by LP Lovell
“You would be asking for his help in removing your biggest competition. Nicholai runs all the guns in North America. That trade is worth millions. Take it.” She steps forward, grabbing my jacket in both hands. Her eyes lock with mine, desperation bleeding through her expression. She’s scared and I fucking hate it. I hate that Nicholai has my vicious killer fearing for her life and the life of our child. I’m going to end Nicholai Ivanov, but as I look at Una, for the first time in my life, I’m questioning exactly what the price of that will be.
“Morte, there are lines even I cannot cross.”
“Fuck politics, Nero. Fuck the lines. You didn’t go to such lengths to become underboss, just to simper beneath your fathers will.” Her eyes drop to my mouth and she leans in, trailing her fingers over my jaw as her lips brush against mine. “Show him why you are the future of the mafia. Show him what real power looks like.” She kisses me. “Show him what a man with no lines is willing to do. The Italians may hate me, but they hate the Russians more.”
I grab her jaw, tilting her head back until she’s looking at me. “They don’t hate you, Morte, they fear you. They fear us because we have no lines.”
Her hot breath blows over my face and a wicked smile pulls at her lips. “Good.”
I groan against her lips that are barley a breath away from mine. My vicious queen, so beautifully merciless. I have grown up in the mafia, surrounded by men who will shoot a man in one moment and then preach about their honour and ethics the next. Una and I are the same, she basks in their fear. She likes it. We understand the power of being feared before you’ve even entered a room, of having your name whispered with both reverence and disgust. I love that about her. We are the new generation, more ruthless, less forgiving, and with a code of ethics that serves us and those loyal to us. Man, woman, or child, if you stand against us, you are the enemy and you will be cut down.
I twist Una’s face to the side and kiss her throat, inhaling her vanilla and gun oil scent. “Get changed, put on a dress. We’re going to see Cesare.” One way or the other, we will pull him to our cause. I’m not above playing dirty. If this is what Una needs to feel safe, then I’ll give it to her. Cesare means nothing to me and Una means everything.
“I hate wearing dresses,” she says, scowling.
I smirk, my grip slipping from her jaw and resting around her throat. Her pulse thrums against my fingertips, steady and strong. “My father likes to think of women as something delicate, something to be protected. And you play the innocent lamb very well, my love.” She glares at me and I laugh. “Especially with this.” I rest my free hand over her stomach.
“This is already making me want to kill somebody.”
I smile, kissing her forehead. “Enchant him the way you enchanted me.”
“Nero, I tried to kill you and you got hard for it.” She rolls her eyes. “That is not enchanting, it’s just twisted.”
I smirk. “You like twisted.” Grabbing her hips, I lift her, pushing her against the window. Her legs wrap around my waist and my hard dick presses against her. She clings to my shoulders, her breath hitching.
“I love twisted.” I kiss down the side of her neck and she throws her head back against the glass, pushing her breasts towards me. Pregnancy has been good to her, and her chest strains against the confines of her tank top. Sliding the straps down her arms, I suck one nipple into my mouth and she moans, rolling her hips into me. “Fuck,” I groan, my cock swelling. I love how she always responds for me, softening and opening up just like the butterfly she is. Grabbing my shirt, she tears it apart. Buttons scatter everywhere, and then her nails are raking over my skin in a burning trail. I hiss and put her down, allowing her to slide down the front of my body. She yanks her tank over her head and starts stripping my jacket and shirt as I back up towards the couch. She stalks after me, her hips swaying seductively as she shadows me like a hungry predator. The look in her eyes skates the fine line of lust and violence, both so close. She strips out of her clothes until she’s completely naked and so fucking beautiful. Her body is hard, honed muscle, littered with a map of scars, but softened by her full breasts and growing stomach. She shoves against my chest and I fall back onto the couch before she’s straddling my thighs. Her movements are aggressive and frantic, and I meet every touch of her lips, every lash of her tongue with the same brutal need, feeding the flames, antagonising her. She presses hot, open-mouthed kisses against my neck, working lower until she’s sinking her teeth into my pec. She swipes her tongue over the thin lines of blood left by her nails.
