The bigger problem, to be honest, is my father. The peace between our family and Francesca’s was negotiated before my father came to power, and he never liked it even then, he just didn’t have enough power to call that particular shot. Then a few too many cheeseburgers finished off the last boss and my dad came into power. Ever since, he’s been looking for ways to cut Mateo out. Says Mateo’s only an underboss and he shouldn’t even have to deal with him. Says he has no respect for the way things are done.
It’s not that he’s wrong. It’s just that Mateo holds more power in this city than we do because he branched out into shit we don’t touch: ugly shit, legit shit—if it would bring him power, he started growing it. The money followed, and the power follows the money. Given all that, you either play ball with Mateo or fight him and his army—and anyone who’s tried in the past has been obliterated.
My family, we’re traditionalists.
Mateo is a soulless, power-hungry monster.
Which I don’t make my problem—but my dad’s old-school, and Mateo’s lack of respect for his own father, the actual boss of that family, rubs mine the wrong way.
Long story short, if my father ever found out I wanted to bang Francesca Morelli, he’d probably pistol-whip me right upside the head.
He would also never allow it. Not in a million years.
To be honest, he’d probably kill her if it came down to it.
Just that thought flitting through my head sours my mood. Brings up feelings and impulses I don’t like and I’m damn sure not comfortable with.
My doorbell rings.
I’m in the kitchen, off-guard like an idiot, lost in all the thoughts about how badly this could go—and so easily, all anyone would have to do would be find out. Francesca’s probably right. This probably isn’t worth it, and I’m a crazy fuck for trying.
Then I open the door, and Francesca’s standing there in a strapless nude dress that blends well enough with her skin color to turn me hard. A cute little smile’s on her face, and her hair’s down and fluffy the way I like it.
The way I like it?
Fuck it.
“Hi,” she says, shyly looking down at the cupcake box in her hands.
“Hi,” I murmur back, lost for words as my eyes travel over her body again. Damn, Francesca. If this is what she wore to work today, I’m gonna have to tell Mark to mean-mug any half-attractive asshole who walks in the doors.
Biting down on her lower lip briefly, she gives me a little roll of her eyes. “Are you gonna invite me in?”
Leaning against the door frame, I shake my head. “Nope. I’m just gonna stand here and stare at you all night long.”
Her cheeks flush and she laughs, lightly shoving me. I catch her around her tiny little waist and pull her close, the scent of her washing over me and going straight to my groin. Somehow this goddamn woman has trained me to become aroused at the scent, sight, or thought of her.
“This dress….”
“I figured I should change for dinner.”
I glance down at myself—I’m in jeans and a casual black button-down, nothing fancy.
For some reason, the sight of my jeans makes her light up. “You dress like this for dinner?”
“I can change,” I say, pointing toward the hall.
“No,” she says, eyes widening in alarm. Then she smiles, relaxing, and lets her free hand come to rest lightly on my chest. “No, don’t change. This is perfect. I’m overdressed. I should’ve left on the jeans.”
“I’m really glad you didn’t,” I tell her, my eyes drifting to her perfect cleavage. Dear God in Heaven, this woman is going to be the death of me. “Really, really glad. You look incredible.”
“I have lots of pretty dresses,” she tells me.
“I want to see you in all of them.”
Rolling her eyes, she says, “No, trust me, it’s a lot. That would take like a year.”
“Then I guess you have to keep me around for a least a year.”
Scoffing lightly, she says, “Yeah, right.”
I shake my head as she pulls away from me and walks into my house like she owns it. I follow after her, shaking my head. “You’re so mean to me.”
Glancing back at me over her shoulder, she slows down, since she’s just realized she has no idea where anything is. “Where should I put these cupcakes?”
“In my mouth,” I say.
“Both?”
“We were talking about your breasts, right?”
Francesca rolls her eyes at me again. “Where’s your kitchen, Romeo?”
I smile and walk ahead to show her. “Follow me, Juliet.”
Glancing around at my living room—spacious by the standards of ordinary people, but since she lives in a museum, it probably feels small—she says, “I like this.”
“Yeah?”
She nods, appraising the walls. “You need some art work. Pictures of people you love. A softer touch. But I like it.”