Chapter 21

21

Luca

Good question. Exactly what I was asking myself. I had planned on Adrian coming over and driving her to her rehearsal, but the thought of anyone else going over to her place and accompanying her had been too much for me. My guts had twisted, a stone had taken residence in my stomach, and it felt like a heavy weight was squeezing down on my chest. I didn't dare put a name to those feelings. It was probably just my system reacting to having a decent meal at home after not having eaten properly for a few days. Yeah, that's all it was. Indigestion. I grabbed antacids and chewed on them before I showered and slid into my car and came over to her place.

Now, I grip the top of the doorframe and glare at her. "Aren't you ready to leave yet?"

"You're going to drive me to the rehearsal?" She glances past me. "Where's Adrian?"

A sensation like knives being stabbed into my chest grips me. "Why do you care?"

"Wasn't he supposed to drive me today?"

"I'm taking you to rehearsal," I snap back.

"Not with that kind of attitude, you're not."

"My attitude has nothing to do with my driving skills," I retort.

"Of course it does. If you keep glowering at me, you're likely to have a coronary before too long, and I don't want that happening when I'm in the car with you."

"Nothing's going to happen to you, I'll make sure of that." The words are out before I can stop them. She tips up her chin and meets my gaze. Something electric stretches between us, zings through the air and supercharges the space. Her pupils dilate, her chest rises and falls, and the pulse at the base of her throat beats faster. My fingers tingle, and it's all I can do to stop myself from pressing a thumb to that spot and feeling the nervousness, the agitation, the tension that seems to have her in thrall.

She flicks out her tongue to wet her bottom lip, and I feel the swipe all the way to the crown of my cock. How would it be to have those lips wrapped around my dick, to have her run that pink tongue up the bottom of my shaft, to have her squeeze my balls as I empty myself down her throat?

She must sense my thoughts, for her mouth opens in a silent 'O' of surprise. She clutches at her purse, and the knuckles of her fingers are white. She brings her other hand up to her chest and flattens her palm against her heart. Her shoulders rise and fall. The scent of crushed rose petals intensifies. That's when I realize I've leaned in close to her.

I glance between her blown pupils and the blood drains to my groin.

"Luca," she whispers. The sound of my name from her lips is like the magnetic pull toward my true north.

True north? What is wrong with me? Why did I think that? She's a front for the fake marriage I'm enacting for the benefit of my family. She's only my fake fiancé, an asset I need to guard until my family is convinced of the veracity of our relationship. The possessiveness I feel toward her is because of that. It has nothing to do with how fiery she is, how I'm drawn to her, how she's the epitome of everything that pulls at me, hooks its claws into my guts and yanks at me so I can't stop myself from seeking her out when we're in the same space, and especially when we're not together. How I can't stop myself from thinking of her. How I can't help but appreciate her courage in the face of the ordeal we went through. Her ability to bounce back and focus on her craft, the way I'm focused on building my reputation as the Capo of the Cosa Nostra . All I have to do is keep her at a distance, something I've already failed at, for here I am, unable to tear my gaze off her face.

"Jeanne..." I take a step back, then sweep my hand toward the corridor. "Are you ready to leave?"

She glances between my eyes for a second longer. Her forehead pinches together. A look of disappointment seeps into her features before she pulls herself together. "Of course."

I put more distance between us, giving her enough space so when she steps out and pulls the door shut after her, there's no chance of our bodies coming in contact.

She locks the door, drops the keys into her bag, then spins around and marches down the corridor. Head held high, shoulders erect, hips swinging like a peach ready to be devoured and savored and licked across the curves until it's shiny and glistening, and cazzo. Why can't I glance at her without wanting to yank her to me, slap my chest and declare to the world that she's mine? The heavy weight pressing down on my chest intensifies. A dense cloud of emotion chokes my throat. It feels like someone just plunged a hot knife into my chest and twisted it. Stocazzo! What is wrong with me?

She turns to glance at me over her shoulder. "You coming, Gangster?"

