Black Hearted (The Margarelli Brothers 1)

I sighed with pleasure as he lit my cigarette, closing my eyes.

“Francesca,” a deep voice rumbled from behind me.

I spun. I could not believe my eyes. Somehow, despite my multiple bodyguards, Vincent Margarelli had snuck up on me.

But I knew better than to show fear. If he wanted me dead, I wouldn’t be taking another drag of my cigarette. Besides, judging from the look in his eyes, he wanted to kiss me, not kill me.

Odd, I thought idly. He didn’t have a reputation as a ladies’ man. In fact, if he had a thing going with anyone, he was very, very discrete. There was nothing my guys could find, at least.

That would have made my job so much easier. It’s simpler to destroy a man with a weakness. But he had none.

“Want one?” I asked, trying to sound cool.

He studied me, his eyes deep and dark. I could not for the life of me tell what he thought of me.

“I prefer cigars.”

“It’s a terrible habit,” I admitted, inhaling deeply. He laughed.

“I can think of worse ones,” he said meaningfully. I knew what he was referring to. Murder. Fucking with another of the five families. Disrupting supply chains.

All of which I was guilty of. And we both knew it.

I had denied it left and right during the meeting. I had an answer for everything. I had even vowed to help track down the organization fucking with the Margarellis.

All lies.

He knew it. I knew it. So I nodded my head in agreement. I couldn’t bear to lie to him on top of everything else.

His eyebrow went sky high. The man was as smooth as a lake on a windless day. I suspected he was just as deep.

I sighed and rubbed my neck, forgetting to appear cool for half a second. I was tired. And I did not relish the task assigned to me.

“Any ideas of how to stop this mess?”

I gave him a calculating look. I decided to be honest, or as far as I could be without openly admitting my guilt. And the man was in for a massive headache if my plans went through without a hitch.

“There is no hope for it.”

“No?”

“No one can stop it,” I said, tossing my cigarette onto the ground and grinding it out with my white stiletto. “I wish that they could.”

There was nothing more to say. I climbed into the limo without a word, not even looking at him.

“Have a pleasant day,” Vincent said through the open window. I finally looked up at him.

“I’ll try,” I said honestly. There were no good days anymore. Not without my daughter by my side. But he didn’t know that. “You should, too,” I added, thinking of the havoc I was about to unleash on him.

I could not resist watching his reflection in the rearview mirror as Joseph drove me away.

Vincent held my gaze, unmoving, until we were out of his view.

Chapter Seven

Vincent

“Goddamn, that woman!”

“Boss?”

Tiny looked at me, surprised. I wasn’t surprised. I was embarrassed. I never had outbursts like that.

I was stony cold and silent when displeased. No one ever knew what was going on inside me, other than the few who could read my micro expressions.

Tony, Michael, and my beloved Auntie were the few who could.

I glared at Tiny and waved him out of my office. He’d just come in to inform me that another five shipments had gone missing. And our liquor supplier had unexpectedly gone under.

Literally under.

The guy was dead. Somehow, his car had ended up in the San Francisco Bay with him in it. And he was a legit businessman!

They were hitting us from every angle possible, and I had no fucking idea why.

I knew who was behind it, though, and I wanted nothing less than to get my hands on her. I’d start by kissing her senseless. Then I’d turn her over my knee for a lesson in manners. She would apologize prettily, and I would reward her with a long, slow, hard fuck. My body clenched up just thinking about those long legs of hers wrapped around my waist . . . her glorious dark hair spilling across my pillow . . . her body welcoming me in while I took everything from her, and gave her everything, too.

A soft knock on the door brought me out of my extremely detailed revenge sex fantasy.

“I heard shouting all the way from the kitchens,” Auntie said, clearly exaggerating.

“Sorry, Auntie,” I said, standing and pressing a kiss to her cheek. Her warm and comforting scent washed over me. She’d been wearing the same perfume for thirty years. I made sure to get her a fresh bottle whenever she ran low.

But she also smelled like whatever she was cooking on any given day. Today it smelled like fresh pasta and some sort of meat sauce.

Auntie knew how to cook.