9. Chapter 9

9

S oren used the back door to enter the tiny delicatessen on a small side street in Edinburgh, avoiding the long line of customers going out the front door. He weaved his way through the kitchen—more of a kitchenette, really—to the even smaller office in the corner.

Giuseppe, the third-generation owner of the delicatessen, came through the room's doorway. "It's all yours," he said as he shook Soren's hand. "I'll be out front, getting through the lunch crowd, if you need me."

Soren clapped him on the shoulder. "Thanks, Giuseppe."

The office was more like the size of a closet, barely large enough to fit a metal desk, which was pushed up against one wall, and just enough space to walk around the other side of it. A chair that looked as old as the deli itself sat behind it, while a metal fold out chair sat in front. The desktop, and the room itself, was surprisingly clutter-free. Giuseppe could clearly manage a decades-old food business in a tiny space because of his organization and efficiency.

Soren's light blue custom-made button shirt, gray trousers, and designer watch stood in stark contrast to the modest office, but he didn't need a fancy office to make an impression. He sat behind the desk and waited.

After two minutes, Rowan opened the door, and Angus Fraser stepped over the threshold. Stout with light brown hair and thin lips, Angus was the underboss for the Fraser family. His suit was slightly ill-fitting—too big in the shoulders and not big enough around the waist.

One of Angus's men walked in behind him, and Rowan moved inside to stand behind Soren. Angus's eyes shifted between Soren and Rowan.

Soren slowly stood up. "Angus," he greeted as he held out his hand.

Angus grasped his hand. "Soren," he responded. Soren noted with distaste that Angus's hand was moist.

The Fraser family was the second largest family in Scotland. Angus had only recently been promoted to the underboss, and Soren disliked him from the start. He was a slippery sort of person, and Soren was wary of unpredictability. But etiquette in the crime family world required at least a superficial respect—that was what has maintained the relative peace amongst the families for the last few generations. And since Soren needed information, respect meant reaching out to the underboss first.

Soren motioned to the fold out chair. "My apologies for the modest furnishings. It was the best I could come up with on short notice." Untrue, but Soren liked to use Giuseppe's office for meetings with rival families to see how they responded to surroundings that were not as luxurious as they were used to. If they were caught off guard, all the better.

Angus gingerly lowered himself into the chair as if testing whether the chair would hold his weight. "So what's this meeting about?"

Soren cocked his head. Angus was playing dumb. All the families made it their business to know everything that went on around Edinburgh, especially if it involved each other. "The Carosis were killed three nights ago. They were riding in a MacGregor vehicle." He paused to study Angus's expression. "Do you know anything about that?"

The families routinely shared information when it suited them. There was an implicit give-and-take; Soren knew that if Angus gave him any useful information, he would owe the other underboss the same, now or later.

"Uh, nothing," Angus said, shifting his eyes around the room. "Why would I know anything?"

Soren watched him for several beats, still as a statue. Angus shifted in his chair and tugged a finger on his collar.

Then he stood up, slowly walked to the front of the desk, and sat at the edge of the desk in front of Angus.

"Angus, the rules amongst the families work, don't you agree?" Soren asked. "For maintaining the peace, I mean. We don't hurt the members of each other's families, and life goes on peacefully."

Angus watched Soren warily and nodded. "That's right."

"So when an SUV with a MacGregor insignia is attacked, and all the occupants killed at gunpoint, what am I supposed to think?" Soren's eyes bored into Angus's. "It makes me wonder if another family has declared war on us. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Th-that is a reasonable assumption," Angus stammered.

"And if another family has declared war on us," Soren continued, leaning closer, "then we must defend ourselves." He sat, still like a predator on the hunt, until Angus bounced his leg.

"Naturally," Angus agreed, swallowing hard.

"Now," Soren stood up suddenly. "I have no reason, of course, to think that the Fraser family was responsible for initiating this act of war—" He shot Angus a hard look. "—but if violence breaks out, then your family could suffer some of the consequences." He paused. "Peripherally, of course."

Soren slowly walked back behind the desk, giving Angus a few moments for his words to sink in. Then he turned and leaned on the desk with his fists. "I can't imagine you or your father would prefer that."

