* * *
Junior
I grab twenty grand in cash and jump in the car with Desiree, who has her pop music playing on the radio.
I don’t know why I find that so adorable.
Her barb this morning about not trusting her stuck in my ribs. She’s right. I don’t. I can’t. That’s how I was raised. The training drilled into me by Santo Tacone.
But I brought her an olive branch. I drop her phone in her lap.
She looks over at me in surprise, but I don’t acknowledge it. Fuck, my suspicious instincts already have me wanting to snatch it back, keep her from any outside contact.
But I have to trust her at some point. If I’m letting her walk out of my house when it’s all through, trusting her not to tell anyone, then I should extend the same faith now.
Still, when she immediately starts texting someone, I get tense. She’s a fucking saint, because she says to me in an exasperated voice, “I’m texting Lucy, my bestie from work. Just to tell her I miss her ass.” She holds up the screen to prove it.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
I drive all the way into the city, to Caffè Milano. Kill two birds with one stone.
I circle the block, looking for anything off. Cops could be watching the place after the shooting. Or Vlad’s crew. Once again, I probably should’ve called one of the guys to watch my back. I would’ve insisted Gio or Paolo bring backup if they’d come. It’s goes against my alpha tendencies to admit any weakness, though. I don’t see anything or anyone who looks out of place, so I pull in and shut off the ignition.
“You’re actually going to leave your Maserati parked on a street in this neighborhood?” Desiree asks in disbelief.
I shrug. “Used to be everyone in this neighborhood knew better than to mess with my car. Not sure if that’s still the case, but I’m gonna hope so.”
“May I drive it?” she asks as she slams the door shut.
“What?” I’m taken aback, mostly because no one in their right mind has ever asked me to drive it, other than my stronzo brothers, and I told them all to fuck themselves twenty times before finally relenting.
She beams a thousand-watt smile at me as I head to her side, protectively shielding her from traffic. “Pretty please, Junior? Come on, what does it do—zero to one hundred in four seconds?”
I chuckle, surprised at her interest and knowledge. “Yeah.”
“Let me drive it. Please? I’ll give you the best cock-suck in the history of the universe.”
My dick goes rock hard at her proposal. I have to reach down and adjust myself in my pants. “Well, fuck. That’s a tough offer to refuse.” I grip her face and kiss her again, like I did in front of my house this morning. I don’t know what my fascination is with kissing her so much, but I can’t seem to stop. She tastes like mint toothpaste and berry lip balm. Her lips are soft and full, and so fucking luscious. Seriously, I want to eat her up.
And yeah, I am the big, bad wolf.
I shouldn’t. We’re not a couple. This isn’t dating. We have an arrangement, but I know she’s not interested in continuing beyond its expiration.
“Is that a yes?” she asks when I break the kiss. I love her spunk.
“Yes.” I can’t look away. She’s all bright-eyed and flushed—so full of life. Such contrast to me. I’ve been half-dead for years. For sure since Mia’s death, but probably longer. Hell, I can’t remember when my life ever felt worth living. Like it was my own.
I’ll bet Nico doesn’t feel that way. That testa di cazzo has been living his own life since the day he graduated high school and cooked up his Vegas plan.
I force myself to break the eye contact, to sweep the streets for anything dangerous. Any observers. I don’t see anything off. Even so, I get the sweats when we walk up to Caffè Milano, the echo of shots ringing in my ears. The sound Gio made when hit. The look on his face flashes before my eyes. And then the image of the carnage I left behind.
I’m not innocent. I’ve had blood on my hands before. But that scene was pretty fucking bad. I didn’t even know I had it in me to be a one-man Terminator. I guess that’s what happens when someone shoots my brother.
The place has a few customers ordering their morning coffee at the bar. Some young people sit at tables with their computers out. An old man reads a newspaper.
“So are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Desiree asks in a low voice.
“What do you mean?” I ask without stopping my constant sweep of the area. I draw in a slow breath, but my heart’s still beating too hard.