Consumed by Desire: A Dark Mafia Romance

His eyebrows raise. “You’re up against the DA? She told you not to get involved?”

“Don’t worry, brother, you did good work.” I squeeze his shoulder and he sighs, shaking his head.

“I hope you’re right. Word is, this woman’s serious about bringing down that Polish guy.”

“Everyone’s a hero until a mobster shows up at their door. Just stay here in the car and make sure nothing goes wrong. Honk if I need to get out fast.”

Fynn nods and turns up the AC. “Be fast. It’s like a damn oven out here.”

I step out onto the street and watch the house for a quiet moment. The sun beats down on my face. I can still taste Olivia on my tongue and her moans from three nights ago still linger in my ears. She’s a sweet dream or the perfect song stuck on repeat. We haven’t slept together again since that one time after the party—it’s like the spell that fell over us after the charity ball dissipated in the morning—but I haven’t been able to clear her from my mind since.

She got inside of me. Her legs shaking, her lips wrapped around my cock. Her breasts and hard nipples. Her hips as she rode my shaft, faster and faster. Panting the whole time. Beads of sweat rolling down her muscles. God, she’s incredible, and it’s even more frustrating that I haven’t been able to touch her, and even worse that I hate her. Though that hate’s beginning to soften.

Each night, we get into bed and she rolls away. I pull her against me and hold her, but it doesn’t progress beyond that. The walls are back up and taller than ever. I can’t decide if I want to scale them because I want her or because I want to fuck her. I’m not sure it matters at this point. All of my emotions are tangled and twisted and uncertain, and I’m afraid I’m constantly making some vital mistake, some terrible misjudgment. She’s a distraction but a delicious one.

I head to the front door and knock. It’s all quiet inside, but Fynn assured me she’d be home. The witness in Stazek’s murder case is named Natasha Whelan, aged fifty-six, widow. Fynn doesn’t know her connection to the deceased and didn’t have enough time to figure it out. Getting this much was enough.

I knock again and ring the bell. Shuffling sounds inside then the door opens. Natasha frowns out at me, dirty blonde hair down to her shoulders, square forehead, square jaw, bit of age lines around her dark green eyes and round nose. She’s not pretty, but she’s not ugly either, just a harsh woman in a black top and jeans, looking like I interrupted her cooking as she wipes her hands on a towel. She squints at me and frowns.

“I’m not signing anything,” she says. “I don’t vote and I’m broke so I don’t buy anything either. Thanks anyway.”

“My name is Casso Bruno,” I say before she can slam the door in my face, “and I’m here to talk about Mickey Stazek.”

Her eyes go wide. I can’t tell if she knows my name or not, but she definitely knows the name of the guy she plans on throwing in jail. She takes a step back and I know she’s thinking about closing the door, but I make the decision for her. I step forward and jam my shoe on the floor before she can get it shut, blocking it open. From there, it’s simple to shove my shoulder forward and push inside.

She stumbles back into a plain living room. A cross on the wall, a watercolor painting of the desert beside it. A television streams a Jeopardy rerun and a green couch sits against the wall on the left with a brown easy chair opposite. Family photos are stacked on a cabinet.

“You can’t just barge in here,” she says, backing away. The carpets need to be vacuumed and I think cigarette burns dot the area around the coffee table.

“I apologize for this.” I close the door behind me. “But I don’t have time to waste convincing you to have this conversation. Please, let’s not make this process difficult. Sit and speak with me.”

She stands staring like she can’t decide if I’m a demon sent to devour her or some kind of avenging angel, but all at once her face falls like she makes a decision. It’s surprising—most civilians unused to men like me would be trembling by now. I just invaded her home. I forced my way into her living room. But she accepts it.

“I recognize your name, Don Bruno,” she says, moving over to sit in a worn easy chair, and that explains some things. If she knows who I am, she knows it’s not worth struggling against me. “Do you want something? Tea maybe?”