“Michael, you’re fighting a losing battle. This kid’s going to die.”
“If that idiot dies, Nico will murder all of us.” I beckoned at Julian, who followed me into a private room. “I need you to do something.”
“Sure. What is it?”
Julian’s deadpan grated at me. He was probably annoyed that I delegated my shitty tasks to him, like babysitting Anthony. He’d lost his job a year ago. I took pity on him and offered him work because Serena had begged me. Somehow, he was still in my fucking life.
“I want you to manage this club’s black-tie events.”
Julian leaned back, sighing. “What do I know about event planning?”
“Throw a party every other Friday to induct more suckers into Sanctum. The less I’m here, the better.”
“I get it. Happy wife, happy life.” Julian sank his head onto his palm. “I’ll do it, but only if we have regular play dates. I want a relationship with my sister’s children.”
And I’d rather he disappeared. “All right.”
“How’s everything at home?”
“We’re fine.”
“Okay,” he said bracingly. “Carmela seemed upset at your wedding. I thought that was odd. Then I asked around, and nobody knows when you started dating.”
“Do you have a question?”
Julian hesitated. “Why did you propose?”
“I told you. I’ve known her for a while. We reconnected at my daughter’s birthday, and by the end, I wanted to marry her.”
“So you proposed, and she agreed. Just like that.”
“Yeah, asshole.”
“Relax, I’m not picking a fight. You and Serena weren’t a great match. I’d hate for history to repeat itself.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
I stood and yanked the door, gesturing outside.
That was the thing about Julian. He was a sarcastic bastard underneath all that fake concern. I loathed the whole family. Now the fucker had gotten into my head.
Carmela did seem too good to be true.
She was amazing with the kids and drama-free. She’d respected everything I’d asked—no fighting—which never happened with Serena. I thought I’d have to throw credit cards at her and tolerate weekend retreats at Nantucket, but all she wanted to do was garden. Carmela ripped up the grass and built planter boxes while I was at work. Tomato plants now lined the east wall. The other day, I caught her clipping a flyer.
Who the fuck did I marry?
She was a rich girl who used coupons. A beauty who shoved her hands in dirt. She was a walking contradiction, and I couldn’t figure her out.
It bothered me.
I stared at my laptop as Julian left, the door closing softly. When the latch clicked, I opened the lid. I pulled a web browser and typed the credentials into her email. I’d hacked it weeks ago, but I’d held off from violating her privacy.
I shouldn’t.
But I had to.
A festering boil bubbled in my stomach as I searched her inbox, finding nothing but promotional messages. Then I dove into her Sent folder, determined to leave no stone unturned, and what I saw gutted me.
Fuck me.
My lips curled as I read every message, including the one claiming I’d hired Carmela. Within seconds, I’d stripped the camera information from Alessio’s pictures and discovered his location. Vacationing in the Amazon, my ass. He was in Boca Raton, Florida.
Sloppy.
She’d whitewashed the content of these emails to keep her sister hidden, but that didn’t bother me.
She’d lied to my face.
She swore she had no idea where they were.
Did I not explain how important it was to bring him back?
I stared at the text until the black lines bled into white, and a sickening rage engulfed my body. My impulse to make Carmela’s life easier vanished.
Carmela had no idea who she married.
I replied to the email:
Michael forced me to marry him. Help me.
Eighteen
Carmela
Michael fisted my hair. His gasps billowed my neck as his body rocked like a wave. His muscles glided under my hands, sweat slicking his tanned skin like oil. He plastered his face into my collar. He sucked and bit down, hard.
He burst with a wordless groan.
Something wild in Michael exploded when he fucked me. Maybe it was his orgasms, the way they sounded like a wound, or his hold on my wrists as he came. A low growl rumbled through his chest. His thighs twitched with spasms as he spilled inside me. His breathing calmed. He released me, the darkness purged from him.
I loved having sex with him.
But I cherished the moments when he melted into me, kissing. He was so sensual it made braving the flames worth it. Tonight, though, his kisses stung me with white-hot bites.
“Daddy! Daddy!”
Michael broke from me, groaning. He yanked sheets over our bodies as Matteo crashed into the room, dressed in his jammies. He vaulted onto the mattress and threw himself onto Michael’s back.
Michael cringed. “Buddy, give us a minute.”
“What are you doing to Caramel?” Matteo cinched his arms around Michael’s neck. “Carmela.”
“Grown-up things. Teo, go play with your sister.”
