Page 39 of Vicious Behaviors (The Next Vicious Generation #3)

“Thank you. That’s all I ask.” My mother grins softly at me as the waiter takes the empty plates away to bring us our main course.

“Good. Now that that’s settled, I need a favor,” I say, steering the conversation away from girlfriends, wildcard sisters, and whatever else my mother might dig up if I give her room.

I shift in my seat and pull a set of keys from my pocket, sliding them across the table to her.

She looks at them, then at me. “What’s this?”

“The keys to my new place.”

“You bought another apartment?” she asks, picking up the keys and dropping them into her clutch. “Please tell me it’s better than that mousetrap you bought a few weeks ago.”

I smile. “I think you’ll approve, Mammà. It’s a three-story home with fifteen thousand square feet, seven bedrooms, and ten baths.”

“Hmm. Sounds promising. But where?”

“West Dickens Avenue.”

Her eyes brighten instantly. “Lincoln Park,” she says, practically glowing. “I’m impressed. And how much did you splurge on this new home of yours? Fifteen… twenty… thirty million?” she probes, looking happy for me to finally come to my senses and buy a decent house.

However, I do leave out the part that I’m still keeping the other apartment in the South Side and living there too for the time being. At least while Izzie is still there.

“Now, Mom… aren’t you the one who says talking about money is unseemly?”

“Very true.” She laughs gently, the kind of laugh that always softens her face.

She looks proud of me, unaware that her pride cuts me deeper than she’ll ever know. I don’t deserve her pride or her unconditional love. Still, the lonelier, more vulnerable part of me soaks it in and tucks it away, storing it somewhere deep, where I can keep it safe.

“Can you go take a look? Work your magic decorating it?” I ask. “You know how busy Father keeps me these days.”

“I’ll try my best, kiddo,” she says sweetly. “Though it would help if you gave some direction on how you want it done.”

“Just keep it clean and minimal. A bed and a working kitchen is all I really need.”

“Of course. Minimal.” Her eyes twinkle. “I’m sure when things get serious, your girlfriend will want to add her personal touches. After all, why buy such a lavish home if the intent behind the purchase wasn’t to share it with someone?”

“Fuck,” I mutter, leaning back. “Walked right into that one.”

“Marcello, language,” she says, pretending to be scandalized.

“Mom, can we not do this right now? The moving-in talk, the matchmaking, all of it. I’m barely twenty-two. I’m just starting my life out. It’s too soon to think about such things.”

“Age has nothing on God’s plans for us,” she says warmly. “And besides, you have always been wiser than your years. But I promise not to touch on the subject until you are ready to discuss it. I just want all my children to find their purpose in life and be happy.”

“Who says I’m not happy?” She raises a brow, her soft smile dipping somewhat. “Fine… I’m content. Is that good enough for you?”

“For now,” she says, turning her attention to the waiter carrying the plates to our table.

I love spending time with my mother, just the two of us.

But sometimes I wish one of my siblings were here to be a buffer between us.

Having Selene Romano’s full attention focused solely on me can be…

wearying. Not because she’s unkind, but because she still believes.

She still holds tightly onto the shredded ribbons of hope that one day, I’ll have just as much as she does, if not more.

The loving home. The caring family. The soulmate.

My mother has been blessed with all three.

Is it any wonder why she believes I can achieve the same fairytale life that she’s been so fortunate to have? That’s just the kind of mother she is. The kind who wants her children to have the best the world has to offer, even when they’ve long since made peace with less.

What she fails to admit to herself is that I’m not like her.

While my mother is all that is good in the world, I’m the opposite.

She’s life and light… while I’m a black abyss of death.

My life will always reek of blood and duty.

To hope for more is useless.

After the lunch date with my mother, I wasn’t exactly looking forward to seeing Izzie tonight. I knew that she would want some kind of explanation after I walked out on her and left her half-naked in my grandfather’s office.

However, she never showed up. She called in sick and told Nonno she was probably not going to be able to come to work any time soon. It was all bullshit. Just a lame-ass excuse so she wouldn’t have to face me tonight.

These are the thoughts rummaging through my head as I continue to throw punches left and right, needing to burn off the fucking nervous energy clawing inside me.

I finally scared her away. But isn’t that what I wanted? For Izzie to disappear from my life and return to wherever she came from?

Yeah. It was. Just… not like this. This isn’t how I expected it to go. And I hate that the reason she’s keeping her distance is because I kissed her.

No. That’s not it. It’s not the kiss that scared her. It’s what happened after.

Fuck.

I never meant for it to happen that way.

Never even thought I’d kiss her like that.

But once I did, it was like the air got sucked out of the room.

As if I’d lose my goddamn mind if I didn’t have her right there and then.