Fisting her hair, I pull her lips to mine, tasting my own blood on her tongue as I press my fingers between her spread legs. A ragged gasp slips from her as I push two fingers inside her. She touches her forehead to mine and her entire body tenses and trembles as her shaking breaths intermingle with my own. Gripping her throat, I hold her at arms length as I drive into her harder, watching her become so fucking exposed for me. Her eyes shutter closed on a moan and her skin flushes a beautiful shade of pink. White blonde hair cascades down her back as her body bows forward, her hips meeting my hard thrusts eagerly. Fuck, she’s so perfect.
I release her and grab her waist, tossing her onto the couch beside me. Yanking my belt open, I push my pants down just enough to release my cock. As soon as I’m between her thighs again, she’s wrapping her legs around me, pulling me closer until I’m sliding inside her. Her nails rake over my neck before she grabs my hair, pulling roughly. “Fuck me, capo,” she demands. And I do, taking, demanding, possessing her with every merciless thrust. Her hands cup my face and she kisses me, caressing her tongue against mine. I grab her wrists and pin them above her head, forcing her chest out and her body to bow so fucking beautifully. I bite her nipples, kiss her chest, neck, and jaw as I fuck her hard and fast. I fuck her until she’s practically crawling out of her skin and seeking out my lips. Her kisses are all tongue and teeth and I can taste my own blood in my mouth from a split lip. She rolls her hips beneath me, meeting me on every thrust. She moves like she’s trying to meld our bodies together, imprinting herself on me in every fucking way. Throwing her head back, she moans and I swipe my tongue over her exposed throat, tasting the saltiness of her skin. She fucks the same way she fights, with a savage grace that leaves me hypnotised.
“Break for me, Morte,” I say through clenched teeth.
And she does, moaning and clenching around me, her body contorting erotically. “Nero,” she breathes.
My name leaving her lips in a moment of weakness is so right, so absolute. I growl, driving into her harder. I come, biting down on her shoulder as a wave of pleasure drowns me. “Fuck!”
I still, my chest heaving and my muscles numb. I rest my forehead against her throat, inhaling the smell of sweat and sex, mixing with her familiar vanilla scent. She grips my hair, tipping my head back before she kisses me and shoves me off her.
“Now we can go and see your dad,” she says, climbing to her feet.
“See, now you just make that sound wrong.”
She grabs her tank and underwear, putting them back on before she heads for the door. “Una, put your fucking jeans on,” I growl as she opens the door.
She glances over her shoulder and winks before she walks straight out. “Fucks sake.” I yank my pants up and storm after her. She walks right through the lounge where five of my guys are sitting with Gio. I glare at them, daring them to fucking so much as glance her way. They all look away sheepishly, keeping their gazes locked on the floor.
I catch up to her on the stairs and throw her over my shoulder. “Put me down!”
I slap her ass hard enough that she’ll be feeling it when she sits down. “You just love to fucking push me.”
I walk into the bedroom and drop her in the walk-in closet. “I like you angry,” she says with a slight lift of her eyebrow.
I shake my head. God, how was I not bored senseless before she came along? “Get dressed.”
“I need to shower,” she says, coc
king her head to the side and folding her arms over her chest.
“Oh no.” I back her into the chest of drawers, wrapping my fingers around her delicate throat as I bring my lips to her ear. I can feel her pulse racing in anticipation. “You don’t get to wash my come off you after that little stunt.”
Her eyes meet mine and she bites her bottom lip on a smile. “Now who’s dirty? I thought you wanted innocent, contrite, pure…” she trails off, a wry smile pulling at her lips.
“Never.” I swipe my thumb over her bottom lip roughly and lean in. “Play the part, but we’ll know better, Morte.”
She grazes her teeth over the pad of my thumb and my dick stirs again. “Watch and learn, capo.” I smirk and step away from her, grabbing a shirt and my gun holster. I walk away before I decide to fuck her again.