Angus nodded, a slight fear lighting his eyes. "We would not prefer that, no." The Fraser's team of soldiers was miniscule compared to the MacGregor's.

"So what do you propose we should do?" Soren raised his brows at Angus and waited for an answer.

Angus took an inhale. "Well…I don't want to spread rumors, of course—"

"Not at all," Soren added smoothly.

"—but I had heard that…the assassin was an outside hire."

Soren cocked his head.

"A third party," Angus continued. "But…"

Soren's eyes hardened. "But what?"

"...but it was a mafia job." Soren stiffened imperceptibly. Angus held up a hand. "Not from one of us. Overseas."

"How do you know?" Soren's jaw set.

"My…source said the manner of hire was not consistent with our Scottish customs," Angus replied. "That it was likely American." He watched Soren carefully. "Again, a rumor. The Frasers don't need any trouble, okay?"

Soren eyed the other underboss for a long moment and then nodded. Angus let out an audible sigh of relief. He held out his hand to Angus. "I appreciate your time."

Angus took Soren's hand, his own hand even more damp, and dropped it quickly. He stood up and walked to the door. "If that's all, then good luck." He didn't wait for Soren's verbal confirmation and left.

After the door closed, Soren's shoulders dropped, all pretense gone. "Let's get back to the house," he said to Rowan. "Giuseppe will want his office back."

***

Back in his home office, Soren leaned back heavily in his chair. He rubbed his temples to keep the impending headache at bay.

Angus had said his source suggested an American was responsible for the deaths of the Carosi boss and his wife. In the car ride back, Elowine and Rowan recapped what they had learned so far.

"One of my sources confirmed part of Angus's claim," Elowine said. "That the assassin was a third party hire not associated with any families in Scotland. He couldn't say anything about who did the hiring."

"I've reached out to my American contacts," Rowan added. "Haven't spoken to them yet, but I'll report back."

Soren's thoughts drifted back to Ilaria as they were constantly doing as of late. He was under no illusion that she would listen to him, to either stay out of Scotland or let him know when she would arrive. And if Angus was right, she would be walking into danger by coming to Edinburgh.

He gritted his teeth and picked up his phone. He knew he was being a nag but he couldn't have her here, distracting him, while he tried to find the murderer. If she wouldn't listen to him, then he would try to scare her a bit.

Soren: Ilaria, I just learned that the assassin is still likely here in Edinburgh. If you come here, there will likely be an attempt on your life.

Soren: So please stay in Chicago.

He put his phone down and sighed, hoping that was enough to keep her away from Edinburgh.

His phone pinged.

Ilaria: I appreciate your concern, but don't tell me what to do.

He growled and tossed his phone onto the desktop, making a clattering sound. So now he had to worry about protecting her, too.

He grabbed his phone again.

Soren: You're being unreasonable. And now I'll have to protect you which will only distract me from trying to find your parents' killer.

Ilaria: I'm not asking you to protect me or, frankly, to do anything for me.

Ilaria: Other than to stay away from me and we'll be fine.

Frustration coursed through him. She was the only person—besides his siblings—who wasn't intimidated by him whatsoever, who he couldn't control. And he didn't like that feeling. Things went wrong when he wasn't in control.

In truth, he had always admired her self-assurance, her total belief that she was a complete and worthy person. He couldn't blame her for wanting to do things her way.

Soren was sixteen, Ilaria thirteen, when they first met. Fun, vivacious, and spontaneous, she was a whirlwind, drawing everyone toward her wherever she went. No one could avoid being charmed by her laughter and confidence.

"Have you ever kissed a girl?" she casually tossed out to him, the two of them sitting idly by the pool.

He looked at her out of the side of his eye. She was staring at him without an ounce of shyness, utterly curious. He was both mystified and fascinated by this girl and her ability to move about the world as if she were the center of it. And yet she wasn't spoiled, granting care, regard, and respect to anyone lucky enough to gain her attention.

He blinked, unsure of how to answer. "Yes," he finally said. That was the truth, but he was baffled as to why he even considered saying no.

"Oh," she responded. Did he detect disappointment in her face?

"Why?" He felt compelled to ask.

