3. Gia

Before Sal can askme any more questions, the door to the club opens.

A large, surly man blinks down at me. He mutters something in Czech, which is not a language that I'm fluent in.

I'm pretty sure he isn't asking for my coffee order, though.

That's really all the Czech I know. I could also tell him to fuck off, but I don't think that would be helpful either.

I'm about to give him my post pitiful English please look when, to my complete shock, I hear the person behind me reply.

In fluent Czech.

I whip around and try to take a peek to see if there's anyone else there, but there isn't.

Meaning that Sal speaks significantly more Czech than I do.

The bouncer gives us both what can only be described as a hairy eyeball. Sal steps forward and offers to shake his hand. I see the telltale pale edge of a banknote disappear into the bouncer's fist, and then he nods.

He lets us both in.

I fluff my hair and stand tall, strutting into the club like Sal's bribe had been my plan all along. It's only when we're firmly situated at a VIP table, which Sal also obtains by bribery and Czech promises, that I throw an arm over him like I'm bringing him close.

The music pulses around us. This club is dark as hell, as is the norm in Prague, and the flash of lights and lasers gives everything around us the impression of a stop-action film.

So I'm hopeful that it looks like I'm just another silly heiress whispering sweet nothings to her boy toy when I pull Sal's ear to my lips.

"You never told me you speak Czech."

"You never asked."

That's fair.

I never thought I had to, which is also fair. For the majority of the time I've been connected to Sal, he's readily offered plenty of information.

Now, though…

I don't really like secrets. It might not seem like that to the outside observer because I also spend a significant amount of my time gathering them like candy from a pi?ata, but it's less about the fact that I covet them and more about the fact that I can't stand being out of the loop.

I've been out of the loop before. Plenty of times.

My dad loved to leave me out of things because Elio was more important.

So the fact that I suddenly have no idea how many languages Sal speaks…

"Any other linguistic skills you want to share?"

"Unless you're asking what my tongue can do for you, then no, Gia."

I don't let him see that I blush at the statement.

Instead, I pull away and survey the club. The bottle girls try to do their whole song and dance with a giant magnum of champagne, but a few choice words from Sal and they're gone too.

A bottle of champagne, however, stays.

Good job, Sal.

I reach forward. He pours me a glass, and I lean back, sipping on it.

Bleh.

I prefer champagne that's a lot more expensive, but this is what I'm stuck with, I guess.

Behind me, Sal seems to glower.

I always forget how tall he is. He towers over my five-foot-two frame easily, and I know from experience that every inch of him is stacked with muscle.

He's enormous. Big, strong, much more so than his brothers in that regard, who aren't exactly weaklings either.

The whole family is pretty darn attractive.

Good genes and all that.

"What are we waiting for, Gia?"

I sigh. "For someone to look like they've seen Marco."

"Gia…"

"Hush. Let me work," I mutter.

The Irish gangster had said there was something here that Marco wanted. Something…

Oh.

Hello.

There's a guy, who is absolutely a cop, trying to dance and look chill.

Oh, bless his heart. He probably thinks he's pretty good at this too.

But I've never seen someone so clearly be a member of the FBI or Interpol in my life.

I sit down with Sal, cuddling close to him like we're just two little lovebirds. Gently, I put my hands up and tilt his face to mine, letting my fingertips linger on the curve of his jaw.

God, he smells good.

I take a breath. "See that guy who is totally not a cop on the dance floor?"

Sal's eyes dart to the crowd. I wait for him to look, then when he does, I nod.

"Yeah. The one in the obviously off-the-rack suit."

"Gia, most people wouldn't know it was off-the-rack."

"Whatever, it fits him terribly. Anyway. He's here. He's not looking for us."

He stills. "You think he's here for an arrest or to find an informant?"

"Given the fact that he's dancing like a total idiot, I'm going with informant."

Sal snorts. "Whoever it is, they're putting him through the wringer."