When I get to the bottom of the stairs Gio clears his throat. “Did you get anywhere with the plans?” he asks. Plans? Oh, the plans.
“We’re going to try a different approach.” He raises his eyebrows. “We’re going to Cesare.”
“We?”
I nod. “I’m taking Una. See if she can’t appeal to his strategic side.”
He inhales a deep breath. “With all due respect, I think that might aggravate the situation.”
“We don’t have a lot of choice. I need numbers and political support, Gio.” I sigh, pulling him to the corner of the room. “Nicholai is going to make a play soon. He won’t come directly at us, and we can’t go to him, not at the base. It’s suicide. I think we need to catch him away from his home turf.”
“Una could lure him out,” he says quietly.
“Suggest that again, Gio,” I glare at him, “and I’ll kill you, friend or not.”
He places his hands on his hips. “Nero, you are facing the impossible. We have to draw him out, and the only thing he’s guaranteed to come out for is Una.”
“Gio, are you loyal to me or not?”
“You know I am.”
“Then you are loyal to her and my fucking baby.” He stares at me for a beat and then releases a long breath, nodding. His gaze flicks over my shoulder before he turns away, going back to the few men he has gathered. I turn around just as Una is coming down the stairs. I watch her as she approaches with a smug smile on her lips.
“Innocent enough for you?” she asks.
“I’m not sure that’s quite the word I’d use,” I mumble. She’s wearing a gray dress that clings to every fucking thing. That bump couldn’t be any clearer if she put a flashing neon sign on it. The material follows the line of her curves and stops just above her knee. She’s wearing a pair of high heels and her hair falls down her back in a silver-white sheet. Her infamous red lipstick is firmly in place making her look sexy although it is a blinding reminder of exactly who she is. I’m not sure my father needs any reminders on that front.
She walks up to me and smooths her hand down the front of my jacket. “Come now. You wouldn’t want to keep daddy dearest waiting.”
17
Una
“I need to know everything,” I say as we sit in yet more New York traffic.
He sighs, pushing back into his seat and bracing his hand against the steering wheel. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”
“Cesare.”
He glances at me, releasing a long breath as his dark eyes fix on mine. “He’s a strong leader, ruling with a combination of fear and respect. He’s of the old ways.”
“The mafia do love their traditions,” I mumble.
He smirks. “The traditions hamper him.”
“Women and children?”
He nods. “Amongst other things. When he came to me at the Hamptons house, he expressed his… distaste for you.”
I laugh. “Nero, I’m Russian. I might as well be the antichrist.”
He drums his fingers over the steering wheel, a small smirk pulling at his lips. “He wants me to marry a good Italian woman.”
I wasn’t ready for that. My chest tightens slightly and I glance out the window, trying to dislodge the uncomfortable feeling. “You’ll have to at some point,” I say quietly. I’d never really thought about it until now, but of course he would. The mafia are all about keeping the bloodlines pure, extending their legacy and protecting their women, their Italian women. A good marriage would be strategically and politically wise. I know this. It’s the rational, strong thing to do, so why am I annoyed at the idea?
“Morte.” His fingers brush over my thigh and I close my eyes, swallowing heavily before I turn to face him. He’s pulled over on the side of the busy street and is staring straight at me. His gaze is so intense, so captivating. “I’m Nero Verdi,” he says arrogantly. “I take what I want.” He grips my jaw, his hold hard and unrelenting. “And I sure as shit don’t want a fucking good woman. I want you, my vicious little butterfly.”
His expression is hard and almost angry as we stare at each other. “Nero, you are the underboss. There are rules and customs you cannot simply walk away from.” I whisper.
“I can and I will.”
I choke. “Be serious.” He lives for power, pursues it with a bloodlust like no other. To go against the mafia on this… “You can’t give up everything you worked for just because I’m having your baby.” I sigh. “This isn’t…we’re just us, okay? No promises. No attachment. We can’t—”
“Morte.” His eyes drop to my lips as his hold softens, his thumb stroking over my jaw. “I love you.”
