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- Herausgeber: Renee Rose
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
Read the thrilling conclusion to the
Vegas Underground Series. Four book set includes:
JOKER'S WILD (book 5)
He kidnapped me. Held me prisoner.
His brother took a bullet and Junior chose me to be his nurse.
So I’m his prisoner, trapped in his beautiful house, subject to his rule.
And it seems he’s developed a thing for me.
Which means he may never let me go....
HIS QUEEN OF CLUBS (book 6)
SORRY, PRINTSESSA, FREEDOM ISN'T IN THE CARDS FOR YOU.
YOU'RE MINE NOW.
I came for revenge.
The Tacone Family wiped out the Chicago mafiya.
My bratva. My family.
So I captured their little sister.
DEAD MAN'S HAND (book 7)
“I OWN YOU NOW”
She made a big mistake. You don’t blackmail a Tacone.
Coming to me with a threat? Unacceptable.
If she needs money, she’ll have to ask nicely.
WILD CARD (book 8)
“YOU’RE IN BIG TROUBLE, DOLL”
The little hacker stole from the Family—hundred fifty grand.
We Tacones don’t take kindly to thieves.
Not even when they come in a package as cute as hers.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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Vegas Underground Collection
Books 5-8
Renee Rose
Burning Desires
Copyright © 2019 Joker’s Wild, His Queen of Clubs, Dead Man’s Hand and Wild Card by Renee Rose
All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this book ONLY. No part of this e-book or paperback may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Published in the United States of America
Renee Rose Romance
Editor: Maggie Ryan
This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book contains descriptions of many BDSM and sexual practices, but this is a work of fiction and, as such, should not be used in any way as a guide. The author and publisher will not be responsible for any loss, harm, injury, or death resulting from use of the information contained within. In other words, don’t try this at home, folks!
Contents
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Joker’s Wild
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
His Queen of Clubs
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Dead Man’s Hand
Playlist
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Wild Card
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Acknowledgments
Other Titles by Renee Rose
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Joker’s Wild
Chapter 1
Junior
It’s supposed to be a civil meeting after dark at Caffè Milano.
Trouble is, you never know when you’re dealing with Russian mafiya. Fucking unpredictable feral bastards.
We’re here today to talk territory. They’ve been encroaching on our neighborhoods. Moving drugs. Working prostitution with females I suspect are enslaved.
I don’t give a shit what they do anywhere else, and fuck knows we don’t have much business in our old neighborhoods anymore, but I consider it a Family obligation to keep them clean. Keep the fucking Russians out of them.
We meet in the open, at a sidewalk cafe in Cicero. We call it the old neighborhood, kinda like how my father’s generation used to refer to the Old Country.
We’re in the business of lending money, same as always. It’s legit, unless you count the beatdowns that come with not making payments on time. These days, business has grown to huge proportions and we’re now living in mansions in the suburbs. Which doesn’t mean I don’t care about what happens in my territory.
I see one of the younger bratva sitting at a table—Ivan, I think. Vlad, their leader, doesn’t seem to be there.
Cazzo. I don’t like the way this is going.
My brothers, Gio and Paolo, and I get out of the Range Rover, along with our soldiers, Mario and Luca. We’re all armed, although we don’t make a show of it by openly carrying weapons.
“Where’s Vlad?” I ask Ivan. Gio comes with me, the other three hang back, as arranged.
Ivan shrugs, looking bored. “Coming.”
The girl working the counter—a slouchy millennial in skinny jeans and a fitted top comes out. I recognize her but I don’t know her name. She’s the granddaughter of the original owner, Luigi Milano, my father’s friend.
“Mr. Tacone.” She greets me but her face is anything but friendly. In fact, her lips are drawn in a thin line and a muscle jumps in her jaw. She darts a glance at the Russian and back at me like she’s afraid of having both of us in her place at the same time.
I named Caffè Milano as the meeting location because I consider it friendly territory for us, but I wonder if, with the new generation, things have changed. Maybe they’ve made deals with the Russians.
I should be angry by the thought, but it registers as a low buzz, hardly an interest.
“Can I bring you anything? An espresso? Cannoli?”
“Get lost,” the Russian snaps and she visibly jerks, and when her gaze swivels back to me, there’s pleading in it.
Fuck.
Whatever the Russians are doing here, she’s not down with it.
Which means I still have a problem.
“Espresso,” I say, wishing I could think of her name. I remember her running around here as a little girl back when my dad used this as a meeting place. Marissa? Faith? Fuck, I have no idea.
She stands there a second longer—way too long for a normal server, and now I’m positive there’s a problem.
“Get. Lost.” The Russian looks dangerous.
She throws one last glance my way and heads inside.
Gio’s elbow presses subtly but firmly against my arm. He’s telling me something, too. I sense Paolo shift behind us.
Fanculo, this thing is going sideways. It’s a trick. An ambush.
I glance through the large plate glass window. Every seat near the window is taken. Unusual for this time of night. Caffè Milano is more of a daytime deli. They stay open until evening, but people aren’t usually hanging around. I notice every customer in the place has his head bent as if to obscure my view of his face.
Ivan stands up and my hand inches toward the Walther PPK at the back of my waist. “Let’s go inside.”
“I don’t think so,” Gio answers for me, whipping out his gun.
And just like that, the thing explodes.
Shots ring out from fucking everywhere. Some come from inside the cafe, shattering the glass. Some come from our guys behind me. Gio and the Russian on the sidewalk fire at each other.
I throw the table through the glass, shattering it with explosive force to clear the view, then aim and shoot at a wounded Ivan at the same time he hits Gio.
Gio grunts and staggers backward, clutching his gut.
No. No! Not Gio. Fuck!
Things go slow-motion for me. I grab Gio’s gun from his hand and shove him into Paolo and Mario. “Get him to the car!” I shout as I aim at the heads ducked down below the window. I pull the triggers.
One. Two. Three dead. I’m shooting with both hands like I’m in a motherfucking movie.
I slam my foot into the door to kick it open and walk through. Four. Five down. I swing the guns around, looking for movement. Luca enters behind me, gun drawn, late to the show.
Something moves behind the counter and I pivot the muzzle of my Beretta. Luca aims too. It’s the Caffè Milano girl.
