Chapter Thirteen

Dante

The clang of iron reverberates through the gym as I pump the weights, my muscles screaming in protest. I'm not even breaking a sweat, but pretending to listen to Sal as he drones about tonight's security protocol is exhausting.

"So, we're all set for your meeting with the Senator. Cameras have been angled to cover blind spots. No one's getting in without a key card access and a hand job."

Sal's voice crackles over the phone, a momentary pause before he continues, but it's enough for me to hear his deliberate slip-up, which is aimed at jolting me back into focus.

I interrupt him, smirking, "That's some spicy security measure you've got going there, Salvatore."

Sal chuckles on the other end. "I meant to say hand-print scans. I've got to keep your attention somehow, fratello. The point is, security will be tighter than a nun's knees tonight."

I grunt in irritation. "It's still a stupid location, Sal. The club's going to be packed tonight, and too many people will spot the Senator. Why not meet him in one of our warehouses?"

Sal's response is swift. "Bill Sheridan is a businessman, but he's also a politician, Dante. The man has the eyes of the public and media on him every time. In the club, we can at least control what they see compared to out there on the docks."

Sal's logic hits home, as much as I hate to admit it. "You're right," I concede.

I just hate club openings. Too many celebrity appearances, too many free drinks and VIP passes, and too many influencers hoping to create drama.

"As long as you keep the guest list sane, Sal."

"Sure thing. The upstairs VIP lounge will be on lockdown. The only people allowed there will be us and Sheridan . . . Oh, and also . . ." Sal's voice takes on that knowing, musical tone that usually means he's about to tell me something I don't want to hear.

"What," I snap, although I already know what he's going to say.

"Alina and her friends are with us too."

I slam the weights down, the metal groaning in protest. "Did I not make myself clear about her showing up there?" I don't need her suffocating me with her perfume and eyelash batting while I'm trying to conduct business.

"Come on, Dante," Sal coaxes. "It's our club opening. What's it gonna look like if your own fiancée isn't there?"

"Like I have a brain in my skull? Like I don't need a fucking ball and chain to validate my existence?" I growl, wiping the sweat off my forehead with a towel.

Sal, sensing we're not about to agree anytime soon, deftly steers the subject to safer ground. "Kira's coming, you know. She's the celebrity DJ."

"Yes, I know," I snap, wondering why Sal feels the need to bring this up every five seconds.

Unfazed by my irritation, Sal continues. "She's bringing a bunch of friends from Boston—the usual celebrity DJ circle. Red Wine is—"

"Sal, spare me the social calendar, will you?" I cut him off, not needing to hear more about his obvious obsession with Kira. And I especially don't need to know that Addy won't be there as she's not a celeb or a DJ.

"Sure," Sal drawls, and I get the sense the little shit is trying not to smile.

"Just make sure the Senator isn't photographed or recorded. Or wearing a wire."

"Done," Sal says.

"And get Alina and her minions seated far enough away and well entertained. Now, speaking of entertainment . . . It's been three weeks, has that Irish prick not said anything interesting yet?"

"Oh him? I'm afraid he's a little dead, fratello ," Sal says casually.

"Awesome, Sal," I murmur testily. "Way to piss Nico off. Did he at least give up any good info before he kicked it?"

"I wouldn't call it good," Sal replies. "He said he and his boys were there to distract us from spotting their princess while she waltzed around Chicago."

"Hmm," I grunt. A ploy that only managed to land her squarely in my clutches. "Is that all you got out of him?"

"More or less."

"Then why did it take the prick three whole weeks to give you dead info?"

"Now you see why he vexed me. He could have saved me the trouble had he quietly whispered this on the first day. But no, he chose to die screaming it . . ."

. . . whisper . . . die . . . screaming . . .

The world shrinks, and the metallic scent of the gym fades as Sal continues talking, oblivious that I've stopped listening.

Life whispers, but death screams.

Loyola Boston University. Two and a half years ago.

It was enemy territory, but I was there on Nico's orders to negotiate a fresh peace treaty between us and the Irish Mob.

I'd promised Kira's mother that I'd check in on her daughter. Kira was meant to perform at some college event. A part of me was curious to see if she was any good so I dropped in on her during the event.

The music had thrummed through my bones as I stepped into the crowded college gym, the scent of sweat and cheap perfume assaulting my senses.

I'd scanned the crowd and immediately spotted Kira on the raised dais. She'd looked quite at home with the vibrant lights pulsating around her, her fingers dancing effortlessly across the mixer, creating the rhythm that filled the room.

And then my eyes had snagged on Addy.

She'd stood in the far corner of the gym pretending to be engrossed in the information on a bulletin board. Petite, with a hint of lush curves but she was dressed like a boy.

She should have been invisible, her allure swallowed up by her baggy clothes and baseball cap. Except for her hair, a long thick braid poking out of her cap and snaking down her back. A rope of fire that drew me in like a lasso.

