Then my eyes fly open as I remember.
Santo.
He’s here. In the flesh. Right on the other side of this room, in the shower.
I lay on my back and listen. I’d bet a lot of goddamn money he’s taking care of business in there, if I know him. The guy’s got the sex drive of a manwhore.
I won’t think of that now.
I hear the shower crank off, then hear him turning the faucet on and off. I listen to the sounds of the bathroom door opening and his fumbling around for clothes.
“Santo?” I roll over in the bed, still naked. My damp towel’s been put in the hamper. I smile to myself. He knows I like things tidy.
The door between our rooms opens, and he looks in at me. I look at him without bothering to hide it. At his abs and muscles, his inked arms and inked back, the heavy beard he’s trimmed and groomed. Damn but it suits him.
“Ooh. The beard looks nice.”
He gives me the glimmer of a smile. “Thank you. You sleep okay?”
“Like a baby. You?”
He grimaces. “Eh, not bad.”
Footsteps outside the door. We both freeze, seconds before a knock sounds. He yells over his shoulder, “Be right there!” He slowly closes the door between our rooms without a word to me. I jump to my feet, grab a dress and bra from my closet, and run to the bathroom to get ready.
I do not want to look disheveled, like I just rolled out of bed. I don’t want anything to look suspicious. I’m kinda known for being particular about getting ready, taking my sweet time about it, but a bitch can move when she needs to.
I hear voices at the door but don’t bother to look to see who it is. I’m quickly applying my makeup and fixing my hair when there’s a knock at the door between the rooms.
“Rosa, we need to head down for breakfast soon. You ready?”
“Be ready in a minute!” I yell, the same way I would respond to someone who was no more than a bodyguard to me.
But we both know better.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Santo
I’ve always loved the thrill of a chase, the knowledge that something dangerous could happen at any minute. It’s just a part of who I am. I don’t like playing it safe, following the rules, which is probably why Narciso enjoyed training me as a hit man.
And I know something’s probably broken in me, but it was the best job I ever had. The absolute power of it all, the need for perfect precision.
He broke me in easy, you could say.
“Asshole’s been selling crack on the school playground.”
Papa sat in his office, nursing a cigar. Mama didn’t like him to smoke anywhere but in his office or the war room.
“Crack at the school?” I asked, my hands clenching into fists.
“Name’s Frank Dudley. Slash his tire.” Narciso’s eyes met mine. “I want you to get there early, bring the right tools, don’t get caught. You get caught, I’ll order Romeo to beat the fuckin’ shit out of you.”
He’d done it before, and he’d do it again. Seeing the look of regret in Romeo’s eyes every time he struck me was worse than the actual beating, and far worse than any punishment Narciso could ever inflict.
If he was a fucking schoolyard crack dealer, he deserved what I’d do to him.
“Just slash the tire?”
“Yeah, son,” Narciso said. I felt a strange mix of pride and apprehension when he pulled out “son.” “Just one. Driver’s side front.”
I researched the right tools, found out where his car was, and hiding under a black hoodie, discreetly slashed his tire until the air bled out of it. Stood, and walked back to the waiting armored SUV.
It wasn’t until later that evening I heard the news story.
Frank Dudley, found dead, run over while changing a flat tire.
It was my first introduction to mob life, and wouldn’t be the last by a long shot.
I loved drag racing with Mario, smoking weed with Marialena by the water, stealing cars before I could afford them. And I was damn good at it. I managed to escape juvi by the skin of my teeth, though Narciso’s punishments when I was caught were probably worse than any juvenile detention hall would’ve been.
And now… Rosa. The forbidden jewel in the Rossi Family crown.
My Rosa.
Too broken to be loved by anyone less broken than she is.
Too ruthless to be understood by anyone “normal” or “sane.”
Too beautiful to be touched by anyone who didn’t worship the very air she breathed.
But even thinking of her’s forbidden. Touching her should make me lose my goddamn fingers.
I’ve personally meted out punishment for lesser crimes than these.
The irony, or hypocrisy, however you want to phrase it, ain’t lost on me.
I hear her frantically getting ready in the other room and stifle a smirk. Cute.