Fuck. Can she be trusted not to squeal? I hold the gun steady as I make my decision.
“She’s a witness,” Luca murmurs, like I don’t already know. But we don’t kill the innocent. My mind spins on how loyal her family was, and whether that bond still holds.
Her eyes fill with tears. “Mr. Tacone…”
Merda. I shove both guns in my pockets. She’s loyal. She wanted to warn me, I’m sure of it.
“No, not Tacones,” I tell her firmly. I sweep a hand around the room. “Russians.”
“Right,” she nods shakily. “All Russians.”
Smart girl.
“Give me five minutes before you call 911.”
“Got it.” Her head’s still wobbly on her neck.
I back toward the door. “I’m good for the damages.” I jerk my head toward the window, the bullet-riddled interior.
Tears spill down her cheeks as we leave and jump into the running car.
Paolo takes off, driving fast but easy-like. Not squealing tires or calling attention to us.
“Gio. Gio? Talk to me.” I sit beside my brother, pressing my hand over his where he holds the wound.
“I’m hit.” Gio’s slumped in the back seat, blood soaked through his shirt and jacket.
“I know. Just hang in there. You’re gonna be okay, you hear me?”
“Where to, Junior?” Paolo shouts from the front seat.
“My place. Then you three go pick up Desiree Lopez.”
“Ma’s nurse?”
“That’s right. She owes me a favor. She works in Trauma at Cook County. If she’s not at work, she lives on 22nd in Humboldt Park. Find her and bring her to my house. ”
Desiree
I barely notice my surroundings as I walk, keys in hand, to my old but running fourteen-year-old Honda Civic. I don’t see the shiny black Range Rover parked a few spaces down.
My instincts don’t warn me.
Maybe they would’ve if I hadn’t just worked a twelve-hour shift in Trauma. Maybe I wouldn’t have just plodded out to my parking garage, brushing off the security guard’s offer to walk me to my car.
Not until two big guys in trench coats get out of it and come right for me.
Oh God. This is it. I’m about to be raped and killed.
I freeze for one second, heart pounding, then dart forward, racing to jump in my car before they can reach me.
“Hold it!” One of them yells and they both lunge, one blocking my driver’s side door, the other coming after me. “Desiree Lopez?”
My brain can’t even compute how they know my name. I open my mouth to scream, but the guy claps a hand over my mouth. “Quiet.” His terse command comes out deep and scratchy. He smells of cigar smoke. He takes my purse from my shoulder, pulls out my wallet and looks at my I.D. “Yeah, it’s her.”
Adrenaline pumps through my veins. I know what they say. If someone drags you to a car, you’re not going to come back alive, so fight for your life. I elbow my kidnapper, turn my head to bite his hand.
But it’s useless. He mutters a curse in some other language and tightens his hold. All my weight thrown around, all my twisting and writhing is nothing to him. He picks me up and carries me forward.
His buddy comes up behind us and presses a gun to my ribs. “Enough with the struggle. Get in the car.” They haul me into the back of the Range Rover, sandwiched between the two men. One of them strips me of my purse as the vehicle takes off.
A bag drops over my head and I renew my fight, but they control me easily, each one taking a wrist and pinning them down by my sides.
“Yeah, we got her,” one of them says. At first I think he’s talking to the driver, stating the obvious, but then I realize he must be on a phone. “See you there.”
“Wh-what’s going on?” I warble.
No one answers me.
The phone call gives me pause. They wouldn’t call someone to say they had me if their intent was to rape and kill, would they?
They would if they’re devil worshippers who require a virgin sacrifice.
Not that I’m a virgin. Or that my theory is likely.
“I don’t know what you want, but, please. Please let me go.”
Again, no one bothers answering.
The Range Rover drives fast—and the way it only briefly slows, I’d bet they are rolling through stops or red lights, making me plow into the men beside me when it turns.
We drive long enough for me to get good and scared. For my breath to shudder in and out on silent sobs. No tears, though. I must be too afraid to let go.
And then we stop. The asshole on my right drags me out of the car, and I stumble for my footing, the blackness of the sack over my head stealing my sense of balance as well as my sight.
The surroundings are quieter—not a city street anymore, but still a sidewalk under my feet.
“What the fuck are you doing?” An angry male voice demands in a low voice, drawing closer with each word. “I told you not to hurt her.”
“She’s not hurt, just scared.” The voice beside me is low, too. We must be someplace people would hear us if they raised their voices. A neighborhood?
“Let her go.” The bag flies off my head.
I open my mouth to scream, but the sound dies on my lips when I blink up at the pair of sharp, dark eyes above the stubbled masculine line of a powerful jaw belonging to my former employer.
Junior Tacone.
Shit.
My galloping heart slows, reverses direction, takes off again.
“Junior.” I call him by the name his mother used when I worked in her house, forgetting the “Mr. Tacone,” forgetting to show respect.
And then, because I had actually been attracted to this man last time I saw him—had thought maybe he had a thing for me, too—and I just had the shit scared out of me, I slap his face, hard.
The men beside me growl and grasp my arms again.
“Let her go.” He takes my forearms instead, pulling me into him. Through his long wool coat, the firmness of his large body presses back at me. His dark gaze is commanding. Intense. “I’ll let that slide, this time. Because they scared you.”
A shiver runs up my spine. He’ll let that slide.
This time.
Like ordinarily, there are consequences for slapping the mob boss.
Of course there are.
“Now, come inside, I need your help.”
I look up the sidewalk at the huge house illuminated by streetlights. It’s not his mother’s Victorian brick where I worked for three months as a home healthcare nurse after her hip surgery.
Must be his?
I try to pull my wrist from his grasp. “No. You can’t just, just… kidnap me and tell me to come inside because you need my help.”
He shifts his grasp and tips his head toward the house. “Let’s go.” He doesn’t even bother answering my argument. And I suppose that’s because I’m dead wrong. He can just kidnap me and demand my help. He’s Junior Tacone, of the Chicago underground. He and his men have guns. They can make me do whatever they damn well please.
The relief that trickled in when I saw his handsome face ebbs back out. I may still never walk out of here. Because whatever awaits me in that house isn’t going to be pretty. Or legal.
