When Heroes Fall (Anti-Heroes in Love 1)

Good, the beast inside me growled, loving the sight of vulnerability in her gaze.

Fear me.

I moved closer on one heavy step, and she flinched but otherwise didn’t move even when I leaned close enough to taste her breath on my lips so I could snarl softly, “Next time you hit me, lottatrice, I will hit you back. Only it will be on that sweet little arse I’ve glimpsed behind your tight skirts, capisci?”

“You wouldn’t fucking dare,” she said, but her voice was all breath, her pulse a visible beat in her pale neck.

“Boh,” I said as I ducked my head to speak hotly against her ear just to feel her slight shiver. “Try me.”

The air crackled around us, and our hearts thundered. I’d known she would bring the storm when she heard her marching orders this afternoon from Yara, but this was more than I’d hoped for. This woman who was barely alive made me feel like a live wire, a lit fuse raw with power.

I hadn’t even kissed her, and I felt like roaring, like beating my chest and crowing with glory.

All because the ice queen didn’t realize it yet, but the thaw had started and soon, so fucking soon I could almost taste her––something warm and plummy like wine––on my tongue.

Soon, she’d be mine.

For one kiss, one hour, one night, I didn’t fucking care.

I’d moved her into my home for pragmatic reasons, but in the end, I couldn’t fool myself.

Elena Lombardi was an acquired taste, something to be appreciated by only the most refined palette, the most exquisite mind. As deep and brilliantly complex as expensive Italian wine, the more I learned about her, the more I wanted to drink her down like a glutton and force her to be mine.

ELENA

I spent the rest of the night in my room and hated that I felt petulant and childish for doing so. I’d had an idea of who I should be and what I should want all my life, and this mafioso with obsidian eyes and absurdly long lashes, with man-killing hands and an arrogant authoritative manner, made me feel…undone. As if the years of work I’d spent carving my public persona, my refined mannerisms, and thoroughly educated speech were transparent before the eyes of the Don. He seemed to see through my shields, tearing them in his mighty hands as easily as tissue paper. It was more than disconcerting; it was harrowing.

I didn’t want to be seen by anyone, let alone a man like him.

But his presence had left irreparable cracks in my foundation, just enough space for doubts to grow like weeds.

My sister said she trusted him with her life.

With mine.

I’d tried to call her again to talk about what I’d learned, but she had only texted me back assuring me to keep calm and that she would explain everything next month when she visited. It was poor consolation, but even knowing she was happy now, it made me sick to think of what she had truly gone through for us.

For me.

It only proved to heighten the feeling of obligation that had led me into taking Dante’s case and knowing she loved him at the end of that ordeal, that maybe he had…helped her cemented my loyalty to his cause if not his person.

To top it all off, Seamus had all but threatened me if I didn’t offer good intel on the capo. At least, if I was living here, I’d be safe from him and his.

I knew Dante’s enemies were circling in the waters, scenting his blood after his RICO indictment, and that potentially, they could use me as some kind of pawn in their game of domination.

So, I was safe from external forces in Dante’s two-story Upper East Side fortress.

The problem was, I had the distinct feeling the greatest threat to my safety was inside that same apartment prowling the halls like a caged beast.

The room he’d given me was lovely, which annoyed me too. The walls were gray plaster, the same dark shade as my eyes, but everything else was either a pearly white, silver, or accented black. It was like living inside a cloud with its ever-changing moods, light to dark, everything soft and opulent.

He had good taste, a quality I felt was underestimated in a man.

I fisted the satin sheets in my hands and wrenched at them.

I hated to be maneuvered, and I hated to lose.

And there was no doubt that I had.

Restlessness coursed through me, and though it was only four in the morning, a full hour and a half before I normally got up, I pushed out of bed and padded over to the black dresser to investigate.

Clothing lay neatly folded in the drawers.

I puffed a breath through my lips as I fingered a cashmere cardigan.

Of course, the bastard had bought me clothes, knowing I wouldn’t pack my own.