His slate-grey eyes gleam with menace as he stands to his full height and stalks around the foot of the bed to invade my space. With his joggers slung low on his hips and his shirt tight around his muscular chest, I struggle to keep my eyes trained on his face. He’s dark, toe-curling eye candy in male form. A danger to all women. The kind of man you only find in your dreams when you wake flushed and wet and reaching for the toys hidden in your bedside table.
Even the hostility in his bottomless grey eyes adds a sensual edge to my thoughts.
He leans down and holds my cell in front of my face as though it insulted him.
“Is this a burner phone?” he snarls.
“No,” I respond.
“I don’t believe you. Why didn’t your sister ask why you weren’t at home?” he asks.
Pain slashes my heart into tiny, jagged pieces, but I swallow the lump in my throat and shrug.
“We don’t live together,” I say.
Part of me hoped she’d forgive me for pushing her to transfer to another clinic if she heard of the ordeal I survived today, but deep in my heart, I knew she wouldn’t. Moving clinics is only the tip of the iceberg separating us. I’ve hurt her too much throughout our lives.
Ermanno clicks the power button on my phone, illuminating the screen, and holds up my sister’s message for me to read. Ice curls around my internal organs and tears scratch at the back of my eyelids, but I blink and dig my nails into my palms until the urge to cry fades. I long to run and hide, but the cuffs on my wrists and ankles keep me firmly in the chair. My shoulders, butt, and thighs ache from the awkward position.
My captor’s piercing grey orbs study me like a bug under a microscope.
“She doesn’t seem very concerned about you, gattina.”
His remark arrows straight to my heart, but I scowl and quirk a brow.
“Why would she be? I can take care of myself,” I hiss.
He tosses my phone onto the side table and drops into a squat in front of me. With his eyes almost level with mine, he cups his massive hands around my thighs and dons an uncharacteristically gentle expression.
“Loretta, your coworker obviously told her about the shootout, but she didn’t even ask if you were okay.”
Insulted at his faux concern, I scoff and imagine kneeing him in his perfect face.
“I’m her older sister. I take care of her, not the other way around,” I sneer.
Surprise widens his eyes, and for a moment, his concern seems honest, but then he skims his hands higher on my thighs and leans closer.
“That’s not how a family works,” he insists.
My heart yearns for what he suggests, but fate deemed I would never have healthy family dynamics. The loneliness in my soul rankles and the black hole behind my sternum grows. His verbal jab, no matter his intent behind it, hurts too much for me to accept, so I panic and stoop to desperate measures.
“Well, it’s how my family works, and if all you’re going to do is criticize me and badmouth my sister, then I’m done answering your questions.”
I clamp my teeth together and turn my head to the side. It’s childish, but it’s the only thing I have control over.
“Are you pouting, gattina?”
I can’t tell if he’s angry or amused from his tone, but I refuse to look at him. My damp clothes cling to my flesh and steal my warmth, leaving the heat of his hands on my thighs a stark contrast.
When he slips them higher, I press my knees together, trapping his knuckles half an inch away from my sex, and curse the air conditioning as shivers wrack up and down my spine.
“You are, aren’t you? Mia gattina is pouting because she can’t fight back the way she wants.”
Goosebumps pepper my skin from his low, intimate tone. Even though I know he’s mocking me, my nipples pebble and my clit pulses, and when he leans his chest against my knees and flexes his digits around my thighs, I swing my furious glare to his face and break my short-lived silence.
“No, I’m staging a protest. You said you won’t believe me anyway, so why should I say anything at all?”
“Be careful, gattina, or I might take your wide eyes and pouty lips as an invitation because, fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he murmurs.
I can’t tell if he’s serious or not, so I rattle my cuffs and sneer.
“That is not a compliment since you thought I was my stepsister until a few minutes ago.”
He chuckles, pulls one hand off my leg to cup my face, and rubs his fingers closer to my pussy.
“Are you upset I was thinking about another woman while I was touching you?” He caresses my cheek with his thumb, and I war between biting and nuzzling him. “Because I can give you all my attention tonight, if that’s what you want.”