Someone’s hurt and they need a nurse. That’s my best guess.
And now I’ll be a witness to whatever they’re trying to hide.
Is one of their members hurt? Or are they torturing someone? Need me to keep him alive so they can get something out of him?
I have no choice but to go in. I may have spunk, but I’m not willing to find out what happens if you defy the kingpin of Chicago. I fall into step beside him, hurrying to match his long strides.
He slides his grip from my wrist to my hand. His large hand warms my icy one and has a protective quality, like we’re on a date.
Like I’m not his prisoner.
Chapter 2
Junior
I’m still mostly functioning on autopilot. Probably in shock in my own alpha asshole way.
Even so, I know pulling Desiree into this situation was wrong.
I’m breaking one of our sacred rules—don’t involve or corrupt the innocent.
But she was the first person I thought of and the only one I fully trust to save Gio. Yeah, we have a few veterinarian connections we’ve used in the past, but it’s been years. They must be in their eighties now—friends of my grandfather. I don’t know who we can trust anymore.
And if Gio dies, it’s all on me. I’ll never forgive myself. I keep questioning my judgment on not bringing him to the hospital, but if I do, the Russians’ deaths will be pinned on him. Or on me. Fuck! —on us.
This is how my father would’ve handled it. We’ve treated bullet wounds in-house before. Just not immediate family. Paolo, Luca and Mario follow us in.
I pull Desiree into the house, jog up the stairs, still holding her hand.
She’s all piss and vinegar, dragging her feet to show me her reluctance, but underneath it, I smell her fear.
Which is for the best. I need her afraid. In my line of work, fear is an integral part of business.
We reach the landing and I turn toward the guest bedroom where Paolo helped me carry Gio, who had passed out by the time we arrived.
“Oh shit.” Desiree sees Gio. She strips off her coat and throws it on the floor as she runs into the room.
Relief hits me square between the eyes. Any worries I had that I’d have to coerce her to even look at him evaporate. She’s already in nurse mode, zeroing in on her patient.
“Your brother.”
She’s met him, then.
Or maybe she just sees the resemblance.
“Let me see.” She pries the blood-soaked washcloth from his wound. “Gunshot wound,” she mutters. “Help me roll him to the side to check for an exit wound.”
I’ve already noted one, but I help her see for herself.
“Good, that’s good. It means we won’t have to go digging out a bullet. How much blood has he lost?”
I don’t know if she expects me to give an actual calculation, but all I can do is hold up the first towel he went through before the current washcloth.
“Great. That’s a good sign, too. There would be way more blood if it hit anything major.”
I’d already guessed at the same, but I don’t disturb her process. “Tell me what you need.” I lift my chin at Paolo, who’s standing in the doorway. He pulls out his phone, thumb hovering over the keypad.
“A needle and thread to close the wounds. Gauze to pack them. Saline. Lots of saline—to keep them clean. I can use Everclear or some other alcohol in a pinch, but I’d really prefer saline. And I’ll need IV needles—21 gauge if you can get them. And the bags and tubes. Sodium potassium for the IV. And an antibiotic. Is he allergic to penicillin?”
“No.” My throat closes, a fresh rush of fear for Gio flooding me.
“Then penicillin.”
“Hang on. Back up. I didn’t get it all,” Paolo mutters.
She repeats the list for him. “Also, any pain killer or muscle relaxant would be good, because it’s going to hurt like hell for a good while.”
“Got it,” Paolo says.
I’m feeling better about my decision to involve Desiree by the minute. Her swift, incisive action is exactly how she won over my impossible-to-please ma when she worked for her. She’s excellent at what she does.
And so very nice on the eyes, too.
Not that I dragged her here for that.
She eyes the bloody towels again. “I don’t think we’ll need a blood transfusion.”
“If we do, you can take my blood,” I say quickly. I remember getting typed when we were kids and we Tacones were all the same—O positive.
“Or mine,” Paolo says. He’s nearly as pale as Gio.
“Is that it for medical supplies?” I ask.
“In the trunk of my car is a med kit. I’d like to have that, too.”
“Get her car somewhere safe,” I tell Paolo.
“On it,” Paolo mutters, leaving.
I don’t have a clue where he’s going to get all the shit she needs, but I know he’ll figure it the fuck out, just like he somehow figured out how to find and bring Desiree. This is our brother’s life on the line.
Desiree
“Giovanni,” I blurt, finally remembering Junior’s brother’s name. I met him once at his mom’s house.
My heart’s been beating hard since I saw him lying on the bed with a bullet wound soaking the sheets. I don’t know why I care so much, but it seems worse when you know the guy.
And I guess I hardly know him, but I looked after his mom for nearly three months and she talked about her kids all the time.
His eyelids flutter open and he focuses on me and groans.
“Don’t move,” I warn him. “I know it hurts. Don’t worry. We’re going to take care of you, Giovanni.”
“Gio,” Junior rumbles beside me.
“He goes by Gio. Got it.” I straighten and look at him. “Listen, I can’t do much until you get me the supplies. I don’t want to stitch the wound until I clean it. I think he’s relatively stable if we don’t let him move.”
Junior nods. “Paolo’s getting the supplies.”
And since there’s nothing to do but wait, I decide to make my dissatisfaction felt. “You can’t just kidnap me anytime you need a nurse.”
Junior’s face goes completely impassive. He says nothing.
Nothing.
Like he’s not even going to dignify me with an answer.
I smack his chest. “Seriously.”
He catches my hand and pulls it back to his chest. “Careful, doll. I said I’d let it slide last time. You hit me again, there’s gonna be consequences.”
A shiver runs up my spine, but it’s more thrill than real fear. I know, because my panties also dampen. I love having Junior talk consequences with me in his deep gravelly voice while holding my hand to his chest and standing inches away.
I almost love it enough to press my luck and find out exactly what those consequences will be, but I’m not quite that stupid.
I try to shove him away and retrieve my hand but he doesn’t budge and my hand stays glued where it lies.
He dips his head and pins me with a dark stare. “You take care of Gio, I’ll take care of you.”
Now a little trickle of fear runs through me, even though I think he’s making me some kind of offer, rather than a threat. I hear the undertones of every mafia deal on TV in his words, and it freaks me out.
