Dead Man's Hand (Vegas Underground 7)

“Wh-what about dessert?” I gasp when he comes up for air.

“Spend the night,” he demands.

I blink. The truth is, I had already told Aunt Lori I might not be home tonight. That I was going to a concert with a friend and would probably crash at her place. “Okay,” I murmur.

Gio rewards me with his magnificent smile and slowly lets me slide to the floor. He kisses me one more time. “Then I guess we have time for dessert,” he says, cupping my ass and giving it an appreciative squeeze before releasing me.

Gio picks up both plates and two spoons. “Pick a wine,” he orders before carrying the plates out to the dining room.

I find a moscato dessert wine and pour it into small crystal glasses. I love that Gio has every size and style in his cabinet. I hate to admit it, but I love everything about his luxury place. Just being in it makes me feel wealthy, as if being around the expensive furnishings somehow nourishes my own body and being.

In the living room, Gio pulls me onto his lap, straddling him and feeds me the first bite. I take it, but as the delicious sweet confection melts in my mouth, I say, “You try it. I made it for you.”

“I know, angel. I’m still rewarding you for that.” I watch as he takes a bite and rolls his eyes with pleasure. “Mmm. So good, baby. I can taste the love you put into it.”

I laugh. “That’s what my nonna always says about her food.”

“It’s true.” He feeds me another bite.

“So,” I say, rolling the sweet, creamy fluff around in my mouth. “I haven’t seen a piano move into Michelangelo's. What’s going on with that?”

“Oh. Yeah. Still thinking about it.”

I make a scoffing sound. “What’s to think about? It’s your dream, Gio. Make Michelangelo's into something you love. As long as you love it, so will the world. That’s what one of my teachers at the culinary institute told us. She said yes, follow what’s trending, know the market, know what’s hot. But still create what you love.”

Gio’s gaze slides over to his baby grand.

“That piano in white would look perfect there,” I insist. “Where do you get a piano like that? Let’s go shopping tomorrow.”

Gio’s lips quirk. “You’re gonna go piano shopping with me?”

“Yeah, totally. It will be fun.”

“What time do you work?”

“I actually don’t work tomorrow. Not at Michelangelo's and my aunt can probably handle Milano’s—I’ve worked it alone all week with Mia’s recovery. She owes me.”

“That’s great. It’s my birthday.”

“It is?” I straighten up. I’m the type who goes all out for birthdays. I don’t know—product of being abandoned by my mom and hating every birthday growing up when she didn’t show. Now I work overly hard to make sure everyone else’s birthday isn’t as big a disappointment as mine always are.

Gio feeds me the last bite of tiramisu and pops the truffle in his mouth. “Ohhhhh yeah. This is so good, angel. Coffee bean?”

I’m ridiculously pleased with his appreciation. “Espresso, yes.”

“I love it.”

I wriggle over his lap and put my arms around his neck. “What do you want me to make you for your birthday?”

His smile is feral. “Oh, angel. There’s nothing you make that would disappoint me.”

“That isn’t what I asked. What’s your favorite meal? Or dessert? Why didn’t you tell me so I could make a special birthday dinner?”

He runs his hands up and down my bare back. “We do family dinner for birthdays. Will you come?”

I stop breathing.

I haven’t even accepted the fact that Gio and I are dating—or whatever we’re doing. I’m so not ready to be brought to a birthday dinner with the family.

But Gio looks like he’s holding his breath, too. And it’s his birthday.

“You, um, really want me there, or you’re just inviting me to be nice?”

I know he’s not going to give the answer I’m hoping for. He brushes both my nipples with the pads of his thumbs at the same time, sending a shiver straight to my core. “I want you there. For my birthday present. Will you come?”

Fuck.

A Tacone family dinner.

I swallow. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll go. On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You leave the gun at home.”

It bothers the hell out of me that he wears a gun every time he leaves the house. Every time I see it or feel it on him, the memory of six dead bodies on the floor of Milano’s shoots me through the center of my forehead.

He hesitates for a breath. “Yeah, okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.” He shoots me that devastating grin. “Can I keep it in the car?”

“Leave the gun, take the cannoli,” I joke, quoting The Godfather, but I also get wet. Is he really asking my permission? This man who rules Chicago. Who lives in a world of crime and violence? Whether it’s a real power he’s giving me, or just the illusion, I freaking love it. I kiss his neck. “That’s a decent compromise.”