When the meaning of his words sinks in through the haze of lust pulsing through me, I shake my head, dislodging his hand, and curl my lip in disgust.
“No. I don’t want that. At all. Get your hands off me,” I demand.
He stands and leaves so abruptly I stare after him in disbelief for a few moments before slumping in exhaustion and relief. Fighting both his mental attack and the war within me proves too much of a strain. I hate how my nerves spark to life every time he touches me, but I want more. I crave him.
Without the blanket, the room sucks away the last of my body heat and my teeth chatter as I shiver so hard the chair vibrates and my chains rattle.
He returns a few minutes later with a mug in one hand and a bowl in the other. Steam wafts up from both containers. My mouth waters as the smell of coffee and chicken noodle soup fills my nostrils.
After setting the tableware on top of the dresser on the far side of the room, he stalks to the bedside table, puts the lamp on the floor, and lifts the bedside table with ease. I swallow and prepare for more mental anguish as he places the table beside me, retrieves the coffee and soup from across the room, and sets the steaming crockery just out of reach of my bound hands.
He looms over me as he lifts the mug to his lips and blows over the top, dispersing the steam. My stomach rumbles. I look away in mortification and take a deep breath.
I jerk in surprise when he wraps an arm around my shoulders and holds the mug in front of my face. His breath ghosts over my temple. A thrill races down my spine from his touch and his nearness fills me with yearning and apprehension.
“Drink. I can’t have mia gattina losing her claws in the middle of a fight, can I?”
I flick an angry glance at his face, but he’s too handsome and lethal up close, so I focus my gaze on the mug. Deciding not to argue and waste an opportunity for caffeine, I lean forward.
He presses the rim to my lips and tilts the mug enough so I can slurp the hot liquid up at my pace. I cringe as the first sip burns all the way down my throat, but I take another swallow when the heat spreads out from my stomach to warm my insides.
Unexpected tears drip down my cheeks. I choke on the next sip as emotions close my throat, but when he pulls the mug away, I force myself to swallow the coffee in my mouth.
No one has ever taken care of me like this. I’ve craved this level of devotion my entire life. It’s ironic and bittersweet that this brutal mafia man is the one to give me what I want most.
I blink in surprise and stare at his lips pressed against the rim of the mug, right over where mine were a second ago, as he takes a sip. With a grunt, he places the coffee on the table and wipes my tears away with his fingers.
“Did you burn your tongue?” he asks.
I shake my head and try to lean away from him, but he tightens his arm around my shoulders and traces my features with his fingertips.
“I’m sorry, gattina, I should have cooled it down more before I offered it to you,” he says.
Suspicion roars through me. Hardened criminals like him don’t apologize.
“What are you doing? Why are you pretending to be nice?”
He huffs and lifts the spoon from the bowl.
“Don’t start batting your lashes now, gattina. It’s far too late for that,” he says as he cuts the noodles hanging off the side of the spoon using the edge of the bowl.
When he lifts the spoon to my mouth, I clench my teeth together.
“I can feed myself,” I say without parting my teeth.
He hums a noncommittal note and presses the tip of the spoon to the crease of my lips.
“I know, but this is more fun,” he rumbles.
I don’t open my mouth. He makes a sound of disappointment and turns his head so his lips brush against my temple.
“It’s okay, gattina. I can think of much more fun things to do with your mouth if you make me force a ring gag behind your teeth.”
The taunting in his voice leaves no room for doubt. He’s dead serious.
I open my mouth and take the food off the spoon. Forcing myself to chew and swallow despite the tightness of my throat, I ignore the need pulsing between my legs and glare straight ahead as though Ermanno doesn’t exist.
His low chuckle ferries my thoughts to an island full of dark, sensual depravity.
“How did I ever think you were your stepsister?” he murmurs.
“What?” I ask before my mind catches up.
“You never respond the way she would,” he says.
I shrug and curse my wayward tongue when words spill from my lips.
“She’s not exactly someone I want to emulate.”