“I’ll patch him up and stay until he’s stable, but that’s it. I work tomorrow at noon at the hospital.”
He shakes his head. “You won’t leave here until he’s better. I don’t care if it takes a month. Tomorrow you’ll call into work and tell them you came down with the flu.”
I gape at him.
Shit. I am definitely still a prisoner here.
“My mom works at the same hospital—she’ll be dropping by my house the second she gets off work.”
His blank mask doesn’t change. “You’d better think of something, then.”
My stomach drops.
“Or what?”
He cocks his head, studies me for a moment. “There’s a reason we’re not at the hospital, capiche?”
I nod.
“So think long and hard about whether you want your mom to be one of my loose ends.”
My entire body flushes with ice.
That was definitely a threat.
A very scary threat.
And does that mean I’m going to be one of his loose ends, too? When my usefulness ends, will he get rid of me so I won’t talk?
Ohmyfuckinggod.
I’m in deep shit here.
My knees buckle. I probably would’ve stumbled back except for his grip on my hand.
He pinches my chin between his thumb and forefinger to bring my eyes back to his. “You’ll stay here until he’s better. No contact with anyone outside. And when you walk away—you’ll have enough money to buy yourself a brand new car.” Junior had to give me a ride home from his mother’s once when my car died in front of her house. He knows how old my car is. “Okay?”
I shove at him again, tears smarting my eyes. This time he lets me go. “No, it’s not okay.” I blink rapidly so he won’t see me cry. “You think you have my number just because I drive a piece of shit car? You think you can just kidnap me, take control of my life and make it all right with a wad of cash?”
It’s unwise of me to argue with him. Stupid, really. I don’t even know if his offer of money is real, or just what he’s telling me to make sure I’ll do the job. I do know he can make me do it, regardless.
But I’m just winding up and can’t seem to stop my bluster now. “I could lose my job, you know. I just started there—I only have one day of sick time accrued.”
Junior’s lips close into a flat line and for the first time I realize how lethal he looks. I’ve always focused on the handsome side before. But now? Now I see the visage others must see when they’re pissing their pants and asking God’s forgiveness of their sins before they die.
Because his expression is deadly.
“You lose your job, I’ll cover you, okay? Now stop giving me shit. Your job is here for now, and I expect you to do it well.”
I glare at him, but I don’t dare open my mouth again.
He turns me around, back to face Gio. “Come on, doll, don’t make this hard.” His voice loses some of the steel, bringing in a note of coaxing. “It had to be you,” he says to my back.
I resist the urge to look over my shoulder at him and ask him to elaborate.
“The second you walked in here, you knew what to do. You took charge of the situation. I don’t trust anyone else with my brother’s life.”
Something rigid eases in my chest. “I’m sure there’s plenty of other people,” I mutter.
“No.” He steps closer. He’s right at my back, although not touching me. “It had to be you.” His hands come to my waist, lightly resting there.
Tingles race up and down my spine. My quads tighten and quiver.
“I’ll make it worth your while.” He bends his head down to mine, his mouth close to my ear. “I promise.”
I swear there’s innuendo in that promise. Unbidden, a fantasy I had when I worked for his mom surfaces. One where he pushes me over the kitchen table, taking me roughly from behind while I beg him to be gentle. That fantasy doesn’t seem too far off from becoming a reality now and that should terrify me. Or make me sick.
Instead, flutters take off in my belly and the urge to push him over the edge into his damnable consequences resurfaces.
Fortunately, I’m not that idiotic. I shove the urge back down, bury it under layers of fear and righteousness and vow to never, ever let my attraction for this man show again.
He’s dangerous.
He doesn’t deserve that kind of attention from me.
I can’t even begin to entertain ideas like that.
Chapter 3
Junior
“You call Nico?” Paolo stands beside me as we watch Desiree work on Gio.
It’s 3:00 a.m., and she’s already disinfected, stitched and packed both wounds.
“No,” I bristle. You’d think fucking Nico ran this family now the way everyone looks to him. Yeah, he’s the one who made the Tacones hundreds of millions. He made us legit, took us away from illegal activities just by bringing the old gambling business to a state where everything’s legal.
He also had nothing to lose. He’s the fourth son of Santo Tacone. He slipped away with no big expectations on his head. Very little blood on his hands. He didn’t have the pressure to emulate my father’s vicious ways and keep order in Chicago. Didn’t have to hold La Famiglia and the old neighborhoodstogether after our father went to prison.
“We should call him.”
“Why?” I snap.
Paolo shakes his head. “What if this is a big fucking mistake? Madonna, Junior, if Gio dies—”
“He’s not going to fucking die!” I snap.
Desiree whirls at the same time and glares at Paolo. “Nobody’s dying on my watch.” She rubs alcohol over Gio’s forearm for the IV. “If you’re going to be bringing my patient down with your bad attitude, you should leave.”
Cristo, I love the piss and vinegar in her. It makes my cock so hard when she picks that chin up and flashes defiance right in my face. Considering her rebellion doesn’t stem from ignorance, I’d say the girl had balls of steel. If she had balls, of course.
Paolo scowls and pulls me back into the hallway, out of earshot. “Okay, I get that she knows what she’s doing, but what the fuck, Junior? Did you seriously think this through?”
I gnash my teeth and don’t give him an answer.
“Tell me you weren’t thinking with your dick when you asked me to bring her here.”
I wrap my fist in his shirt and slam Paolo up against the wall, my fear for Gio making my normally low patience level non-existent. “Shut your fucking mouth. She’s here because she’s good, that’s it.”
“Right.” He’s breathing hard, probably working to keep his own temper in check. “And what happens to her when this is over, huh? You gonna get rid of her?”
I pull him away from the wall and slam him back, because I don’t like him threatening her life, even in a secondhand, vague way. “No, stronzo. I’m gonna pay her off. Money or fear will keep her quiet. Or a combination of the two. I’ll handle it.”
Paolo doesn’t quite meet my eye, but his jaw is set at a sullen angle. “Someone ought to call Nico.”
I release him and throw my hands out, Italian style. “Be my guest.” I stalk away, down the stairs to the kitchen. I can’t eat, but I pour a couple fingers of scotch for myself and throw it back.
