“That is a bottle of Montrachet.” Every rough syllable of his voice dragged over my senses.
He’d captured me, shot me, threatened to hurt me. And now he played me like a puppet on strings, and I hated him for it almost as much as I hated myself for reacting in any way. I was no one’s puppet.
Yanking out of his hold, I turned to face him. I had to tilt back my chin to look up at him, and this close, he was even more beautiful. Honeyed poison.
One dark brow cocked over cold eyes, daring the mouse to snap at the cat. “And you’re drinking it out of a mug.”
I placed the wine bottle to my lips and tipped it back with a heavy slosh, hoping that if I feigned enough courage, it would become real. “Better?”
Rough fingers swept over my cheek so gently, it was unnerving. That touch said he could destroy me if he wanted to and he wouldn’t even need violence.
“And I thought you’d be a perfectly cowed, true Outfit princess.” He tsked.
“You wouldn’t have agreed to marry me if you knew the truth, would you?” I took another swig from the bottle and smiled, though it was a vicious, resentful thing. “My uncle seems to know you like your women ‘cowed’ and on their knees, though.”
And Uncle Sergio had sold him a lie.
A wicked smirk crossed Giovanni’s lips before his hand clamped around my throat. He wrenched me up against him, and the thready note of fear rattled through my lungs, but it was laced with a heady kind of thrill at the sense of danger that surrounded him so effortlessly. I was losing my damn mind.
“You’re right about one thing, piccola.” His voice was a seductive rumble that caressed my already fraught senses. “I do like a woman on her knees.”
My pulse thrummed erratically, and I knew he could probably feel it, probably mistook it for fear and liked it.
He leaned in, and I froze as his lips brushed my cheek, dragging a burning trail to my ear. “But I like her there wet and begging.” His teeth scraped my ear. “Right before I fuck her throat.”
My face burned, and I sucked in a ragged breath. “Well then, it seems my uncle screwed us both because neither of us will be getting what we want.” My voice wavered slightly, and I knew he heard it. I planted my knuckles that were fisted around the wine bottle against his chest, shoving away from him with as much strength as I could muster. Not enough to force him to let go of me, but he did.
That smirk remained on his lips as calloused fingers brushed mine, gripping the bottle of wine. I let go like it was on fire, then turned and practically ran to my room. I needed to get away from him.
7
Gio
Jackson and I stepped off the elevator and into the morning bustle of the Chicago DA’s office. The scent of coffee and stuffy air conditioning filled the space. It was the smell of people grinding through life.
The attention we drew as we passed through the rows of cubicles was not unwanted because the man I was here to see—well, the last thing he wanted was to be seen with me. Such was the two-faced nature of my world. People liked dirty money, but not the dirty consequences that came with it. I approached the district attorney’s office, and his secretary, Diana, looked up from her desk. The young woman’s gaze met mine, and a slight blush colored her cheeks as she nodded, making no move to stop me. I knew the DA was alone because I paid her to report his movements.
When I swung open the door, Hector Langford jumped behind his glass desk, opening his mouth before snapping it shut again.
“Mr. Guerra. What are you doing here? I could have met you—”
“Ah, Hector, you know as well as I do that I’m here to make a point.”
Jackson shut the door and placed his back to it, thick arms folding over an even thicker chest. He was a figurative wall trapping Hector in this office—with me. That was a position few men wanted to find themselves in.
I moved over to the window and took in the view of Chicago sprawled beyond the windows. The city lacked the charm of my home, but I could admit there was a certain beauty in the glittering of Lake Michigan in the distance. I turned around, watching as the DA swallowed heavily.
Hector Langford was a short man, his gut straining against the buttons of a suit that had probably fit him at one time. He shifted in his chair, wide eyes darting toward the office door as though he was debating trying to make a run for it. Maybe he thought he could get through Jackson, but I suspected he was more concerned about someone walking in here. It wouldn’t do for him to be seen with someone like me. Not that anyone could ever pin me for criminal activity, but whispers traveled like the wind, bouncing from city to city. My reputation was engraved into the bloody history of Chicago.