“I wanna sleep with Carmela.”
Michael gave his son a wry grin. “If you were any other guy, that’d be a hard pass.”
“There’s too many people on this bed,” Matteo roared as he flung himself between us. “Daddy, you can sleep on the floor.”
“What?”
I covered my face and laughed.
Michael pulled on boxers before dragging Matteo off. I went into the bathroom. Michael joined me, hugging me from behind. His heart hammered as he folded me in his sweat-streaked body.
“My sweet caramel.”
A rush of warmth accompanied those words. “Still want to go out?”
“Hell yes. I hired a sitter.”
I showered, slipped into a cocktail dress, and did my makeup. When I finished, I rejoined him.
Michael combed his hair, eyes on the mirror. His forehead rippled with a deep frown, and then he glanced at me. The glance turned into a stare and his lips curled into something feral. He dropped the comb and approached me like a hunter stalking prey.
“Aren’t you a temptation. Ditch the mom jeans and wear this every day.”
“When have you ever seen me in pants?”
“I don’t pay attention to your clothes. Only when your outfit gets me so hard, my brain stops working.” His finger prodded my chin until I’d met his gaze. “Wait outside.”
“Why?”
“Can’t go to dinner with a loaded gun.”
He pushed me toward the door and swatted my ass. Twenty minutes later, Michael emerged from the bedroom. He’d shaved his face, slicked his hair on the sides, and put on a navy blazer over black slacks.
We went downstairs, said goodbye to the nanny, and packed into his Audi, my stomach leaping with excitement.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Somewhere you’ll like,” he deadpanned as we pulled from the driveway. “Traffic sucks.”
“Did you make reservations?”
“No need.”
Interesting. “Now I’m wondering if I overdressed.”
Michael’s hand glided up my thigh, his touch burning through the fabric. “You look fine with a capital F.”
“You’re handsome, too. I’m happy we’re doing this.”
“Me too. You know what? We’re due for a family vacation. I’m considering Florida.”
“Disney World? Yeah, that’d be great.”
He shook his head. “Not Orlando—Miami. Palm Beach. Boca Raton, maybe.”
My heart galloped ahead. “Sure.”
Michael frowned. “What’s the matter?”
“I’m fine—I’m just thinking.”
“Thinking what, honey?”
Honey. “A
re you feeling all right? You seem different.”
He shot me a puzzled look that made me doubt myself.
The discussion ended as we stopped at a familiar road. He got out of the Audi and tossed the keys to the valet. Then he took my hand, smiling so broadly that I must’ve imagined things.
I read the restaurant’s name on the glowing awning and gasped.
“This is my dad’s place!”
“I know.”
“How?” I hadn’t been inside in months. “I practically grew up here.”
Michael smiled at the building, as though he was lost in nostalgia. “It was one of the property titles your dad transferred to me.”
“We’re eating here?”
“Unless you don’t want to.”
“No, this is perfect. Thank you, Michael.”
It was as though the weirdness in the car never happened. I balled my fingers in his jacket and kissed him. He was unyielding at first. A stone structure that breathed but emanated zero warmth.
Then he opened his mouth.
“Of course, baby. I thought you’d might like to eat here before I tear it down.”
Nineteen
Michael
Carmela gaped at me like I’d shot her dog. White light paled Carmela’s golden skin as we stopped under the awning. The glow faded from her smile.
“What do you mean, tear it down?”
“Boston doesn’t need another Italian restaurant. I’ve done some market research in the area, and guess what’s in high demand? Weed shops.”
“What?” Her voice was like a thunderclap.
“I’m turning this place into a marijuana dispensary.” I savored the devastation on her face. “Cash only. Perfect for money laundering.”
“So, you’re getting rid of my father’s clean business to build a pot store that the FBI will raid.” Carmela’s eyes radiated with unrestrained fury. “That is the dumbest idea ever.”
“I’m thinking of calling it Starbuds.”
“Why would you get into that business? There’s so much regulation.”
“We’ll self-regulate. I’ll bribe city officials to glance the other way.” I palmed her shoulder and wheeled her toward the building. “I’ll paint it gray with a green trim. I’ll gut the kitchen. Donate the furniture to homeless shelters.”
“You’re not destroying my fucking restaurant.”
“I own the title. I can do anything I want.”
Before she opened her mouth, the hostess took our coats and showed us to a table.
