Page 30

B enito

She blinks once, inhales sharply, then runs up those wooden steps. And thank God she does because I’m this close to taking her and pulling her apart whether she consents or not.

I rest my damp palm against a glass door and breathe heavily until my pulse slows. Then I allow my eye to be drawn to the folded note on the floor. I reach down and pick it up, confirming it is the note I saw her stuff into her bra when she didn’t think I was watching.

Of course I was watching.

I watch her all the fucking time.

Seeing her press the piece of paper to her breasts like that just gave me one more reason to get her down here. There was no way I was going to last much longer without feeling her skin against mine .

I unfold the note, lean a shoulder against the glass, and read.

At first the sentences swim and I put it down to the fact my body is trying to absorb the unused come my balls had readied to plough into Contessa. But the more I read the same lines, the clearer they become, until all the blood that has drained from my cock has flooded my eyeballs.

I force myself to stay in the cellar for another thirty minutes. I need to calm down before I see her again.

She’s in contact with Federico Falconi. The boy who took her virginity. The same virginity she blames me for having lost. And they’re plotting to ruin me?

A small voice in the back of my head sings “I told you so,” but I physically try to shake the words away. My arms twitch with the urge to smash my curled fists into the coolers but I dig my fingernails into my palms to distract myself.

It can’t be true. Contessa wouldn’t do that to me. She wants me. I can still smell and taste the proof on my fingers. And even if it is all an act—an incredibly fucking convincing one—and she is pretending to be into me while colluding with Falconi to bring me down somehow, she surely wouldn’t drag her sister’s fiancé into it, would she?

My bones are solidly against this one. They know this doesn’t make any sense, but my muscles—and more importantly, the ones shaped and forever stained by memory—are itchy with doubt.

The closeness we’ve cultivated over the past couple of weeks means nothing. I’ve been betrayed by people I was closer to for a hell of a lot longer.

I swallow repeatedly as the extent of my foolishness sinks in. She lied to me . Not only did she blame me for losing her virginity—something she willingly gave away—but she’s been in contact with Falconi all along. And all this despite me telling her the truth about his father. She’s chosen to believe him over me .

I don’t register anything as I leave the wine cellar—not the change in temperature as I emerge into the cool summer air, nor the descent of nightfall drawing shadows from the foliage. I don’t register the words of friends and colleagues as I make my way to the gates. When I’m over the other side, a fence separating me from the woman I was falling hard and fast for, I take out my burner.

A few calls to associates in California and one to an informant for the Marchesi’s confirms Federico is coming to town and that he has indeed been in contact with the Marchesi’s. But, unusually for the rival mob, the Marchesi’s are keeping a few things close to their chests. Still, it’s enough to convince me of the authenticity of Tess and Falconi’s correspondence.

I ignore the dull ache in the pit of my stomach that seems to be growing with each new realization and make one last call, then I return to the apartment above the dance studio. And I wait.

Exactly twenty-four hours after I found the note on the floor of the wine cellar, a familiar figure emerges from the studio below. I saw her enter two hours ago and I’ve been sitting at the window, watching, waiting and counting the minutes ever since.

My gaze glides across the room slowly until it lands on the bottle I collected in the early hours of this morning. I stand and unwrap the cloth that came with it, and squeeze several drops of the liquid into the fabric. Then, grabbing my keys, I close the door behind me and make my way down to the street.

I feast my eyes on her from the back, torn between needing to do this and wanting to grab her ass in both hands, spin her around and kiss the living daylights out of her. The fact I’m even thinking of the latter makes me pick up the pace, my silent footsteps closing in faster.

It’s dusk so the dark hasn’t quite settled and I can tell she’s jumpy. When a car alarm sets off over the other side of the street, she goes to turn. In a beat I have the cloth pressed to her face, my other hand holding the back of her head. Her arms fly out, flailing ineffectively as I hold her firm. As she starts to wilt, I remove my hand from her head and catch her just before she hits the ground. Then I scoop her up, slide her into the back of the waiting car and climb into the front.

The driver doesn’t blink an eye.

“Where to, sir?”

I interlock my fingers and stretch out my knuckles, relishing the cracks. “The club.”