The Beast I Can’t Tame: Brooklyn Kings, Book 3

by L. K. Shaw

  Once again, my self-control is testing what I can endure when she deepens the kiss, growing bolder, more confident. More in charge. I’ve never been one to let the woman lead, but here, with her, I’ll give up any urges I have to dominate. Until Francesca feels powerful enough, and safe enough, to give me the reins.

  Unable to resist touching her, I spear my fingers through her hair, gently providing pressure. She moans against my mouth. It’s followed by soft whimpers of pleasure. I can’t help but nip her bottom lip, the fruit flavor of the champagne mixing with her unique one. Francesca gasps, and I fear I went too far, but she clambers onto her knees next to me and wraps her arms around my neck, cradling the back of my head in her hands.

  Her lips only barely leave mine, her breath still hot against my skin. “Touch me, please.” There’s a needy thread to her plea.

  “Where?” I ask, wanting her to make the decision.

  She takes my hand and places it on her breast, pushing herself into my touch. The pebbled tip is hard against my palm. I squeeze and knead her flesh. Francesca sucks in another sharp breath, and I freeze. She covers my hand with hers and clutches me tighter.

  “More,” she begs, murmuring the word against my lips before claiming them in another kiss, while together, we caress her breast.

  My control remains taut, almost on the verge of snapping, but I keep a tight hold on it. I worship Francesca’s mouth. Her body. Giving as much pleasure as she’ll take from me until at last she pulls back, breathless and flushed. My fingers stop moving beneath hers, the muscles twitching against the resistance to keep squeezing.

  Her hand slides off mine with agonizing slowness, as though she can hardly bear to break the connection, until it drops to her side. I force my hand off her body as well. Francesca’s gaze travels over my face. She bites her bottom lip in uncertainty.

  “Will you be terribly upset if I stop?” she nearly whispers.

  “Never. Are you okay?” I ask.

  Her nod is shallow. “Yeah, it just got to be too much for a second there.”

  “I understand.” And I did.

  “Not that I wasn’t enjoying it. Because I was,” she rushes to reassure me.

  I give her a half smile. “You just need a breather for a bit,” I say. “It’s all right. Really. This is all for you. At your pace. when you need to take a break, we’ll take one. No questions asked.”

  She seems to weigh my sincerity, and then her body sags in relief. “Thank you. Will you just hold me again?”

  “Whatever you want,” I say and raise my arm for her.

  Francesca once again cuddles up against my side and lays her head on my shoulder while I wrap my arm around her, tucking her tighter against me. If this is all I get tonight, then I’m satisfied. This woman means more to me than some temporary pleasure. When she’s ready, it’ll be worth the wait.

  Chapter 17

  Francesca

  * * *

  I study the single red rose in the etched glass vase on the deck table, biting my nail in concentration. The opened bud is half hidden in the shadows, while the other half is bathed in the brightness of the sun. It’s still not the way I want, so I move it for what is probably the ninth or tenth time until I swear I’m satisfied. I double check all the settings on my camera and hunch down to start snapping pictures. First this angle. Then that one.

  After countless shots, I rise and begin scrolling through them looking for the perfect one. I plan on framing it and hanging it in my room. It’s the perfect way to showcase the first flower Gio gave me. I want to cherish it forever, and this is the best way I can think of. Pressed flowers crumble with age. Plus, it feels a little weird to hang onto a dead flower.

  “Why aren’t you wearing a hat? Don’t you know the sun will ruin your skin?” My eyes close briefly, and I turn with a fake smile. Pierce would be furious if he knew I’d given our mother a key to let herself in. He’s said more than once that she’s not welcome here. I’m still not sure why I did it. Maybe because I still hope, even after twenty-five years, we can develop a close relationship.

  “Hello, Mother,” I greet her.

  Sofia De Luca stands just inside the doorway. A perfectly pressed pantsuit highlights her still slim figure, its blue color complementing her light skin tone. Skin that hasn’t been tarnished by the sun like mine. She’s dripping in diamonds: as one does when they have money, according to her.