I listen for Paolo’s voice on the phone with Nico, but it doesn’t come. Instead, the front door slams.
My skin pricks with irritation, but I pour another finger of scotch and swallow it down. Send a text to Mario and tell him I want a glass repair company at Caffè Milano first thing in the morning. I never intended to burn that business with Family shit. I will stop by there personally to repay them for damages and make sure no one there’s going to squeal as soon as I can get away. And after the dust has settled.
I don’t know how long I stand there with the empty glass in my hand, but eventually I hear light footsteps coming down the stairs.
Desiree comes into the kitchen. Exhaustion shows in the circles under her eyes, the weariness around her mouth.
I pull out a fresh glass, pour another couple ounces of scotch and hold it out to her.
She stares at it for a moment, then takes it wordlessly and tosses it back. Her shudder as it goes down confirms my suspicion that she’s not much of a drinker.
“Hungry?” I ask.
“Yeah, but I don’t think I’ll eat.” She pats her hips. “Not good for the girlish figure to eat before bedtime.”
“Fuck that. You worked your ass off today. Your body needs fuel.”
I’m not the daddying type. Not in the least. I don’t even know what makes me insist. Maybe I’m just offended by her suggestion that her curvy body isn’t the most perfect figure ever made.
I walk to the refrigerator and pull it open. It’s mostly full of take out boxes and ready made food like that. “You want a sandwich?” I ask. “Or there’s half a calzone in here.”
“You have any ice cream?” Her soft voice is right behind me, and I register it with distinct pleasure.
I throw open the freezer, happy because I know I do. I pull out a full pint of Ben & Jerry’s mint chocolate cookie. I’m not big on sweets, but I bought it the other day on some weird impulse.
“Ohmygod, that’s my favorite.” She literally snatches the carton out of my hand and tears the top off.
My lips twist in an uncharacteristic smile as I pull open the silverware drawer and grab two spoons.
I hand her one “I like your enthusiasm, doll.”
She wrinkles her nose, holding the carton of ice cream right against her chest as she digs the spoon in. She flops down in one of the kitchen chairs.
I don’t have people over to my house, and when I do, I make it a practice not to make them feel at home. So it shouldn’t please me that it’s so easy for her to get comfortable.
But again, this is the same character trait that won my ma over. She didn’t tiptoe around the house and act stiff and formal. She ruled the roost while she was there, bossing my ma around, all the while doing an irreproachable job.
I sit down in the chair beside her and try to stick my spoon in the ice cream.
“No way.” She jerks it away, angling her body to shield it from me.
I chuckle. “One spoonful. Give me a taste.”
My last words hang in the air between us, taking on an erotic undercurrent. Desiree blushes a bit when she offers the carton.
I take one spoonful, savor the rich treat, and then put my spoon down.
Desiree digs into the carton like it might be taken from her at any minute and she needs to get as much in her before that happens. I watch as she mmms and groans in pleasure, my dick getting hard. Every time those full lips mold around the spoon I get jealous. I vow to buy a fucking crate of this ice cream to have on hand while she’s staying here.
She doesn’t stop until her spoon scrapes the bottom and then she blushes again. “Dang. This is why I shouldn’t be allowed to eat before bedtime.”
“You deserved it.” My voice sounds rusty, which seems about right, since it’s unlike me to throw out compliments or praise. Ever.
She flushes deeper, looking distinctly guilty. “I have a tendency to stress eat.” She sets the carton down with one large spoonful left in it.
“I enjoyed the show.” I didn’t mean to say it, but it’s the truth. Watching her wolf down the ice cream was damn cute. I relished her enthusiasm and clear pleasure of the dessert.
Maybe in my head I’m thinking the hedonism she displayed over the ice cream translates to the bedroom.
Not that I’m going to fuck her.
I’m definitely not going to fuck her.
It’s bad enough I dragged her into this shit storm. I don’t need to further taint her with me.
La Madonna knows, I ruin everything I come close to.
I scoop out the last bite with her spoon and hold it out to her. It’s weirdly intimate and as soon as I do it, I realize it’s too much.
“No.” She shakes her head and turns her face away.
“You sure? All right.” I put the bite in my mouth instead and her gaze tracks to my lips, like she enjoys watching me eat as much as I loved watching her.
She stands up, running her palms down her scrubs like they’re sweaty. “So. I’m spending the night, huh?”
Right. She’s not a guest, she’s a prisoner. I need to make sure she understands that.
I stand, too. “You’ll stay in Gio’s room,” I say. “That way if he needs you, you’ll hear him.”
Her eyebrows shoot up and I can tell she doesn’t like it, but she doesn’t say anything. I would put her in another guest room, but I don’t trust myself with her. Lord knows I want to get my hands all over her sassy curves. Want to find out what she tastes like. What it’s like to pound between her legs and make her scream.
But none of that is going to happen.
So putting her in Gio’s room is definitely the best plan.
We walk up the stairs to the landing. “You got a toothbrush I can use?”
Cristo. It’s like an overnight without the sex. Not something I ever do—overnights, that is.
“Uh, yeah, I think I do.” I head into my en suite bathroom and dig out an unopened toothbrush head for my sonic toothbrush. I hand it to her with the toothpaste and point to the guest bath.
“Thanks. I’ll be right back with this.”
She disappears into the bathroom and I close my eyes and lean against the wall.
Maybe Paolo was right.
Maybe I was thinking with my dick when I had her dragged here.
Maybe my dick is an opportunistic fuck who doesn’t give a shit who I ruin.
Desiree
I sleep maybe three hours, which is no surprise. I put codeine in Gio’s drip, but he still wakes every thirty minutes groaning.
And even though I’m dead tired, I’m too keyed up about being Junior Tacone’s prisoner to be able to rest. I get up when the clock reads 6:34 a.m. and slip into the bathroom to pee.
Gio’s asleep, and a peek in Junior’s cracked door tells me he is, too.
It’s my chance to leave. I should take it. Because even though Junior promised me a big payout for staying, I’m not sure his word is good. That might just be what he’s telling me to make sure I do a good job. And when Gio doesn’t need me anymore, I end up in Lake Michigan with cement shoes.
I didn’t miss the threat he made if I told my mom. He’d have to get rid of her. So why would he keep me around?