I found myself crossing the room before realizing I'd moved. Something about her closed body language warned me she didn't like her personal space invaded. So, I took in her profile from a few feet away, my chest feeling too tight.

Porcelain skin, a smattering of freckles across her nose. And those lips, fuck me. Full and pouty, begging to be nipped, sucked on, and wrapped around my cock.

I must have made a sound because she turned to look at me. Her eyes, clear green pools hit me like wrecking balls. She instantly looked away. Then, after a few moments, she deliberately looked back, and this time, she didn't stop.

Her eyes boldly held mine and even when the blush crept up her neckline and stained her cheeks a deep crimson, she still didn't take her eyes off me.

I'd have given anything to know what she was thinking just then, but what surprised me more was her lack of shame in blushing for me.

My cock hardened painfully, and I had to rein in my lust before I did something stupid. Like push her against the wall and dry hump her.

I glanced away from her face, and my eyes instantly caught on the black folder she held across her chest like a shield, a battered thing covered in doodles and scribbles.

And there, in the corner of the folder, were the words that sealed my fate:

Life whispers, but death screams.

"Did you write that?" I asked, my voice rough to my own ears, laced with a need I couldn't quite place.

She startled, as if surprised I'd spoken to her. "What?"

I cocked an eyebrow at the folder. "The quote. Is that you?"

Her eyes followed my gaze until she saw what I was referring to, and then a wry smile tugged at her lips. "Oh, no, that was just the red-eyed, caffeine-overdosed, sleep-deprived version of me."

It was such a dark and unexpected quote from someone so shy and innocent-looking. I wanted to explore her eclectic mix of purity and provocation. To take her innocence and revel in the depravity lurking behind those clear green eyes.

"I couldn't agree more," I said, extending my hand. "Dante Vitelli."

She slipped her hand in mine and told me her name.

The moment my hand closed over her small hand, a needle shot through me like a drug, branding me. With a certainty that almost terrified me, I knew I would be unable to let her go.

I should've stayed away then. Instead, I marked her as mine through the things I taught her to crave. And in return, she broke me for other women.

Adele O'Shea was everything promised and so much more: A forbidden mafia princess with no clue who she was.

"Fratello? . . . Dante!"

Sal's voice snaps me out of my reverie, only to find myself hard as a fucking rock.

"I should go," I say, putting away the weights and straightening.

"Dante. Did you hear what I just said?" The chill in Sal's voice stops me from brushing him off.

I grab a bottle of water from the cooling rack, condensation dampening my fingers as I twist off the cap "What?"

"I asked you if you thought Benjamin O'Shea was lying when he claimed his daughter was betrothed?"

"Who cares what that lying prick said?" Even if he wasn't Irish, Benjamin O'Shea remains high on my shit list. What kind of father keeps his daughter in the dark and lies to her every single day? "Why do you ask?"

"Because in the last three weeks, there has been a flurry of activities in Boston."

I grunt, not bothering to ask Sal how he knows. Sal lives and breathes intelligence. From bugs to hacked communications to a robust network of spies.

"Do you know why the Mob is getting restless?" Sal pushes, and I tense. From his tone, I know I won't like his next words.

"Why are they restless?"

"Because there are rumors that you plan to break the treaty. To take Red Wine."

Fuck. Someone has been talkin g. Only seven people were there that night, including the pilot, Addy, and me.

I huff out a laugh, hoping it doesn't sound as hollow as it feels. "Why the fuck do the Irish think they know what I'll do?"

"Is it true, though?" Sal prods.

"I'm not a fucking caveman, Sal," I say, deflecting. "If there's going to be any taking, she'll be a willing participant."

"Sure. Well, in any case, Boston is beefing up their ranks as if gearing up for a world war. And you know there's no one on earth they hate more than us. We're talking negotiating alliances. Setting wedding dates."

And finally, I see where Sal is going. He's telling me Addy could be married soon. The question is, why he's telling me this?

"It's not possible. Sal, Addy doesn't even know who her father really is. She won't be marrying any mobster soon."

"You forget that the Mob and their affiliates don't require a courtship or even voluntarily said vows, to seal their deals. Only a consummation."

The thought hits me like a tornado, and my vision goes red. Cool water sloshes over my hand as the bottle crumples in my grip.

Over my fucking dead body.

If I didn't know better, I'd think Sal was warning me not to violate the treaty. Quite the contrary. He's telling me that I'm running out of time.

Unable to continue that line of thought without getting violent, I snap, "I'll see you tonight, Sal."

I disconnect the line, the only sound in the gym my ragged breathing, and Black Sabbath blaring through the speakers. My heart aches like a raw wound, the anger a living thing inside me, consuming me from the inside out as I contemplate the implications of Sal's words.

I need to move, to do something, anything to release this fury. I head into the bathroom, stripping off my clothes as I go. The icy spray shocks my system, but it's exactly what I need to clear my head.