  “Well, don’t just stand there. I didn’t come all the way over here to sweat while having a conversation with my daughter.” She pivots and disappears further into the house.

  I grab the vase and head inside. My mother is in the middle of the living room, her gaze critical, like always, as she glances around at the changes I’ve made.

  “I don’t understand why you still have this ratty old hand-me down furniture. I swear the last time I tried to sit on it, a spring nearly stabbed me,” she complains like she always does. It’s something I should be used to it by now, but every dig stings like the first time.

  “The couch is comfortable, Mother. I’ve sat on it plenty and have never felt a single spring poking out.” I move into the kitchen to put the rose back in the windowsill behind the sink and stow my camera in its case.

  She follows behind and huffs. “Are you accusing me of making it up?”

  “I’m not accusing you of anything, Mother. I guess I haven’t been unlucky enough to feel it yet. I’m sorry you had to.”

  To my utter surprise, her expression softens. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. The couch is perfectly lovely. You know I get cranky sometimes, when I don’t get enough sleep. Last night was one of those nights.”

  I stare at the woman in front of me. Who is she? Because my mother never apologizes.

  “Your rose is beautiful.” She gestures behind me. “I didn’t think there were any in the backyard. Where did you get that one?”

  Shock keeps me frozen and silent. An apology and a compliment? I shake off the surprise, but hesitate a second longer before responding. I’m not sure I’m ready to deal with her reaction. I can’t remain mute forever, though, and I brace myself. “It’s from Gio. He came over for dinner the other night to celebrate my getting into a photography class.”

  “Ah. Well, it’s very pretty,” my mother says without a trace of sarcasm and casually glances around the kitchen.

  “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?” Her gaze wanders back to mine. “Am I supposed to say something else?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I guess I’m waiting for you to make some snide and rude comment about Gio like you always do. Or to scoff at me for taking a class that interests me.”

  My mother pulls out the bar stool tucked under the kitchen island and perches on the edge of it. She avoids meeting my eyes.

  “I owe you an apology,” she begins. “My…hesitance with accepting Giovanni has always been because I worry about you. That he’s merely toying with you. I’ve never wanted to see you hurt.”

  I can’t help but narrow my eyes. “So you’re telling me that all this time that you’ve been bad-mouthing him is because you think he’s playing some game? You didn’t think that maybe, just maybe someone—that he—could actually like me?”

  She stiffens. “Of course I think that someone could like you. But I’ve met men like Giovanni before. They say all the right things. Make you think you’re special. That they care. Until they get what they want from you. Then, they move on to the next girl like you’re nothing,” she hisses the last word, and it’s filled with so much bitterness I flinch away from it.

  I stare at my mother like I’m finally seeing her for the first time. My shoulders drop, and I cross the floor to stand just on the other side of the island from her. I reach over and lay my hand on hers. It’s cold, and she startles at my touch. Her eyes raise, and she meets my sympathetic gaze for a moment before hers darts away and she seems to stare off into nothing. Or perhaps into the memories.

  “Is that what someone did to you, Mo
ther?” I ask, gently. Is that why she’s always been so distant my entire life? Has she been nursing a broken heart? What about Father? Those are questions for another day.

  She blinks and pulls her hand out from beneath mine, straightening her spine and transforming back into the stiff and proper picture she presents to everyone, including her own children. “I’ve only been looking out for you. But from what I’ve seen and heard, he does seem genuinely taken with you.”

  For the first time, I might actually understand my mother and it gives me hope. “I really do appreciate that you were worried. I promise you, though, that Gio has only the best intentions towards me. He cares about me.” I pause for only a moment before I continue. “And I care about him. He’s been good to me. Please give him a chance.”

  “I’ll do my best,” she says almost begrudgingly.

  “That’s all I can ask. Now, was there a reason you stopped by?”

  “Yes. Carlotta Greco invited me to a charity luncheon this Saturday at the country club, and I wanted to know if you’d like to come with me. They’re raising money for Maimonides Children’s Hospital.”