He wouldn’t.
No, I can’t let my attraction to dangerous men keep me in danger. If I have a chance to run, I should run right now.
Gio jerks in his sleep and moans.
Shit. Maybe I should wait until his condition is more stable. What will they do without me?
No, fuck that.
It’s not my problem.
I didn’t volunteer for this job. They need to figure it out on their own.
I slip on my shoes and coat and hunt for my purse, which they took from me when they grabbed me at the hospital.
I search downstairs, checking closets. I even step into Junior’s room and do a cursory sweep. When he snorts and rolls over, I dart back out of the room.
Screw the purse. My life isn’t worth risking on the stuff in my purse.
I head back down the stairs and crack the front door. I stop at the bite of cold wind and the stare out at the graying dark.
Fuck. Should I leave?
If I do, then what? Go to the cops?
Maybe I’m nuts, but I don’t have any desire to throw Junior or Gio to the authorities, even though they’re surely involved in something very illegal. Probably deadly.
But if I don’t go to the cops, what stops Junior from just grabbing my ass off the streets again and dragging me back here? And then I’m sure I’ll forfeit the money he promised, which I desperately need.
To add to my dilemma, if I walk out this door, I don’t even know where to go. I don’t have a car or a phone. It’s freaking freezing out and who knows how far we are from public transportation. The neighborhood looks ritzy—like Oak Park or some other neighborhood named after a tree.
“Shut the door.”
I jump and gasp at Junior’s angry voice coming down the stairs. I freeze, unable to make myself bolt out the door, or obey him and shut it. The indecision that kept me there for the last eighty seconds still has me paralyzed.
“I said, shut it.” His hand slaps against the door, slamming it.
I still don’t move. Don’t turn to look at him. Don’t try to run. I guess this is what they mean by “petrified.”
Tacone grabs the sleeve of my jacket and tugs it off me, tossing it onto the floor. “Where in the fuck do you think you’re going?”
Oh shit. He has the most effective angry voice I’ve ever heard. I’m surprised I don’t piss myself.
I still don’t turn around—just stand facing the door like it somehow makes me safe if I can’t see him.
His hand crashes down on my ass.
I gasp in surprise, but honestly, the spank is welcome.
It’s not a gun. Not a wire around my neck. It’s not even a backhand. It’s a slap. On my ass. Simple and sexual.
He slaps me again, hard.
I bring my hands to the door to brace myself, spread my fingers, push my ass out.
I hear Junior’s breath rasp out in a rush. He grunts and reaches up to capture my hands, stacking one wrist over the other and pinning them above my head as he rains stinging smacks all over my ass and the backs of my legs.
My heart pounds against my chest. It hurts and I’m still frightened, but I’m getting more and more turned on by the second.
This is like a scene out of my fantasies. Okay, they never involved spanking, but they totally involved Junior dominating me. Bending me over the couch and forcing me to have sex, or shoving me to my knees and making me suck his cock.
Being on the receiving end of a spanking at his hands definitely fits in the same category.
He stops spanking, his breath at my ear. We both pant like we ran a lap around the block. He hasn’t released my wrists and I love how it feels to be captured by him. My body reacts to it before I can stop myself. I toss my head back, push my ass against his body.
To my disappointment, he releases me and steps back. “Go upstairs to my room.”
Ms. Bluster makes a full appearance. I whirl and put my hands on my hips. “What for?”
His gaze is heavy-lidded. He’s standing there in a white undershirt and his boxer briefs, which doesn’t make him seem the slightest bit vulnerable. No, the way he fills them out—chest and shoulder muscles stretching the cotton shirt, cock tenting the briefs—he’s as commanding as he is in a suit. “I’m not done punishing you.” He jerks his chin toward the stairs, in a silent repetition of his command.
My pussy clenches but I can’t seem to drop the attitude. I cock a hip. “What does the punishment entail?”
He moves quicker than I would think possible for such a big guy. One second I’m standing there, facing off to him, the next I’m over his shoulder being carried swiftly upstairs. His hand claps down on my ass. I kick my legs and squirm because resistance is part of my fantasy.
He brings me into his bedroom and kicks the door shut, then tosses me to the middle of the bed.
I’m out of breath, mostly excited, a little scared. So far he hasn’t hurt me, unless you count slapping my ass, which I don’t. Yeah, it still stings, but I remember from spankings as a kid, that will go away in less than a half hour.
I watch, fascinated, as he pulls off my shoes, then yanks my scrubs down my hips and off my legs.
I automatically move to tug my top off and toss it on the floor with the rest of my stuff. I may appear a little too eager. I haven’t had sex in over three years. I’m just thanking God I’m wearing matching bra and panties—a red satin and lace set that look great against my caramel skin.
“Cristo,” he mutters, eyes black, nostrils flaring. He stares at my body with hunger. “You always wear these sexy little lace numbers under your scrubs?” He climbs over me, pushing me to my back and pinning my wrists above my head. “It’s a good thing I didn’t know that when you were working at my ma’s.” He straddles my hips, the savage lines of his face hovering over mine.
“Now listen carefully, little girl. You got one chance to say no if you don’t want your punishment to involve me shoving my cock into one of your sexy-as-fuck holes.”
His words shock me and my body jerks beneath his, but it’s not with fear. It’s from a kick of lust.
Still, I’m a fighter. Always have to show resistance. I lick my lips. “What’s my punishment if I say no?”
He pulls back slightly and I’m almost sorry I asked. “I put my dick away, spank your ass some more and send you back to Gio’s room to do what you’re told.”
Do what I’m told. I’m sure on some level that offends me. It’s just not making it through to my brain at the moment.
“And if I say yes?”
A devilish glint lights up his eyes. “You’re gonna end up with me pounding into you until you’re good and sorry. And then I’ll spank your ass and send you back to Gio’s room to do what you’re told.”
I wriggle on the bed, rolling my hips beneath his, desperate for some friction on my clit. My entire body is lit up with need. Soaked with desire. “I’ll take the second option.” I hardly recognize my breathy voice.
His eyes gleam with what looks like satisfaction. “Yeah?”
“Do I get to pick which hole?”
