25. Matteo

25

I ignore my brothers as they glare at me and gather the passports and travel documents Burley delivered last night. Matteo and Tasha Scalera are going on a two-week honeymoon booked on a private island in Greece, with a quick stopover to visit my ailing grandparents in Sicily. They were too old to travel for the wedding, so I'm taking my beautiful bride to see them instead.

"Matteo," Dominic starts but I stare him down. I'm not in the mood for any words of wisdom now.

"See you on the other side." I put my hand on the small of Tasha's back and she moves in sync with me. She's still riled up, her body tense. She's also clever and knows when to fight and when to let go. I won't let my guard down, but the real-time video footage of Peter Armstrong shifted the gears in her head. Every emotion played out on her face, and she understood the situation perfectly.

Tasha isn't going to resist now, and the drug in her coffee is going to numb her just enough to function. Once she's on the plane, she'll probably pass out, and when we arrive in Sicily, she'll be too confused to recall what happened.

I need her zoned out. I don't need her to chat all the way to Catania. Just watching her walk down the stairs with Burley had me questioning my life choices. But I have no life choices. I have a job to do, and I'll deliver. In two weeks, all of this will be over. Time is ticking for the Don, and I've made promises to my father that I will keep.

With my hand on her back, I steer Tasha to the front door where Burley is waiting. By the time we get to the SUV, she's already less tense. By the time we get to the private jet departures' lounge, where there's border control, she's perfect. All sweet and docile, and ready to collapse. Our check-in is quick. Flawless. Money is a shiny wet glaze over everything. I fucking hate that it's so easy.

I hate Peter Fucking Armstrong more for crossing Il Consiglio in the first place.

We're up the stairs and into the aisle of the jet when Tasha stumbles. I'm right behind her and have her in my arms. "Here, kitten," I murmur. "I've got you."

"I'm exhausted," she whispers, her hands on my arms as I ease her down into her seat.

"So busy with the wedding," I say as I buckle her up. "Just for takeoff. I'll move you to the bed after."

"What?" She looks up at me, but not really seeing, confused. "Where're we going again?"

I glance up to the front of the jet, where the pilots are doing cross checks. The air hostess is preparing drinks in the galley. Burley and three other bodyguards are sitting down, flanking us. It's our jet and these are all our regular staff but trust only runs so far—nobody but my closest inner circle can know what's really happening here.

I sit down next to her and reach for her hand. It's willing and limp in mine. Her head lolls to the side and she tries to focus, slumping against me. "Matteo," she sighs. "You're here."

"Yes, kitten." The dose might have been a tad high. I lean closer, my lips at her temple. "Almost forgot the most important part." I reach into my inner pocket and pull out three rings, putting mine on first. I waited for the right moment to slip hers on her finger. Firstly, my brothers would give me hell if they knew I took these out of the family vault. Secondly, this hellion would toss a million dollars of diamonds out onto the runway if she had a second to spare. Now I get to slip them on her ring finger, and she doesn't even resist.

She holds up her hand and watches in drugged fascination as the diamonds sparkle in the overhead lights.

"You spoil me," she murmurs, a smile playing on her lips. "For someone you plan to whore off in a few days' time."

There's my fire eater. And she's not completely out of it yet. "I see the idea is growing on you. Don't get any ideas, kitten," I say softly. "Where we're going, they'll cut your finger off to get those rings and ask questions later. If they ask them at all." Also, and this is something she doesn't need to know, but these rings are a type of insurance for her, should things go wrong.

Not that I plan for them to go wrong, but I'm not stupid. This trip has risks. Once we've landed in Catania, things are going to happen fast. The one good thing about Randazzo is that he's old. Like my father, he's gotten this far by killing those who stood in his way. There's enough bad blood between Randazzo and his subjects that most of them want him dead. Handy to know if you're planning a coup.

Tasha's head bobs. She's too short to get comfortable and the bucket seats won't allow her to rest her head on my shoulder. I suppress the urge to stroke that soft cheek. The captain comes over and makes sure we're ready for takeoff. I give him the go-ahead and half an hour later we're in the air.

Once we've reached altitude, I stand, unbuckle Tasha from her seat and gather her in my arms. The jet has a separate bedroom cornered off with a bathroom en suite. It's excessive luxury for a plane we rarely use outside of the US, but now I love the privacy and comfort.

Burley stands and goes ahead to open the bedroom door for us. "You're good, boss?"

"Yes. We're not to be disturbed."

Burley nods and the door closes behind me with a click.

I lay her down on the bed and make sure her head isn't in a funny position. She looks rather angelic like this, but I know she has twin devils sitting on her shoulder. I like it more than I should. I like messing with her more than I should too.

She's just merch.

Merch that's going to give me a hard time if I don't keep her in line.

Time to mess with my kitten's head.

I take her shoes off and place them next to the bed. Then I lift the skirt of her dress, loving the look of the panties I chose for her on that sweet pussy. It's all mesh and no gusset, showing off her skin and the tip of her slit. The waistband has got white flowers embroidered along the edge, short stems leading the eye south. Yep. I'm a pervert. I want to touch her, pleasure her again like the other night, and my cock is all for it, but she's too drugged to even notice. There's zero fun in that.

Instead, I hook my fingers around the hips of her panties and gently tug them off. She moans, a wasted protest. I press her panties to my nose, disappointed when there's only the slightest hint of her essence on them. Fuck it.

I pocket them and lower her skirts so that she's decent. For now.

I smirk. Nothing like a virgin arriving in a foreign country where there's a bit of coastal wind on the tarmac, realizing that she's naked underneath that skirt that could fly up like Marilyn Monroe's under a New York City subway vent.

She'll be too conscious of it to do anything but keep her skirts pressed down.

Satisfied that I now also have the perfect gag on hand should she actually need one, I go back to the cabin to fetch my laptop bag. For a moment I consider sitting down at a desk to work, but then decide against it. Someone needs to keep an eye on her and none of these bodyguards are getting close to her sleeping, half naked.

I go back to the bedroom, kick off my shoes, strip to my white dress shirt and roll up my sleeves. I settle next to her on the bed, lounging back like a lazy dick who works from bed. Her head is right there by my hip, her hair spread like a silky invitation. She's a distraction I can't afford.

With a grunt I open my laptop and the WiFi connects automatically. My email is already open, and I glance down the new messages in my inbox. There's the usual pile of junk from people I'm going to ignore, but Dominic's one-liner pops out like a stab in the eye in all caps:

SHE'S FUCKING MERCH, YOU DICKHEAD. WE DON'T TOUCH THE MERCH.

You're fucking hard for her, brother. Don't go soft. She's going to be the death of you. I'm still pissed you're doing this alone. Phone me.

I don't bother to reply.