  Am I in some alternate universe? My mother and I don’t do things together. Ever. She’s still staring at me expectantly.

  “Of—of course. I’d love to go. Thank you for inviting me.”

  She rises from her seat and straightens her jacket. “Excellent. I’ll send Bruno over with the car around eleven.” She looks me over. “Please try to wear something less…brown.”

  Ahh, there’s the woman I’m used to.

  “I’ll be sure to dress appropriately.” I only just hold back my sarcasm. She made an effort to invite me. I’ll return the favor and try to make an effort as well. “Although, I’d prefer Soren drive me.”

  “Very well. I’ll see you at noon. Don’t be late.” Without an actual goodbye, my mother pivots on her high heels and gracefully strides out of the kitchen. I don’t bother following. Instead, I collapse onto the stool she vacated.

  What in the world just happened?

  I’m desperate to tell someone about this whole conversation. The first person who comes to mind is Gio. I head into the living room and grab my phone.

  “Hello?”

  “You’re not going to believe who was just here,” I say by way of greeting.

  “Who?” he asks.

  “My mother. That’s not even the weirdest part. She was actually nice.”

  He chuckles on the other end. “Isn’t nice a good thing?”

  “I’m not sure when it comes to her it is. She started out her usual self. Complaining. But, suddenly, she’s apologetic. Complimentary. Nice.” I’m still in awe. “She even invited me to a charity luncheon. Something she never does. Oh god, is she dying? Is that why she’s not acting like herself?”

  “I’m sure she’s not dying. Maybe she realized how she sounded and tried to make up for it,” Gio says.

  “Maybe.” I don’t really buy that, though. “Anyway, I just had to tell you, because it really threw me. How’s your day going?”

  “I’m getting ready to head to a meeting with Jacob, Pierce, and the Irish.”

  “The Irish?”

  “Yes. To discuss a business deal. That’s the reason why Brenna married Jacob. To align the two families and strengthen their forces and to increase both organization’s money and power,” Gio explains.

  “I thought the alliance was against the Russians? Aren’t they struggling right now without a current leader?” That’s something Mila had told me after they rescued Anya. Jacob and Pierce had killed Mikhail, the man behind Brenna’s kidnapping, as well as his son, the man responsible for selling Anya to the Polish.

  “They are, but this business deal has nothing to do with the Russians.”

  A part of me wants to keep pushing. To keep asking questions. Brenna wouldn’t hesitate. She’d keep nudging. Why does knowing what goes on in these meetings suddenly mean so much to me?

  “Is anything being done to help the women being hurt by the Polish?” I ask the question before I can call it back.

  Giovanni hesitates.

  “Please tell me,” I nearly beg. “Pierce has told me to stay out of it, but I just can’t. I’ve tried. I really have. Just knowing what they could be going through eats at me.”

  He’s silent on the other end, no doubt battling with what he should or shouldn’t do. I’m not sorry for putting pressure on him, despite the fact that it’s not fair of me to do so. I’d already told myself I wouldn’t. Yet, here I am.

  “We’re trying,” he finally says. “It’s a delicate balance of keeping Jacob’s word and honor and doing what’s right. But we’re doing our best to help them.”

  There’s such a sense of relief that overflows inside me, I collapse onto the couch. “Thank God. It’s killing me to know what those women are suffering. I’ve been there. I know what it’s like to lose hope.”

  “I really shouldn’t be sharing this with you,” Gio says. “Jacob would probably ban me from any more meetings if he knew.”

  A pinch of guilt makes me a little queasy, because he’s right. “I’m sorry to have put you on the spot like that. Thank you for telling me, though.”

  “It’s hard for me to say no to you,” he admits.

  “How about I make it up to you with another home-cooked meal?” It’s the least I can do.

  “It’s a deal.”

  “Good.”

  “Sorry, I got to go,” Gio says. “Call you tomorrow?”