All the breath leaves my lungs and I can’t speak. Love. Weakness. Vulnerability. I don’t want to weaken Nero, but I think I love him in as much capacity as I have, and as much as it terrifies me, it doesn’t make me feel weak. The complete opposite. I’m never stronger than when I’m standing next to him. I feel the power in his words almost instantly. I feel the sheer exhilaration of being loved by a man like Nero. It wraps around me like a steel blanket, impenetrable and warm, and I feel invincible under the weight of it. I realize that I want his love, perhaps even need it. After all, isn’t it love that makes us human? Nero’s love goes hand in hand with the very humanity that Nicholai tried so hard to strip me of. His tilts his head to the side, eyes narrowed as he waits for me to say something.
“Does love trump power?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
His lips curl into a smile. “Ah, Morte, when it comes to you, love bolsters power.” His fingers wind into my hair, pulling me towards him. I go to him, and when his lips meet mine it feels like more than just a kiss, it’s a promise, a vow of something bigger than just me or him. It’s us against everything and everyone that would hurt us. I feel the weight of everything he doesn’t say simply in the reverent brush of his lips, his demanding and possessive hold on my hair. It’s a kiss that says he is in my corner, unconditionally. He breaks the kiss and touches his forehead to mine, his breath blowing over my lips. “King protects Queen now,” he breathes.
And of course, reality comes crashing in like a dam breaking. He makes me hope, he makes me want. I wish Nero could protect me, and although I know he can’t, for some reason, I want to allow him to think he can. It’s stupid, but I guess I’m living in my warped version of a dream. Most little girls dream of getting married and living in a nice house. I dreamt of blood and torture. Nero is my version of a fairy tale, blood soaked and ruthless as we are, this is what we have. And soon it will probably be gone. I told him there is no happily ever after here, that we are the monsters in this story. That’s true. Nothing good ever lasts in our world of chaos and death. I wonder if he knows that, or if he truly does think that everything will be okay because he’s Nero Verdi and he wills it so.
We pull up outside a townhouse on the Upper Eastside and I get out of the car, staring up at the four-story home on a totally inconspicuous looking street. Flower boxes line the windows and small trees are dotted along the sidewalk. How very upper-middle class family living.
I follow Nero up the three steps that lead to the front door. He pushes the bell and
it echoes, booming through the house on the other side of the thick wood. The door almost immediately opens and a guy stands there. His black hair is slicked back, his suit immaculate. He lifts his chin at Nero before his gaze shifts to me. The scar on his forehead pinches his skin when he frowns.
“She’s with me,” Nero says before he can speak. The guy lets us in, closing the door behind us. Wordlessly, the man leads us straight up the stairs. We're shown to an office at the top of the house. Nero and Cesare couldn't be further apart in their tastes. Nero is minimalistic and modern where Cesare is classic. His office is made up of wooden flooring, leather couches and thick rugs. A book shelf covers one wall, filled with old books. The room smells of cigar smoke and leather. But where it seems like it should be dark and dingy in here, it's not. Behind the desk is a wall of glass that opens out onto a terrace. Garden furniture sits out there overlooking the city sprawled before it.
Nero takes a seat and I browse the book shelves, spotting some first edition Hemingway nestled in the stacks. I haven't met Cesare in person yet, but simply being inside someone's home can tell you a lot about them.
The door clicks open and Cesare strides in, his face set in a frown. "Nero," he says shortly, barely even glancing my way.
"Cesare," Nero greets him icily.
“This wasn’t expected.”
“I called ahead.”
“Yes, you did. You didn’t say you were bringing Una Ivanov with you, though,” he says, spitting my name as if it offends him. “I’d rather you didn’t invite Russian soldiers into my home.”
Nero flashes me a warning look. You could cut the tension in the room with a knife. Rolling my eyes, I walk over to Cesare, placing myself in front of him. "I don’t believe we’ve met." I hold out my hand, but he just stares at me, his eyes slowly drifting over my body in the form fitting dress. His eyebrows inch up and he glances at Nero, his lips pressing into a tight line. "I tell you to do your duty and you present me with this?"