Dead Man's Hand (Vegas Underground 7)

Paolo shoots me a dubious look.

“To make him dinner.”

“Ah. Right. I forgot you’re a chef. Sure.” He changes lanes and gets me to a grocery store. I don’t have my wallet with me, or my phone, since I stormed out without taking my purse, but I do have the tip money I made today in my pocket. It should be enough to buy some meat and vegetables. The rest I can improvise.

I just hope I can make things right.

Gio

While I was in the shower, Paolo threw out all the bottles and empty food cartons from my place and cracked some windows to air out the place.

The shower helped, but it still didn’t bring me back to the land of the living. I’ve been standing at the window, staring out at the water for God knows how long. Hours, maybe, judging by the way my feet hurt. Or maybe that’s just because they’re not used to me being upright.

I hear the tap at the door, but I don’t move.

It doesn’t quite register. Not as something that requires a response.

I turn when the door pushes open, though. Paolo must’ve left it unlocked when he left. I blink because I’m pretty sure what I see is a hallucination. Am I sober yet? I can’t remember when I finished that last bottle of Jack. This morning? Last night? Is this some kind of drunk dream? Because I see Marissa coming through my doorway, her whiskey-colored hair pulled up in a messy bun on the top of her head, a few pieces falling loose around her pretty face.

She has groceries in her arms, like this is her regular night, and she’s here to cook me dinner.

When I don’t say anything, she slips into the kitchen.

Oh, my fucking God, this is real. She’s actually here.

I scrub a hand over my unshaven face, grateful I’m at least clean. Relatively sober.

Wait… why is she here? I ended things. At least I thought I did. We can’t do this. Not without me bringing my entire family down in a shitstorm with the feds.

I make my way to the kitchen and then stop short.

Marissa’s stripped off her clothes and is wearing nothing but an apron as she pours olive oil in a frying pan.

I lean in the doorway to watch. That’s when I see the tears streaking her face.

“That’s pretty, angel,” I say softly. She turns and gives me the most vulnerable, adoring look over her shoulder.

It nearly knocks me to my ass.

I walk forward slowly, afraid if I move too fast, I’ll pounce. “It would be prettier without the tears, though.” I slide my arms around her waist from behind and kiss her neck.

She leans right back into my arms, swaying like she wants to dance.

My brain keeps shouting at me to stop touching her. Get her out of my place.

But I simply can’t handle breaking up with her twice. It’s too much to bear. I’d rather have this night and die tomorrow than reject one moment of this sweetness.

“Baby,” I murmur at the shell of her ear. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you, too,” she chokes, fresh tears streaking down her cheeks. The oil starts to smoke in the pan and she turns off the burner. “I heard what Nonno did,” she says.

Now I’m dizzy. “Cazzo, angel. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“No.” She turns around, suddenly fierce. “You don’t need to be sorry. I’m the one who’s sorry. I pushed you away at every turn, and all you wanted to do was give to me. Protect me.” The vulnerability flashes on her face again, but she swallows and says, “Love me?”

“Si, bambina.” I don’t know why it’s easier to say in Italian. But I man up and switch back to English. “I love you.”

“I want you, Gio.”

I don’t think she means just sexually. I think she means it in the entirety of having me, which she already has. But my cock reacts strongly to her words, and suddenly her ass is in my hands and I’m lifting her up to straddle my waist as I kiss the ever-loving fuck out of her. Her hips hit the counter and I grind my cock against the flap of apron fabric covering her bare pussy.

“I only want you,” I tell her between fierce kisses. Between teeth knocking teeth and tangled tongues. Bruising kisses meant to claim. Punish. Reward.

She gives it back for all she’s worth. Her palms grip my face and she moves her lips frantically across mine, twisting and tasting, consuming.

Needing her somewhere I can pound into her without leaving bruises, I carry her out of the kitchen, into my bedroom, where we tear off each other’s clothes. Well, I tear off her apron, and she tears off my clothes. I may like to be the guy in charge normally, but her enthusiasm—her desperation—throw me into ecstasy before I even get her pinned to the bed.