simple shift in his tone is written all over the way his mouth moves against mine. Demanding, possessive, claiming .

A hot shiver runs through me, and I gasp against his mouth, parting my lips and inadvertently melting into him. That ache from before sweeps through me again, leaving my cock painfully hard and my heart racing. Salvatore tightens his grip and teases his tongue along the seam of my lips with a sigh before releasing me. I sway forward in a daze.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to see if you folks are ready to order?” My heart is still pounding so loudly I can barely hear the waitress.

Salvatore slides casually back into his seat across from me, looking smug and pleased with himself.

“I’m sure this is a longshot, but you wouldn’t happen to have champagne, would you? It seems we have something to celebrate.” He’s all charm now, giving the waitress a friendly smile.

She uses her pen to scratch her head. “I think we have pre-mixed mimosas?” She says it like a question.

“Perfect. Two of those, please, and give us just another minute with the menus.”

She nods and wanders off again, and I finally manage to pull myself out of my stupor. It was just a kiss. A really nice kiss, sure, but still just a kiss. This is business… no, it’s not even that. It’s practical, it’s self-preservation. I’m just overtired and stressed, so I’m responding strangely to the relief of Sal agreeing to help me. I’ll put up with his demands because I have to, not because any part of me is curious how he plans to try to tame my supposed bratting.

My cock pulses against my thigh and I swallow down a huff, grabbing my napkin off the table and aggressively spreading it across my lap. I should have just killed Don years ago and saved myself all this trouble.