She was sweet. So fucking sweet. I wanted to lick every inch of her. Bite her flesh. Mark her with my teeth.

Izzie’s mouth on mine was fucking heaven.

But it was the way she rubbed her pussy against my thigh that shattered me.

I craved her taste. I needed to know if she tasted as sweet as her kiss.

And when she came on my tongue—so soft, so fucking beautiful—it took everything in me not to bend her over my grandfather’s desk and fuck her until she screamed my name.

However, just as I was inches away from losing all control, he surfaced.

He wanted to ruin her. To take her like a beast. To hear her scream as he fucked her raw.

Still, I didn’t want to share Izzie with him. I wanted her for myself. Only me. And I really shouldn’t want that.

Let’s not forget that this woman is an undercover FBI agent, sent here to dismantle my life. My entire family. My whole fucking world. And yet, when I held her in my arms, I craved her. Craved her scent. Her touch.

The way she ran her fingers through my hair and ordered me to kneel. I was hard as stone before my knees even hit the ground. I could’ve had her. If not for him. I could have had one moment of peace if he hadn’t shown up to ruin it all.

Pissed at him and myself, I asked Gio if I could shadow Dom for the day.

Aside from having lunch with my mother, I buried myself in work as Dom’s enforcer.

I broke kneecaps, fingers, and noses. I mangled faces and drew blood from every man he put in front of me.

Anything to shut up the monster and keep my head clear.

I needed space from him. I needed quiet time to think, so that when I met Izzie at the gym tonight, I’d have a believable explanation on the tip of my tongue.

However, she didn’t show. Neither during her usual morning hours nor tonight. She didn’t flash that pretty face anywhere.

So here I am, beating the hell out of this punching bag just to release the tension her absence stirred in my muscles. Usually, I only get this wound up when my aggression hits its peak. But tonight, every punch is fueled by something else. Fuck.

Do I… miss her? Was my mother right earlier? Am I… smitten?

Requiring answers rather than being suffocated by questions, I pull away from the punching bag and begin heading toward the locker room for a shower, brushing past a confused Jimmy on the way.

“You’re not fighting tonight?” he asks.

“No,” I bite back, gaining a few confused looks my way.

Fuck them. Let them beat each other up for a change. Tonight, the monster has been more than fed, which means I have one night for myself, and I fucking intend to use it.

Less than an hour later, I barge into my apartment and turn on the screen feed for every camera I had installed in Izzie’s house.

My stiff muscles relax the minute my eyes land on her, only to stiffen a second later.

She is sitting on the floor, leaning against her couch, just staring at a photo of me in her hand.

The last time I caught her looking at my photograph, it acted as an aphrodisiac, igniting a longing in her that could only be satisfied by her touching herself. But not tonight. Tonight, she looks almost haunted. As if she doesn’t understand what she’s feeling for the man staring back at her.

I sink into my desk chair and watch Izzie slowly place the photo face-down on the floor beside her and then cover her face with both palms. And when she wipes tears from her eyes, something in my chest gives way… almost as if it were breaking.

I don’t like seeing Izzie cry. I don’t like it one fucking bit.

Needing to walk off this unknown feeling, I get up from my chair and begin to pace the room, glancing over at the double screens every few seconds like an addict longing for his next fix.

I notice that the corkboard with all her case findings is no longer stationed in the living room, so she may have tucked it away somewhere.

But she kept my picture. Why? And why the fuck is she crying? !

I pull the strands of my hair while I wear a track into my rug as Izzie stares blankly into oblivion. I’m not sure how long she stays like this, but it must have been a few hours at least.

Eventually, exhaustion wins. I let out a breath, thinking she’s about to go to bed, only to become even more confused to see her pull one of her throw pillows off the couch, drop it onto the floor, and rest her head on top of it.

Then, just before her eyes close, she picks up my photo again, her fingers brushing over it as if trying to memorize the feel of me.

In the meantime, the mic picks up her voice, soft and broken, like a whispered prayer laced with pain. “Marcello.” That’s all she says. My name. As if it were both a curse and something sacred.

I stare at the screen as she drifts off to sleep, clutching my photo to her chest as if it were all she needed to keep warm.

“Fuck!” I snap, cursing at her through the screens, needing her to wake up, even if only just to throw a blanket over herself.

It’s fucking February, goddamn it! It’s three degrees outside and snowing—the kind of cold that cuts through wool and settles deep in your bones. And judging by the look of her almost bare apartment, I doubt it’s any warmer inside.

Why doesn’t she go to bed? Why sleep on the floor? Why is she punishing herself?

Why did she say my name? Was she calling out to me?

Again, I’m drowning in questions instead of answers. And when I can’t take another second of seeing Izzie like this, I do the only thing I can think of.

I listen to her call and go to her.