Black Hearted (The Margarelli Brothers 1)

Other than the furious daggers flashing in those glorious eyes of hers. She was deadly. She didn’t need a gun.

If looks could kill . . . Francesca definitely would have succeeded in murdering me by now.

I had a sudden image. Years had passed. We were together, holding hands, sitting on the stone patio outside the estate in Italy. 'Cesca was mine. She had been mine. We both had white hair and wrinkles. She was just as beautiful as she was today.

Maybe even more so.

I could see her glaring at me for one thing or another before softening as I pulled her close for a taste of her lips. Chastising me for pinching her cute bottom. Arguing and then laughing the way long-term lovers did in the space of a minute. I wanted that image to be real.

I needed it to be real.

And I knew that I had to let her go to get it. Just for now. Some day soon, I would claim her. I had to.

“Fine,” I ground out. “But I will be coming to see you soon. Make sure your security detail knows to expect me at the back entrance.”

“What back entrance?” she demanded, crossing her arms suspiciously.

I smiled, letting her see the whites of my teeth.

“The one on Twelfth Street. The one you use when you want to sneak out.”

Her pretty little mouth dropped open. I just smiled wider.

“Say yes, Frankie.”

“Yes,” she said, looking dazed.

“I will see you tomorrow,” I promised as I walked her to the entrance of the suite. I kissed her softly, and she shook herself, clearly dazed. She gave me a searching look and then slipped into the hallway.

She was gone. The suite felt emptier without her in it. I wanted to chase her down and drag her back inside so we could do tender, filthy things to each other.

But I didn’t. Because this time, I knew it wasn’t for good. Weeks wouldn’t go by with me wondering how she was. I wouldn’t have to toss and turn every night worrying about her.

Wanting her.

Tomorrow night, Francesca would be mine.

Chapter Sixteen

Francesca

“Planning to try to shoot me again?”

I spun to see Vincent standing there. He was in my house. In my bedroom, to be exact.

I’d spent the last twenty-hour hours going over what I would do to convince him to leave me alone. To convince him to run. That being with me or near me would only get him killed.

Even thinking about me was dangerous for him.

Because I knew Philip was watching.

My ex was a lot of things. Cruel. Vicious. Selfish. Dangerous. Unpredictable. He wasn’t even particularly smart, not in the traditional sense of the word, at least. But he was as wily as a fox. He had the survival instincts of an Alpha wolf. He was deadly when crossed.

And Vincent and I had done more than cross him. We’d humiliated him. If he had the slightest inkling of what we had done, he would kill us both.

He would kill all three of us.

A shiver ran through me. And yet, I was not scared. Philip did not know. Angelique would be saved. Somehow, Vincent and I would find a way to rescue her, to end this together. In that moment, I was full of hope. I was completely focused on the exceptionally beautiful man standing in front of me.

Wanting me.

Loving me.

Destroying me.

I had barely slept a wink last night imagining this moment. We’d been rushed the night before, but he’d still branded me. The way he’d touched me had done something to me. Changed me. Woken me up. Made me open like a flower in spring.

The thought of waxing poetic about any man, let alone Vincent Margarelli, would have made me sneer in disbelief a few months ago. Weeks ago, even. And yet here I was, letting him into my home. My bed. My heart.

We were both doomed, and it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. The only thing that felt real was him. I didn’t believe in anything except the way I felt in his arms.

“I won’t. You know, I never wanted to do that,” I said warily. It was hard to gauge his mood. His eyes were hot but his mouth was serious. And then he smiled.

In three steps, his long legs ate up the room.

“I know that,” he breathed, his hands cupping my face tenderly. He stared at my mouth for a moment before tipping my head back so he could ravage my mouth with his lips and tongue.

I was gasping for air long minutes later when he finally lifted his head. His eyes looked bewildered and awed. Just as I was sure mine did.

“My God, ‘'Cesca . . .”

I couldn’t help but agree with him.

“Do you want some wine?” I asked him shyly. “Or something to eat? It’s nearly dinner time.”

He laughed, the sound almost bitter.