  “Okay. Enjoy your meeting.”

  I end the call with guilt still settling like a weight in my belly.

  Chapter 18

  Giovanni

  * * *

  I collapse with a loud exhale in the middle of my studio. Sweat pours down my face, and I lay my casted arm over my forehead as though I can absorb the wetness somehow. Since I can’t—or won’t, rather—go to Gallo’s to work out, I have to do it in my apartment. No way am I going to let the other soldiers see how weak I am. How out of breath I get with the simplest thing like fucking crunches.

  My chest hurts like a son of a bitch, but I push it away. I lay there for a few more minutes to catch my breath, and then I start in on the next set. Once I’ve finished with them, I rise to my feet and start throwing punches at an invisible target. I imagine the faces of our enemies and my fists slamming into them, spilling blood.

  Left jab.

  Right jab.

  Left uppercut.

  Right hook.

  Repeat.

  On and on, I punch and jab, bouncing around on my feet, praying my leg doesn’t give out on me. Several times it threatens to, the pain shooting up into my thigh and groin. My knee nearly buckles, and I curse, bringing myself to a grinding halt. I hunch over, hands on my knees, as I draw in gasping breaths.

  There’s a towel on the couch. I reach over and grab it and start swiping the sweat dripping off me. Unfolding my frame, I stand upright, pulling in deeper breaths, ignoring the pinch in my side. My soaking wet shirt sticks to me, and I pluck it from my skin.

  Someone knocks on the door. I wrap the towel around the back of my neck and answer it. Fuck. Why didn’t I look through the peephole?

  “How do you know where I live?”

  The woman standing in the hallway looks like she’s been on a three-day bender. She probably has. “Well, hello to you, too,” Beatrice says, slipping past me without an invitation. “Why are you all sweaty?”

  “I won’t ask you again.”

  She waves her hand at me in a flippant gesture. “Don’t try to threaten me. We both know you don’t mean it.”

  “Are you really willing to test me?” I warn her, hating that she’s probably right.

  Like Jacob did, Beatrice takes the place in, assessing it. It may not be much to look at, but it’s certainly better than her apartment. Cleaner, for sure. No beer or liquor bottles in sight.

  “It’s awfully small in here,” she notes, her nose wrinkled in disapproval, before
she takes a seat on the couch and pulls a cigarette out of her purse.

  “If you don’t like it, leave. I didn’t invite you. And don’t fucking smoke in here.”

  She glances over at me and pouts but puts it back. “Don’t be like that. I was just making conversation.”

  “Why are you here, Beatrice?”

  “Aren’t you going to offer your mother a drink?” she whines.

  That’s it. I’ve had enough. I reach out to drag her off the couch and throw her back out into the hallway.

  “Jesus, you’re so sensitive,” she rips her arm from my grasp with a dramatic huff. “Fine, I stopped by to chat if you must know.”

  I stand over her, glaring down. “Chat about what? And make it quick.”

  “How’d your date with your little lady friend go?” my mother asks.

  My head jerks back at the question. “How do you know about that?”

  Beatrice sighs as though she’s putting on a performance, and I’m not playing my part. “I told you I know more about your life than you think I do.”

  “Who is it?” I snap.

  “Who’s who?” she asks with fake innocence.

  “The man you’re fucking for information?” Because other than Jacob, no one knew I was heading to Francesca’s anyway. How the hell does Beatrice know about it, then?

  She gasps with a hand to her chest. “You always jump to unfair conclusions about me. I’m not fucking anyone. At least not for information.” She winks.

  “What else do you know?” I bark.

  “Hmmm, let’s see.” She taps her forefinger to her chin and stares up at the ceiling before returning her gaze to me. “I know that a certain police officer visited Emilio about a couple of very bad boys who got in trouble. Then there’s some fancy charity event being held this coming Saturday that your girlfriend’s mother is heading.”

  Christ. Someone is spilling the syndicate’s secrets. I glare at my mother. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Beatrice. One that is going to get you killed.”