She shrugged. "Just thought that if you hadn't kissed anyone before, I would offer to be your first kiss."

He paused, surprised at her boldness and now wishing he had lied. He wanted to find out what it would be like to kiss her.

"Oh, well," she added. "Guess you don't need my offer, then."

"What about you?" he asked, unwilling to end the conversation. "Have you had your first kiss?"

She lifted her chin. "No." She said it matter-of-factly.

He couldn't help but be charmed by her complete lack of self-consciousness. "Since you were so gracious to make me that offer, I'll return the gesture." He looked at her squarely in the eyes. "I can be your first kiss."

She tilted her head, considering. Then she gave him a bright grin and said, "I'll let you know. Thanks."

A kernel of disappointment appeared in his chest, but outwardly he smiled and shrugged. "No problem."

Ilaria never took him up on his offer. Not until two years ago, anyway.

Another vision of her flooded his mind, sudden and unbidden. A vision of her coffee brown hair wrapped around his hand; her dark brown eyes nearly black with desire; her pink lips parted and swollen from his hard kisses.

Gah. He shook his head to clear his mind, but it was too late. He felt the tightness in his pants. He had always marveled how quickly blood rushed to that region from just one thought of her. But since their kiss, it just became damn inconvenient since thoughts of her would pop into his mind anytime and anywhere.

And despite a steely willpower and icy authority, his cock, once swollen, would never listen to him. The only way to put the giant back to sleep was to empty it, either with a woman or his hand. And the only woman who interested him enough to solve his problem wasn't here, and she hated him anyway. So his hand had to suffice.

The front of his pants straining, he went into the adjoining bathroom and locked the door. He unzipped his pants and pushed down his boxer shorts, breathing a small sigh of relief as his shaft sprang free, near to bursting.

Desire coursed through him, and, like the many times before he had done this, he wished so many things were different. Wished he hadn't said what he said to her; wished she didn't hate him; wished she wasn't the head of her family.

And as usual, he pushed those wishes out of his mind and instead saw Ilaria's full lips wrapped around the tip of his cock and sliding down, taking in his full length.

His hand folded around himself, and he bit back a groan. Not the same as her lips. Not even close.

He gripped himself and dragged his fist up to the crown as his other hand held onto the edge of the sink. Moisture escaped from the tip which he rubbed along the shaft.

He stroked down to the base, squeezing at the bottom, while in his mind he bent her over the arm of the sofa, her back arched and her legs spread. Stroked up again, tighter fist, while in his fantasy he plunged into her, filling her completely, hearing her moan his name.

His hand moving faster now, the fantasy faded and reappeared with Ilaria straddling him, lifting her hips until he nearly saw the crown of his cock and then slamming back down. He palmed a full breast, massaging a rosy peak with the pad of his thumb. With his other hand, he reached between them and stroked the spot on her that was the most sensitive. She leaned her head back, exposing her throat, her chest heaving.

His balls felt heavy. He was close. His fantasy Ilaria reached behind her to massage and pull his balls, harder and harder. Her lips parted as she looked at him with dark desire in her eyes and whispered, "Soren, I'm coming." He saw her throw her head back with a moan, calling his name as her muscles tightened almost unbearably around him.

He almost came, but he paused his hand, forcing himself to hold. When the sensation subsided slightly, he imagined her lips around his cock again. This time, she slid him in and out of her mouth with expert movements, squeezing his balls in rhythm. In and out. He held her hair in his fist, helping her, guiding her.

Then her eyes looked up, dark heat meeting him. And with one last stroke and squeeze with his own hand he exploded, a guttural groan escaping from his throat.

Panting, he leaned over the sink, slowing his hand down.

Fuck.

Every time he had the same fantasy about Ilaria, and every time he used his own hand, he came so hard he saw stars. He could only imagine what the real thing would be like; it would probably kill him.

But of course, he would never find out. Could never know what the real thing would be like.

Turns out maybe he didn't want Ilaria to come to Edinburgh because, besides her safety, he knew it would be torture to see her again. He had always prided himself on his willpower, but she put it to the ultimate test whenever he was near her.

And somehow he knew his willpower, when it came to her, would eventually give out.