He chuckles again and lifts the laden spoon to my mouth. My stomach rumbles. I take the bite without hesitation and actually taste the food this time. It must be a brand of canned soup I’ve never had before, but I like the note of spiciness that lingers on my tongue after I swallow.
Ermanno feeds me in silence for a few minutes before offering me the coffee again.
“How do you look so much alike?”
Even with the break in our conversation, I know he means me and Julieta. As I take a sip of the still hot coffee, I consider not answering him, but he could easily find out through the grapevine and I gain nothing by being obstinate.
He doesn’t stop me when I suck down several swallows before answering.
“She’s technically my half sister. Her mother was my father’s mistress until a few years after my mamma died, but stepsister was easier to swallow than half sister, so that’s what we tell everyone,” I say.
He rewards me with more coffee. I relax into the chair despite the awkward position and enjoy the warmth spreading through me, even though my skin remains chilled from my clothes.
“Have you ever been on good terms with Julieta?” he asks as I drain the last of the drink.
I give a half-laugh and shake my head. The world spins, and for a moment, I wonder if he drugged the coffee, but then I remember he took a sip himself. Plus, the stress of the day far outperforms one measly cup o’ joe.
I roll my shoulders as much as the chair, cuffs, and his arm will allow and meet his eyes. With mere centimeters between us, the dark flecks in his grey irises seem as ominous as the black hole swirling in my chest, but I harden my expression and quirk a brow in challenge.
“Whatever she did to you, I can assure you she did worse to me,” I say.
“Oh? Did she seduce you along with half the up-and-coming mafia men in New York City and then pit you all against each other?” he quips.
My stomach roils, and I fight against spewing the contents all over him. Julieta told us she came to New York to marry Ermanno Mancini, not potentially start a war between all the mafia factions in the big city.
I was an idiot for pretending to be her.
Mad at myself for underestimating her cruelty again, I revisit the emotions I suppressed—all for the sake of being strong for my sister—right after my father kicked us out.
“Is that all she did? Good for you. At least you still have your home and family,” I snarl.
“Explain,” he demands even as he focuses on filling the spoon with more soup.
Maybe he senses how frayed my emotions are and realizes the only way this conversation will continue is if he gives me a bit of space.
“She’s the reason Livia and I are in New York City, but not because of some stupid scheme to get involved in your mess,” I snarl.
He shifts his arm along the back of the chair to cup his hand over my far shoulder before angling his chest toward my side, moving his body further away from mine while still making me feel boxed in, yet somehow, seeing more of him calms the rage festering within me.
“Keep going, gattina,” he says.
“She lied to my father and got us kicked out of the family. As in my father erased our names from the family tree and said we weren’t his daughters anymore,” I hiss.
He squeezes my shoulder, but I glare at him. I don’t want comfort or sympathy. I need to hit something, and he’s the only person to aim my fury toward.
“When did this happen?” he asks.
“Sixteen years ago,” I grit out through clenched teeth.
“How long have you been in New York?”
“Sixteen years,” I repeat.
He slips his hand off my shoulder and moves the bedside table—with the empty dishes still on top—back to its original place.
“What made you come here?”
Even as I resent him for reading my emotions so well, I silently thank him for putting distance between us and asking mundane questions to diffuse my fury.
“College. Plus, it was as far from San Jose as we could get,” I say.
He squats in front of me and unties the rope as he speaks.
“You keep using the words us and we, but I don’t see Livia here. Why are you defending her when she isn’t concerned about you?”
I grind my teeth and curl my hands into fists as he wraps thick fingers around my ankles. How can he ask such a horrible question with my knees so close to his face?
“I told you why already,” I snap.
He aims menacing grey orbs at me as he pulls the rope away from my ankle cuffs.
“No, you didn’t,” he says.
With methodical, unbothered movements, he continues unlooping the rope from around the chair.
“She lost her friends and family because of me!” I exclaim.
“Sure. Sixteen years ago.” He lowers my feet to the floor and pins them down with his knee before using both hands to work the knot holding my wrist cuffs to the armrest. “What about now? Have you been stealing her boyfriends, besties, money, or job since you came to New York?”