I grin. "Good for them."

Criminal informants sometimes make their handlers do a little song and dance in order to feel accessible. They need to take some of the power back, because ultimately, their handler has something worth having in order to get the information they need.

Whoever this guy's CI is, they're making him work for his information.

It's more than a little entertaining to watch.

When the officer takes a path to the back of the club, clearly dropping his terrible cover and making a beeline for the rooms where shady things happen, I grab Sal's hand. "Follow my lead."

He doesn't even flinch.

I have to say, that's kind of nice about Sal. It's one of the things I've always appreciated about him.

I need to be flexible in my work, and if I need someone to work with, they have to be able to change plans at the drop of a hat.

We get to the back, and I pause in a hallway. I can barely hear voices coming from a few rooms back.

I creep forward, Sal close on my heels.

We pause right outside of a dark room. There's a slight alcove next to the room, like the kind that used to hold a phone booth.

I tuck into it and Sal follows.

"…family is bound to be looking for him."

"Any reasonable person would assume he's dead," a woman's voice says.

"Well. I don't think the De Lucas are reasonable by any stretch of the imagination."

We both go stock still.

The man continues. "He's fine. When I met him here, he said he would do anything to keep the brother's kids a secret."

The woman snorts. "Yeah. Well. Anything turned out to be a whole lot for him, now didn't it?"

"True. Still. We gave him what he asked for, and he's going to give us what we need."

She groans. "I hate working with criminals. Have I said that before?"

"Sure, kid. But it's time to get you back. Babysitting duty is hard work, you know."

The door creaks. My mind is still reeling, thinking about what they said.

It's Sal who makes the decision about the door opening.

"Shit."

Faster than I thought possible, Sal moves. He rotates so that he's pinning me to the wall, his right arm braced against the flat surface so that my face is obscured by his leather bomber jacket.

He leans forward. "Act sexy," he mutters.

Then, his other hand goes around my waist, pulling our hips together.

His nose descends, brushing the line of my neck.

And his lips trace up my throat.

I don't even have to fake the gasp that explodes from me. The feeling of Sal's lips on my skin?

Holy. Shit.

There are goosebumps racing all over my skin, starting at the place where my neck meets his lips. He nibbles lightly, biting the tendon in my throat.

I don't even need to pretend to moan.

The sound is breathy and loud, and I can feel Sal's hesitation as he freezes.

There's motion next to us, and I grab the back of his neck with my hand, pressing him into me more.

I roll my hips against his, and he tilts his lips against my ear.

And he growls.

The noise makes my entire body vibrate. I want Sal to do it again.

But I want him to be much, much less clothed when he does.

The two people leave the room next to us, and I can feel them watching us for just a minute. In Italian, the man mutters, "Get a fucking room."

Sal doesn't respond, except to brush his lips over my ear.

We listen as their footsteps move back out toward the pulsing music. When I'm sure they're gone, I stand stock-still.

Sal hasn't moved.

But neither have I.

His hand is still at my waist. His nose is still inches from mine.

All it would take for us to kiss is for one of us to lean in.

Just one of us has to move approximately one half of an inch.

And we'll be kissing.

I can feel Sal breathing. I'm terrified to open my eyes and see what he's doing.

"We should go."

The words are like a bullet. They shatter the tension between us. Sal moves back, but I swear I feel his fingers linger on my waist.

"We should go," he confirms.

When he leaves, I take a deep breath before I follow.

I feel… rattled.

I never feel like this.

Salvatore De Luca, it seems, just has that kind of effect on me. I wanted to lean in to kiss him so badly.

But he didn't lean in either.

* * *

The plane rideto Amsterdam is… awkward.

There's no other way to describe it.

We're on the plane, and the plane is moving, but mentally, I'm completely preoccupied with the fact that Sal is so close to me. My mind keeps going back to the dark hallway.

To Sal's lips skating against the side of my neck.

To the feel of his heart pounding under my hand.