His lips twist into a wicked smirk. “Oh no, baby.” He flips me over to my belly. “This is punishment. That means it’s my choice.”
Again, rockets of desire shoot through me. This is exactly what I wanted. The fodder of all my fantasies.
He unhooks my bra in the back and pulls it off me, then pulls my wrists behind my back and ties them with it. My panties come off next, and he pulls my hips up until I’m resting on my knees with my face and shoulders still mashed into the bedcovers. He runs a hand over my ass. “You look so good in my handprints.” He smacks my ass, then rubs. His fingers dip between my legs and he makes a rumble of satisfaction at what he finds there.
“Now tell me, baby.” He circles my clit. “What made you so wet? Your spanking? Or knowing you’re about to get fucked?” He slaps my pussy. “Or is it being tied up and at my mercy?”
I don’t answer. I’m actually not sure I’m capable of speech. Plus, it seems like a rhetorical question.
It earns me a flurry of hard spanks. “I asked you a question, doll.”
“Ohh-oh,” I moan as he returns to rubbing my clit. He’s rougher this time and I’m already starting to get close to climax, just from a few spanks and rubs.
“Hmm?” He slaps me five times in the same exact spot and I yelp and list away.
“All of it,” I mumble into the covers.
“All of it,” he muses. “Let’s test that.” He starts spanking, hard and fast. Just spanking. No rubbing. No fondling. It gets intense and I start to twist and whimper a little.
He slaps between my legs.
I cry out.
He rubs over my slit. “Mmm. Yeah. Spanking definitely makes you wet, doesn’t it, doll?” He slaps my pussy again.
It feels so good—even though it startles me. Even though it stings and sends nervous flutters to my belly. I want more of it. Need more of it.
I spread my knees wider, sink into the position, offering it to him.
He curses in Italian and spanks me light and fast between the legs. Slap-slap-slap-slap.
I cry out.
He pinches my clit. “Don’t come, baby. This is punishment, remember?”
Best. Punishment. Ever.
I’m halfway to an orgasm already. Maybe even closer. My body’s feverish, desperate.
Junior grips my thighs and pulls my ass cheeks apart, licking me from clit to anus.
I shriek at the sensation. At the taboo of having my anus licked.
Junior chuckles at my reaction. “I should fuck your ass, shouldn’t I?” He pushes against the tight ring of muscles, massaging my back hole. I tighten against the intrusion, squeezing my eyes shut. “I think your disobedience merits a good ass fucking.”
I shake my head, rubbing my face in the bedspread. “No, please.” I don’t know if I’m damning myself further by letting him know I don’t want it, but I am a total anal virgin. And I’m dying to feel him between my legs. “My pussy. Please. I haven’t had sex in so long.” I know it sounds pathetic, and it hurts my pride to admit it, but maybe he’ll take mercy on me and give me what I need.
“Is that right?” Junior yanks the binding off my wrists and flips me over onto my back. “You need my cock in here?” He plunges his thumb into my pussy, grinding into my clit with his palm.
I arch, thrusting my hard nipples toward the ceiling. “Yes. Please, Junior.”
Still pumping his thumb in and out, he grips his cock with the other hand and pulls it from his boxer briefs.
I prop myself up on my elbows to see better.
His grin is feral. “You’re so fucking beautiful, doll.”
Beautiful.
Huh.
I haven’t felt beautiful in a long time. I’ve got this extra twenty pounds I can never get off, and I’m always stressed out of my mind with worry over finding Jasper. But Junior doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who says stuff just to be nice. And the way he’s looking at me, I actually think he means it.
“Do you have a condom?” I’m surprised at how shy I sound. It’s not like me at all.
His answer is soft, his gaze indulgent. “Yeah.” He keeps stroking his cock and me at the same time. “I’ll find one.” He pulls his thumb out of me like it kills him and pads to the en suite bathroom. He returns with a fistful of condoms. I guess he really does plan on pounding me until I’m good and sorry.
He tosses them on the bed and rips one open with his teeth. I watch, fascinated, as he peels his shirt off over his head. He’s all burly man—hairy chest, a tattoo covering his right pectoral and shoulder. He shoves his briefs off, too, and rolls the condom over his impressive manhood.
“Spread those legs for me, baby. Spread ‘em wide and hold them there.”
I open my legs spread-eagle, feet pointed toward the ceiling.
“That’s it.” He lines the head of his sheathed cock up with my entrance. “You hold them there until I say. Capiche?”
I rack my brain to remember the right answer. “Capito!” I blurt and his eyes light up, a shadow of a smile appears on his face. He collects my wrists and pins them above my head again, then pushes into me.
I groan at the sensation of him filling me, shoving inside. It’s been way too long since I’ve had sex, and I don’t remember it feeling this good. I rock my hips up to meet his thrusts, careful to hold the spread-eagle position. It’s sort of ridiculous and I feel like some kind of sex doll, but that’s exactly what works for me. I love the degradation of it, the suggestion that this might be arduous, rather than pleasurable for me.
I start making all kinds of sounds. I’ve never understood how people can have sex and not shout at the top of their lungs. I can’t help all the noise that comes out of my throat—the cries, the moans, the unintelligible words. I beg, plead, coax. I show my appreciation with every honest sound.
“Fanculo,” Junior mutters, pounding harder, sweat beading at his hairline.
True to his promise, he fucks hard. Each thrust rams deeper. If he didn’t keep yanking me back, my head would smash into the headboard.
His hand flashes out and slaps my right breast.
I squeal in offended surprise, but he squeezes it, leans over and flicks his tongue over my nipple, all the while riding me like we’re in a horse race.
“Junior,” I gasp.
The strain of holding back shows on his face, but he still manages to cock a brow. “You feeling good and sorry?”
I let out a hysterical laugh. “So sorry. So damn sorry. Please, Junior.”
Instead of bringing us to a finish, he pulls out.
“No!” I protest.
He rolls me to my belly. “Spread, baby.”
I spread my legs. He grips the back of my neck, like he’s holding me down, and enters me from behind.
It’s so good, I swear I nearly pass out. Every stroke is heaven on wheels.
I turn my face to keep from suffocating in the blankets, and he rides me hard from behind, his loins against my ass, as he thrusts in so deep.
“Junior!”
