Chapter 19

CHAPTER NINETEEN

MATTEO

W hen she asks me if I wish I were as sure as those two lovestruck high schoolers, I almost tell her something irresponsible. I nearly say, " I'm sure already." Yet apart from that being a lie—a man in my position can't be sure about anything except the need to stay strong—I know it would be dangerous.

Maybe all this fire that's suddenly filled me is a result of the fact my dick is still aching, precome leaking from my end. If those lovers hadn't interrupted us, I know I would have laid Bella as gently as I could in the grass, pulled her dress up, brought my manhood to her soppy, tight, hot-as-fuck sex, and …

"We should get going," she murmurs when I don't answer, sounding slightly disappointed. "Right?"

This is my chance to bring out the romance and say something meaningful, but getting close to her is a bad idea. I knew it when I brought her out here, but that doesn't mean anything has changed.

"Yeah," I say, walking over to the car, unlocking it, and opening the passenger-side door.

She walks past me, risking a look out of the corner of her eye like she thinks I'll snap. It's almost like she's afraid of me, almost like all that kissing and closeness never happened.

Pulling away from the park, I say, "Your most recent video …"

"What about it?"

"It's different from the version you sent me."

"Yeah." A note of tempting sassiness flutters in her voice. "So what?"

I glance at her, smirking at how she stares at me, all fire. "Was that intentional?"

She hesitates for a moment, then reaches over and touches my hand. "What do you think?"

From her tone and inclination, this isn't a question. Obviously, we can both feel something, and we need to fight it for our own reasons. Maybe she's scared of losing me as a client. I'm almost jealous of her if that's her reason. Mine is far darker.

If I get too close to her and certain people find out, she could lose her life, and it'd be all my fault.

After dropping Bella off, I go to the club and sit in the office, nursing a whiskey. I've always found that this phrase doesn't apply to me. I rarely drink, but if I do, I don't make a ceremony of it. I toss it down the hatch and then get on with whatever I've got to do. Yet now, thinking of Bella, the kiss, the closeness, the impossibility …

I glide my finger around the glass. When the door opens, I stand up, hand going for my hip.

Elio smirks at me in his classic way-too-chill fashion. The universe could blow to pieces, and he'd still have that relaxed posture. Only a select few can see past it into the darkness.

"Relax," he says.

"I could say the same to you," I reply, reading the tightness in his expression.

"No, this is good news." He wanders over to the desk, sitting opposite me. "I've arranged a meeting with Gallo. He doesn't know it's us. We'll be able to spring a trap on the bastard. He rocks up, we clear him out, and the city can return to normal. No more TNT. No more crap."

His tone grows savage, a reminder of just how fierce he is. I never needed one, but sometimes it's good to know that my little brother isn't what people think. In some ways, he's crazier than me, and that's saying a lot.

"You good?" he asks.

"So we're doing the therapy thing now?" I mutter.

"You sound like Dad."

"Maybe he had a point. Maybe a man discussing his feelings all the damn time can't lead to anything good."

"Just hearing you say the word feelings is a trip. What happened tonight?"

"When's the meet?" I counter.

He chuckles grimly. "Smooth subject change."

"Thanks," I mutter. "So?"

"Day after tomorrow at the docks. Orlando will think he's got another shipment coming in, but when he opens the container, he'll have a nasty surprise instead. We can bury him right there in the docks."

"Cement boots," I say, nodding. It's not the first time we've done this. "You seem more willing …"

My brother shrugs. "There's no way around it. Maybe I can pretend I'm somebody else. Paint a few pictures. Read a few books. Yet when it comes down to it, I'll always be a DeLuca."

"What happened to you tonight?"

"That rat told me more about Orlando's plans—the stuff he wants to do. He idolizes the Cartels. He wants to bring their methods here. He wants to open brothels, the nonconsensual kind. It's a goddamn mess."

"That will never happen," I tell him.

"What about you? Where were you? You seem …" He glances at the whiskey. "… concerned."

"This is my first. I haven't even taken a sip yet." He must think I've been sinking glass after glass.

"That's the strange thing. I've never seen you nursing a drink."

I smirk. "I was just thinking that."

"So …"

After a heavy sigh, like that will relieve this tension, I describe my night to him. I tell him about the kissing and the steaminess. Of course, I don't include the hotter details, but I give him enough.

"When you heard those high schoolers talking, you wanted that, too?" he asks.

"Did I?"

He laughs gruffly. "Let's not get into the riddle crap. You don't have to tell me. I can read you too well."

"I just met this girl. She's a stranger. She doesn't even know I work for the mob."

"You're trying to convince yourself it won't work."

"That's because it won't."

Picking up my glass, I toss it back, letting the whiskey burn down my throat.