Sal and I have definitely recognized that we're attracted to each other. That's always been true.

However, when we last talked, I thought that maybe we had finally put a nail in that coffin. Sal made it clear he wanted more…

And I panicked.

I didn't know if I didn't want more. I didn't know that I did.

I just knew that the sight of Sal, his hands around mine, asking me for something real…

It had scared the shit out of me.

So I told him that the timing wasn't right.

That we needed space.

That I couldn't be with him because I needed to be able to work as Elio's replacement while he's on paternity leave.

I had said that.

Then, the next day, Sal had been gone. Reassigned, as he and Elio put it, to do some spying on the Russians in Europe.

I thought that it had killed the attraction.

Unfortunately, after today, I don't think the attraction between us is dead.

I think it might even be growing.

We've done a good job of dancing around this, Sal and I.

We've slept in the same bed.

We've changed, showered, done all of that in front of each other.

That was… necessity. Anxiety.

The need to be close to another human after a tragedy.

I won't say that I've never thought about Sal naked before. Because I have. A lot.

But we've never…

I shut my eyes remembering the one time we got close.

I've always thought we kind of had embers burning between us.

Now I'm worried that they're becoming flames.

After we get off the plane, Sal gently shepherds me to the location.

The bar where we're meeting the Russians is one of my favorites. It overlooks both a canal and another busy restaurant, and I like the location because it's relatively safe.

Relatively being a key word.

Sal ensures that we're there early, another perk to having him near, and when we get to the bar, he walks in first before ushering me in.

The room is empty.

I sigh. "Can't they at least have left us a bartender?"

"I think when the mob is involved, the wait staff tend to clear out," he says in a dry voice.

"Pity." This place has a great version of a French 75 that will lay you flat on your ass if you drink enough of them.

There's a knock at the door and Sal goes to clear the entry. He opens it and the Russians file in, one by one.

Three of them.

I stare at them until they sit. Nikolai and Anatoly take their seats at the table, and Damien, their muscle, hovers behind.

The air is tense.

Until Nikolai breaks out in a huge smile. "Sestryonka. How good to see you."

I wait for Sal's sharp intake of breath and I smirk at the implication. Yeah. That's right. Elio isn't the only one who can build alliances.

"Hello, Zio Nikolai."

"How have you been?"

I sigh and study my nails. "Bored, Zio. Bored to death."

"I hear you have a new niece and nephew on the way."

Ah. I see. We're firing shots. "I do. Such a blessing, you know? Well. You will know when you have grandchildren, I guess."

He laughs. "Always with the claws, sestryonka."

"You know it."

We make some small talk, each of us sizing the other one up. Finally, I lean back and get to it. "We need some information."

"Oh? Gia, you know that anything I know, you know."

I tap my fingers on the stone tabletop. "What did the Irish do with my brother-in-law?"

There's a flicker of unease on Nikolai's face. "I don't know, darling."

"I think you do."

He sighs. "Gia…"

"You want to tell me, Niko."

"And why's that?"

I smirk at him.

His daughter, the sweet but altogether too oblivious Anastasia, has been busy. She texted me pictures of who she was hooking up with recently in Ibiza, and Daddy Dearest is absolutely going to lose his shit once he knows.

"How's Stassie's vacation going?"

He blinks. "You knew?"

"Zio. You know I always know."

He looks over at Anatoly. "May we have the room, sestryonka?"

"Of course."

We rise and Sal and I exit the building. I stop outside, but Sal grabs my elbow and moves me closer to the canal.

"Something is wrong."

I frown. "What do you mean?"

"Their muscle looked twitchy."

I sigh. "He's a Russian Bratva soldier. He's not exactly…"

I don't get to finish that sentence.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see something.

Light.

Heat.

Then, before I understand what's happening, Sal throws his body on mine. He slams into me, just ahead of the billowing cloud coming out of the building, and he shoves us.

Right into the canal.