Yet, even as the frigid water numbs my skin and cools my anger, my cock remains rock hard and throbbing with rage and need.

Addy is mine. All mine. I clench my jaw against the surge of arousal that courses through me.

I brace a hand against the marble wall of the shower, emitting a groan as I cup my heavy sac. I let my fist slowly slide up and down my rigid length. What happened three weeks ago was just a small taste; I need more. We both do. A proper reunion is long overdue.

I'll have to pay her a visit right after my meeting with the Senator. And tonight, there'll be no holding back. I imagine her soft, pliant body writhing under me, with those too-full breasts and tight, rosy nipples. But it's that pink scar running down between the twin swells that calls to the darkness in my soul. It's the most potent aphrodisiac I never knew existed.

Christ. It was so hard not to go overboard with her in those three months. She was untouched, yet depraved. Inexperienced but ravenous. It was hard to stay away, but she had such a hair trigger; it was dead easy to get her off just by talking to her.

And when I went to see her. Fuck. She was insatiable. She wanted to try everything. A flash of memory assails me. How she asked to suck on my balls. How she got on her knees and drove me insane until I lost it and came in her hair like an untried teen.

My hand fists my cock tight, and I moan as I imagine pushing my cock past her soft pillowy lips. I'll watch as her lush green eyes grow glassy with lust and tears as she learns to breathe around my cock.

My fingers find their way to my throbbing tip, and with a shudder, I begin to pump faster. My hips buck forward uncontrollably, seeking release.

I've taught her to take all of my cock, but she needs to learn to crave it, to deliriously beg for it when her neglected pussy drips as her ass clenches around me.

I no longer feel the cold water as it streams down my clenched abs. I grit my teeth against the oncoming climax, my other clenching into a fist on the wall as I lose myself in my rhythm.

I imagine Addy's luscious body convulsing with pleasure while my hand wraps around her neck, forcing her to decide what she needs more: air or the orgasm just out of reach . . .

I arch my back and let loose a growl as raw, unfiltered pleasure explodes within me, painting the walls of the shower in thick, white streaks. My groans echo off the marble walls, muffled by the cleansing water, my heart pounding in sync with each ragged breath I take as I come down from the intense high.

As I shudder with remnants of the heights of pleasure I owe to my red-headed witch, my mind empties of rational thought except for two certainties.

That I'll be buried inside that woman tonight.

And that the day Addy marries someone else is the day she will be widowed.

Hell. Maybe I am a caveman, after all.

***

Four hours later, Sal, Pietro, and I enter the club through the private entrance to find it packed. Kira is already doing her thing, the bass thrumming through the floor, and the air is thick with the scent of citrus and alcohol.

We make our way upstairs to the meeting spot at the VIP section, a private booth overlooking the dance floor.

Alina is on the other side of the room, holding court with her gaggle of friends. She catches my eye, and her gaze heats and fills with promise. I simply incline my head in greeting, feeling like a heel for not returning a sliver of her feelings.

I scan the club, looking for the Senator or his aides. He's late, of course. Fucking politicians.

Pietro must sense my irritation because he slips away to track down our wayward guest. Sal, ever the charmer, goes over to Alina and her friends to greet them, his smile wide and disarming. I watch, scowling as the women giggle, their heads thrown back, their throats exposed. It's all so fucking pointless.

I lean back in my seat, my jaw clenched tight. How the hell do I tell Orlando De Luca that I'm not going to be his son-in-law without sparking up a rebellion? Or make Addy mine without starting another war?

There's no way to avoid both.

The thought makes me want to put my fist through something. Or someone. But I can't. Not here. Not now. So, I sit, my posture deceptively relaxed as my fingers drum against the leather of the booth, my eyes scanning the club for any sign of trouble.

And all the while, her face dances in my mind, teasing me. It's as if now that I'm resolved to take her, I can't seem to wait anymore.

I stand, take my drink, and wander to the glass wall, a spot that offers an unobstructed view of the writhing sea of bodies downstairs and the massive C-shaped bar. I'm no stranger to nightclubs, but all the ones Salvatore designs never fail to stand out. Sal does know a thing or two about luxury, the little shit.

I throw back my drink, feeling the liquor burn a familiar path down my throat, but it does little to ease the tension coiling in my gut.

And then, to my utter disbelief, I see a flash of distinct red hair at the bar downstairs.

"Fuck me," I murmur, feeling the last shred of my control splinter to dust.

"Signor Vitelli."

I reluctantly turn away from the tantalizing sight to face Pietro, who has returned with a pale-faced and sweaty Bill Sheridan. I force myself to my feet.

"Senator," I greet, with a cold smile, taking his hand firmly. "I trust you found your way okay?"

I lead him to our booth, the need to get this negotiation over with beating down on me like a tidal wave. I have a more crucial business to attend to.

The last time that woman wandered into my lair, I let her go. Now she's tumbled right back. Even the Irish have to know that every man has his limits.