“Fuck, yeah, baby. Come all over my dick now. Squeeze me tight, doll.”
I clench my muscles around his cock and he shouts something in Italian, slams in with enough force to bang the bed against the wall once, twice, three times. On the fourth, he stays deep inside me and comes.
My internal muscles flutter around his cock, squeezing and releasing as I come, too. I’m lightheaded. I’m lost.
And then, for some unknown reason, I’m crying.
Junior
Sonofabitch.
Desiree’s beautiful back shakes with sobs and I nearly lose my shit. I roll her over, doing my best to keep my hands gentle when urgency makes me want to yank and tear.
“Desiree. Baby. Fuck.” I gather her into my arms as she tries to hide her face in her hands.
Merda.
“I didn’t mean to break you, doll. I really didn’t.”
It’s exactly what I was trying not to do. It’s why I went in hot and fucked her instead of turning on the ice and scaring the shit out of her with threats or force.
What am I saying? I didn’t even mean to fuck her. I didn’t know what to do—all I knew was that the usual shit I spew to people when I’m threatening the lives of the people they love wouldn’t come out. So I smacked her ass.
And then she spread her palms out on the door and thrust her hips back like she liked it, and I was a goner.
But I must’ve misread her cues.
Something went terribly wrong because now she’s hiccupping and mopping up tears like she can’t stop.
She struggles to sit up. “It’s good. I’m good.” She wipes her tears with both fingers. “I don’t even know why I cried. Just the release, you know? I’m overtired, and this has been stressful and”—she waves her hand, a rueful twist of her full lips—“it all came out. I’m sorry, this is so embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing? Fuck that.” I won’t let her go even though she’s fighting for sovereignty. Instead, I pull her around to straddle my lap, hold her tight against my chest. “You’re really okay?” I stroke up and down her bare back.
She gives a watery laugh. “Yes. Can we please forget this happened?”
“Stop,” I command. “I don’t give a shit if you bawl your eyes out every time you come. Hell, I don’t care if you puke. As long as I know it was good for you.”
She laughs against my neck, still hiding her face there. “It was good.”
“Too rough?” I’m still shell-shocked from thinking I hurt or scared her.
“No.” Her lips move against my neck. Is she kissing me? “I liked it.”
I keep holding her tight, partly because I love the feel of so much soft skin up against mine. But also because I figure she needs to be held even if she’s trying to pull her shit together and pretend nothing happened. And I’m not oblivious to the fact that I caused the stress she had to release through her tears.
“I had this fantasy…” I hear her say in a very small voice. Like she’s telling me a secret, here in the dark. “Back when I worked for your mom. I used to imagine you forcing me to have sex.”
I somehow manage to not stiffen. She’s talking about a fantasy. It doesn’t mean she believes I would actually force a woman to have sex with me.
“You get hot for a little violence in the bedroom, doll?”
She leans her chin on my shoulder. Her bare breasts push against my chest. “I don’t know. Yeah, I guess so. I mean, just a fantasy, right? Of course I would never want to be forced in real life. And any guy who did that—”
“Yeah, yeah,” I interrupt. I’d rather stick with her fantasies than discuss rape. I pull her hips against mine. Her cunt is still slick with her juices and it rubs over my cock, getting me semi-hard again.
Her lips find the place where my shoulder meets my neck again. This time I’m sure it’s a kiss or love bite or whatever.
“I can’t even believe I’m telling you. It’s just that you kinda just made it all come true. In a good way,” she rushes to add. “I don’t mean I really felt forced.”
My dick lengthens. “Well—” I keep stroking her back, palming her ass, consuming her. “I’m happy to act that fantasy out with you over and over again.” I squeeze both her ass cheeks roughly, lifting and lowering her slowly over my cock. “Let’s just say while you’re in this house, you might be subject to forced fucking any time I feel like it.”
Her breath catches and she goes still, like she’s thinking it over.
“We’ll need some kind of signal, I guess,” I suggest. “So I know if you really don’t want it.”
“You mean like a safe word?” Her warble is small again, and it kinda kills me to hear her that way, because she’s usually so full of confidence.
“Safe word. Right. I guess so.” I don’t know shit about BDSM, but a safe word makes sense.
“How about if I say…peanut butter if I want it to stop?”
I smile. “Peanut butter. Got it. You gonna remember that, doll? If I have you pinned down and nervous?”
“I’ll remember. Will you?” she demands, her sassy attitude returning.
“Yep. Did you just agree to be my on-demand pussy for the rest of the time you’re here?”
She bites my shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark. “No. You just agreed to be my gigolo.”
I chuckle, stroking her soft skin. I’m not sure when I’ve last smiled or chuckled. But then again, I haven’t had sex like that in...well, maybe ever.
Even with Gio in critical condition in the next room, the heaviness that usually hangs over my head seems temporarily lifted.
And I hate to end it, but Gio’s waiting. And I need to get things straightened out with his nurse.
I ease back so I can see Desiree’s face and catch her jaw in an overhand hold. “Okay, doll. We still have serious shit to talk about.”
Her eyes widen.
“Why were you leaving?”
Desiree sags a bit. “I didn’t leave,” she insists. “I was considering it.”
I force myself not to smile. It’s so cute how she always argues with me.
“Okay. Why?”
She shrugs, a slightly mulish expression settling over her. “I’m not really sure I’m going to walk out of here alive.” She lifts her chin, a direct challenge flashing in her big brown eyes.
Now it’s my turn to sag. As much as her fear pisses me off, she’s right to worry. She’s gonna be a loose end, and if I were smart, if I were ruthless, I would make sure she didn’t walk out of here and talk.
“Oh, baby.” I release her jaw and let my grip trail down her throat. It’s not a threat, but she swallows convulsively beneath my hand. “I don’t off innocent women.” I trace her jaw. “Especially not ones who work their asses off to save my brother’s life.” I cup behind her nape and pull her toward me to kiss her neck. “Especially not ones with little freckles on their upturned noses.” I tap her nose. “I promise you’ll walk away from this with the rewards you deserve. I know how to show my appreciation to the people who prove their loyalty. I’m going to take care of you, Desiree.”
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll talk? I mean, there’s a reason Gio’s not at the hospital, right?”