His question punches me in the gut. All the air rushes from my lungs and I shake from the force of my emotions.
“No, but what does that have to do with anything? Stop picking apart my relationship with my twin. It’s none of your business. Neither of us is here by choice,” I snarl.
He drops the rope to the floor, wraps his thick fingers around my forearms, and moves my hands into my lap before piercing my soul with his steely eyes.
“I’ll believe that after I speak with your sister,” he threatens.
“No.” I tug on my arms, but his iron grip never wavers. “You can’t,” I sneer. “Don’t…” I suck down a steadying breath, force my shoulders to relax, and spit my next words with as much plea as I can conjure. “Please don’t involve my sister.”
He leans forward and studies my face.
“Why shouldn’t I?” he asks.
Exasperation streaks through me.
“Am I not cooperating? I’ve answered all your questions. I’m not fighting you. You have my phone, which means you also have my purse and wallet and all my information. You don’t need her,” I say.
He squeezes my forearms before asking, “Is she the only reason you aren’t trying to claw your way free right now?”
“Does that matter?” I quip.
“Yes, gattina. It very much matters.”
My stomach freefalls at his guttural tone and the hunger in his eyes. I fight the urge to look away, his intensity overwhelming.
“I… I have nothing to hide,” I stutter.
“That’s not an answer,” he growls.
I sigh and drop my shoulders in defeat.
“What do you want me to say? No, she’s not the only reason, but she is the biggest one.”
“That’ll do. For now,” he murmurs.
He pulls me forward, hoists me onto his shoulder, and stands. I brace myself against the pain of his shoulder digging into my stomach but otherwise don’t fight as I process his ominous words.
When he sits me on the side of the tub and removes my socks and shoes and both sets of cuffs, I eye him warily, but he ignores my expression and lifts me by my armpits as though I weigh nothing and sets me on my feet in the shower.
“Strip and hand your clothes over the top, then set the temperature yourself,” he instructs.
I stare in shock as he closes the shower curtain, and for an extended moment, I can’t move.
I don’t know what I thought would happen tonight, but showering on my own while he lingers on the other side of the curtain wasn’t on the list.
“Do you need help?”
His suggestive tone spurs me into action, but my limbs prove stiff and uncoordinated from the combination of cold and misuse.
I huff, more to announce my compliance than from annoyance, and work my shirt over my head and off my arms before tossing it over the shower rod. My sliced bra follows quickly after, but when I shove the waistbands of my scrub bottoms and panties down my thighs, I pause in mortification at the proof of my arousal.
Before he can admonish me, I turn on the shower with my pants around my knees and grit my teeth as cold water pelts me. As fast as my stiff limbs will allow, I peel my pants off my legs, step out of both items, and scrub the worst of the mess from my panties in the downpour before wringing both pieces of fabric out and throwing them over the shower rod.
With steam now rising from the scorching water, I adjust the temperature and step under the spray.
Away from prying eyes for the first time since I clocked in to work this morning, I brace my forearm on the wall, lean my forehead on top, and take a shuddering breath as the stress of the day barrels through me. A few minutes later, Ermanno scuffs his shoe, reminding me of his presence.
Never in a million years did I think I’d end up at the mercy of New York City’s most brutal and powerful consigliere. He’s terrifying and dangerous and I should try to escape him every chance I get, but with his threat of involving my sister hanging over my head, I can’t.
Plus, the more I think about it, the more I believe the Russian gangsters are somehow connected to today’s shooting. If that’s true and they’ve decided to kill everyone involved in their boss’s surgery, then Ermanno is my best bet at protecting my sister.
Yet as my mind replays his small acts of kindness, my heart insists I stay with him for completely different reasons.
No one has ever cared for me before, and even though logic demands he has ulterior motives, my soul yearns for more.
More of his intense grey eyes roaming over me. More praises from his wicked mouth. More caresses from his callused fingers.
I even yearn for more of his skepticism.
My attention-deprived soul consumes his every gesture like a cactus soaking up as much water as possible during the rare rainy season.
I don’t know how to resist anymore now that I’ve had a taste.
I’m so screwed.