Her voice slices through the noise in my head. I force my feet to move, force myself to shove those thoughts deep inside that black hole which is my heart and slam the lid down on it. There is no place for emotions in my life. No place for any feelings except this razor-sharp focus on ensuring that I consolidate my place as the Capo of the Cosa Nostra .

I need to do better than my brothers, not that there's a competition. Except, in my mind, there is. I need to outperform them. Even if I'm never going to be the Don, I can still ensure that my fame and reputation outshines his. Besides, Michael is married and with a kid on the way. He's distracted, and I can take advantage of that by doubling down and ensuring I take on the most difficult assignments. If I prove myself now, I have a chance at surpassing him. Yes, this is what I need to concentrate on. Not on my upcoming 'fake' nuptials or the charms of my soon-to-be-bride. Both of which have no place in my life. I square my shoulders and stalk forward. Brushing past her, I head down the stairs and out the front door of the building. I hold it open for her, and once she's walked through it, I head to my car and hold the door open. When she's seated, I bend, reach for her seatbelt, and she flinches.

"I'm not going to hurt you," I snap.

"What you say versus how you look is like Lady Gaga singing Just Dance without make-up."

I stare at her.

"You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?"

I scowl.

She blows out a breath. "Sorry, I forget my cultural references are probably two decades too forward for you."

"How old do you think I am?"

"Um," she pretends to count on her fingers, "forty-six?"

I purse my lips.

"Forty-two?"

I glower.

"Forty?"

My fingers tingle. What I wouldn't give to take her across my lap and have my palm connect with that gorgeous derriére.

"Thirty-nine?" She clears her throat.

"I'm thirty-six," I growl.

"Ah." She raises her shoulders. "I'm twenty-two."

"I thought you were eighteen."

She huffs out a laugh. "Nice try, but I'm still not going to sleep with you."

"We'll see." I close the door, then walk around and slide into the driver's seat. I ease the car out onto the road.

Twenty minutes later, we pull up in front of the theater. I shut off the engine, then turn to face her. "What?" I ask.

"How did you know where I was going to perform?"

I allow my lips to curve into a smile. "Do you really have to ask me that?"

"Is there anything about me you don't know?" she retorts.

"I don't know if you'd prefer me to take your ass first or your pussy."

Her gaze widens, her jaw slackens, and a telltale blush rises on her cheeks. She opens and shuts her mouth, then turns and shoves the door of the car open. I push my own open, walk around the front of the car, and follow her to the door of the employees' entrance of the theater.

She wrestles with the heavy door, and I close the distance between us to slap my hand down on the wooden barrier.

She whirls around to face me. "If you think, by being mean to me, you can worm your way into my pants, you are sadly mistaken."

"Admit that it turns you on when I talk dirty. And it's closer to a python."

"What the—" She opens her mouth again and gapes.

"Seems the only way to shut you up is to shock you, Angel."

"It's not the way to woo me, though."

"First, not trying to woo you. Second, you've forgotten that you already agreed to marry me?—"

"—fake marry," she interjects.

"And third, I can do with you what I want. You're hardly in a position to refuse."

"But you won't."

It's my turn to stiffen.

"For all your dirty-talking, full-on-dominance persona, you won't push against me if I say no."

I dig my palm into the wood that's been burnished by age, much like the way she's worn me down into a shell of myself, without even trying. It's true. In the face of her needs, I'm a slave, someone who won't push past her request to stop. Doesn't mean I'm going to surrender to her wants without coercing her to see otherwise.

"You underestimate me, Angel." I bend my knees and peer into her eyes. "I can be very persuasive."

"And I can be very stubborn." She juts out her chin.

"And by the time I'm done with you, you'll be begging me to fuck you. And I won't oblige."

Her breathing grows shallow.

"You'll implore me to throw you down and rip into your pussy, but I won't do so."

Color races up her cheeks to her hairline.

"You'll plead with me to let you come, and?—"

Her amber eyes lighten until they seem like sunshine bouncing off water.

"I will not give you permission. Not even if you writhe and moan and are on the brink of the most phenomenal orgasm of your life. You feel me, Angel?"