Angelo (The Marchesi Family 2)

“I misread the situation. That always makes me uneasy.”

“You didn’t misread anything. The guy was an ass to me in high school. Yes, I thought he was kind of hot in a quiet, nerd-boy sort of way, and yeah, I wanted to tap his ass back then. But you gave me an assignment, and I’m going to fucking handle it.”

“What options did you give Cameron for paying us back?”

Lucien really did worry about me. I couldn’t lie to him, but I wasn’t ready to tell him the whole truth. “I told you to fucking trust me.”

I thought he would push harder, but he surprised me again by relenting. “Don’t screw this up, Angelo, and don’t let it fuck with your head.”

There was no reason for it to fuck with my head. I was going to toy with the bastard, get what I wanted from him, then leave him alone. I’d find us another option for handling the business Cameron’s father had been doing for us. “You said I could handle this my way. Did you mean that or not?”

“Yes, I meant it,” Lucien said through gritted teeth. He really hated when he didn’t have complete control.

“Can I go now?”

“Yes. Go. Make whatever bad decisions you were about to make.”

I’d already made enough bad decisions for one day, so I made a dramatic display of yawning and stretching. “Actually, I might make it an early night.”

Lucien shook his head. “If that’s true, then I know there’s something wrong.”

“Goodnight, Luce,” I said as I rose to leave.

“Goodnight. Take care of yourself.”

That was what I was doing, wasn’t it? Getting my revenge would make me feel so much better, every filthy moment of it.

7

Cameron

I wasn’t usually one to wallow in denial, but I spent the rest of the day pretending Angelo and the five-hundred-thousand-dollar debt didn’t exist. I worked all afternoon cleaning in the kitchen. I was exhausted when I dragged myself up the outside stairs to what was, for now anyway, my apartment. At least the bakery kitchen could actually be used for testing recipes now. Trying to cook in the apartment’s tiny kitchen had been driving me insane.

As I popped some leftover takeout into the microwave, my phone chimed. I glanced down to see an unknown number and the message: Call me here when you’re ready to pay up.

I didn’t have to ask who it was.

How much longer could I ignore Angelo’s demands? The debt wasn’t going away. Angelo wasn’t going away. And I wasn’t going to magically find the money to pay him.

I took my food and flopped down on the dilapidated sofa. My father hadn’t owned a dining table, and all my things were still in California. I’d come here telling myself I would stay long enough to get the bakery ready to sell, and even now, I hadn’t been able to make myself give up my apartment in California and actually commit to moving here. I would, though. I was going to see this through, and if that meant giving myself to Angelo…

Had I really sunk that low?

He’s fucking gorgeous.

He’s dangerous.

You like that about him. You always have.

Fuck.

I turned on the TV to try to drown out thoughts about just how good it might be to give into Angelo’s indecent proposal.

When Maria showed up fifteen minutes early the next morning, I was already deep into reorganizing the storeroom. I’d lain awake for ages, slept for maybe two hours, then I’d woken up from a dream of a naked Angelo holding me at gunpoint, telling me to strip for him. It was a nightmare, I mean. Definitely a nightmare. And waking up hard was perfectly normal.

I was afraid to go back to sleep after that, so I’d made coffee, scrounged up some breakfast, and come downstairs to start work.

“At least I know you’re not lazy,” Maria said as she hung up her coat and purse.

“Did you expect me to be?”

“Let’s just say I was really hoping you didn’t take after your father.”

Anger boiled up hot and heavy. “I am nothing like my father.”

She held up her hands. “I’m sorry. You’re not. I could tell that yesterday. You’re sober for one, and you care about this place.”

“I wasn’t sure how much I did until I came back. I wish I’d come back sooner.”

“I wish you had too, but what’s done is done.”

“Did you know about the mortgage?”

“What about it? Didn’t your grandparents pay it off?” she asked, but she didn’t meet my eyes, turning instead to study the contents of some boxes I’d set aside.

“Not the original mortgage. The one my father set up with the Marchesis because he had to use the place as collateral for the loan they gave him.”

She sighed. “I knew your father was in trouble. I knew he owed a lot of money to people I’d rather not know anything about.”