I want to hate my hitman. Not for the things we did but for threatening my brother. And I do.
Especially because he could be the guy who killed my dad.
Was he a thief like you?
Those words hit too close to home. My dad was always putting the hustle on someone. He probably did steal from the Tacones. He might have deserved what he got.
Does that make me hate them any less?
No. Not the faceless Tacone family. But the man across the room?
Sort of.
I like you, Caitlin. It’d be pretty impossible not to.
Well, fuck him. I wasn’t looking for him to like me. I definitely don’t like him.
Except that’s a lie. I’m attracted to this guy like a super magnet. And even though this has been traumatic, it’s also sort of addictive. I feel more alive. Awakened. Present.
I steal a glance at him. Still sexy as hell. He has this brutal ruggedness to his energy and face that doesn’t match the thousand dollar suit and shiny shoes. Not that he doesn’t wear them well—he does. But I could just as easily see him in the cheap suit and gold chains with a pair of brass knuckles over his fingers.
And none of that does anything to lessen my attraction to him.
Which is nuts.
I don't even know which Tacone he is. I should at least know that much.
I shake my fingers out again and pull up a new screen. It would be much more fun to hack the Chicago Police database.
Paolo
The little hacker's been at it all morning, fingers flying over the keys, glasses pushed up on her nose.
She's damn cute. I still regret threatening her. I liked things better before she went pale and pissed. Before I brought her brother into things.
But it had to be done. I can’t let her get away with stealing from us just because she makes me smile and gives good head.
Still, I find myself already wanting to make it up to her. Once she pays me back, that is.
Figuring out if there’s any favor I might do for her. Because she certainly didn’t have to offer up that sweet little body of hers the second she saw me sitting in her apartment.
Fuck, does she do that often?
The thought sends unease crawling over my skin. Not jealousy, although I do strangely feel that. But I’m suddenly worried for her well-being. If she just surrenders to any and every guy who shows up wanting something from her, she could get hurt—badly.
Hell, she’s already been hurt badly.
That much is obvious. The girl wasn’t born this twisted. Something—or more likely someone—made her this way. And I suddenly have the urge to beat that someone to a bloody pulp.
Nobody lays a hand on this girl without her wanting it.
Trouble is, she may always want it.
I sit back and drink her in. She’s still in nothing but my t-shirt, sitting right where I put her, working away. Her long, pale legs are curled under the chair, one foot twitching against the other. Her fingers have slowed down on the frantic typing. I peer to see the screen.
What the fuck?
A mug shot of me is up. My literal mugshot. I got arrested once for aggravated assault after I gave a beatdown to a drug dealer who’d moved into the neighborhood twenty-some years ago. Of course, no charges were pressed and cops had to let me go.
I stand up and walk up behind Caitlin to look closer. She’s reading my rap sheet. A couple misdemeanors. Nothing that ever stuck.
I wrap my fist in her hair and tug her head back, leaning over to put my face beside hers. “What. The fuck. Are you doing, little girl?”
“Figuring out which brother you are. You wouldn’t tell me.” She offers it up so innocently. Like it’s perfectly normal to hack into the Chicago Police files and retrieve people’s records to find out their first names. I guess it would’ve been easier for her if I did Facebook.
I’m not a laugher. I don’t even smile much. But somewhere deep inside me, far from coming out, I’m laughing.
This girl is such a nutjob.
“So it’s Paolo, right?” She tries to turn her head, but my grip on her hair stops the movement. “Or do you go by Pauly?”
I can’t hold back the snort. “It’s still Mr. Tacone to you, doll. And right now I’d better be hearing I’m so sorry, Mr. Tacone, because you are not on task, little hacker. I ought to whip your ass again for this.”
I didn’t mean it. I don’t feel one shred of anger or violence toward her. I’m the kinda guy who’s used to making threats to get his point across. But she slides her gaze sideways to see my face and with the naughtiest expression possible says, “Please?”
For one moment I go still, making sure I’m interpreting that correctly.