Brick surrounded the dining room. Espresso-brown padded booths were shoved against the wall, next to rustic wooden tables. Cast-iron lamps hung over them, the white glow bouncing off the patent leather. Sheer black curtains draped over windows. It was the same aesthetic as my house.
A jazz quartet played music on a tiny stage. It was sonorous, boring shit. The space was packed with young couples. It was gorgeous. Ignacio had invested a fortune in remodeling.
I seized the wine list as we sat, scowling. “These prices are a racket.”
“Look around, Michael. People love coming here.” Carmela leaned over the table. “I love it here.”
“Then I suggest you order everything because I’m shutting it down.”
“Why would you do that?”
Because you’re a fucking liar. “I’m expanding into new business opportunities.”
“Do it on one of your properties!”
“There you go again,” I teased, reading the short menu. “Honey, we’re married. What’s yours is mine.”
“So you won’t mind if I ruin your home?”
“Have at it.”
“I don’t understand.” Her voice trembled, the sound stabbing me. “Why are you doing this?”
“This restaurant is nothing to me, but it’s something to you. I’ll close it down. I don’t give a damn.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
A lot.
“Nothing. I like seeing you hot and bothered.” I faced the grimacing waiter. “We’ll have it all.”
“Sir, we don’t make smaller portions—”
“You know who I am. Bring me the whole goddamn menu, or you’re fired.”
The man paled. “Right.”
Carmela set the glass down, fingers pinching the stem as though she wished it was my neck. “You touch a brick, and I swear to God, Michael.”
“You’ll put salt in my coffee? Key my car? Destroy my sex toys?” I enjoyed watching her squirm. “They can be replaced.”
“I can think of a few things on your body you’d miss.”
“You don’t have it in you.” I leaned forward, patting her hand. “Plus, I’d truss you up before you got a knife anywhere near my balls.”
“You better sleep with one eye open.”
“I’ll tie you to the bed frame. Problem solved.”
The waiter approached with our appetizers—bruschetta, grilled octopus, and burrata. Carmela beamed at the server, which caused him to linger until I shot him a pointed glare. She dove into the bruschetta and piled on cheese, her face suffused with greed as she ate.
She moaned. “So good.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Michael, try it.”
I did.
I sank my teeth into the ciabatta glazed with basil. The sharp, nutty flavor yanked me to the Mediterranean, where I had a fantastic bowl of pesto. Nothing in the States had ever compared. All I saw were the turquoise waters and white umbrellas of Portofino. The vision faded behind Carmela, who watched me with a knowing grin.
“It tastes just like Italy, doesn’t it?”
I tried not to enjoy it. “It’s not bad.”
“The secret’s in the pine nuts. Most places import them from China. Cheaper, but the flavor profile’s not the same. You have to go to the source. The Mediterranean.”
I thrust the half-eaten appetizer away, hating that she’d gotten to me through food, of all things. “Portofino.”
“See?” Carmela seized on that, glowing. “This isn’t just another Italian restaurant, Michael. You have no idea how hard I pushed for those nuts. They cost a fortune, but they’re worth it. You can’t eat them without your taste buds exploding.”
“What are you, the head chef?”
“I managed this place for a while. I worked in a lot of Dad’s businesses.” Carmela picked up her fork and scrubbed at a watermark. “I’d come here, work the lunch and dinner shifts, and attend meetings with his builders.”
“Builders?”
“Yeah, Dad wanted a brewery and tasting room. It was an enormous project—lots of permits. Dealing with construction was a nightmare. I had to be on them for every minor thing.”
“What’s in a brewery besides four walls and concrete?”
“Bureaucracy. It took forever.”
A smile ticked over my cheek. A scrappy woman existed underneath all that beauty. I was drawn to her because of her tits and ass. I liked curves, and she had plenty. I never thought she’d done something with her life besides spend her dad’s paper.
Now I knew better.
She wasn’t a crushing wallflower or a high-maintenance brat. She was a hustler. A girl who toiled twelve hours a day just to keep busy. She sounded like me. This new side of her pitted my stomach with dread.
I needed to destroy this woman before she killed me.
I beckoned her. “Come.”
Irritation flicked across her gaze. “What do you want?”
Could she do anything without arguing?
“I’m giving you a chance to save your daddy’s restaurant.”
She slid off the chair, her big eyes widening with hope that I’d crush.
“Since you’re a renaissance woman, it should be easy for you to entertain this crowd. Follow me.”
Her cheeks pinked as I wove through the tables, making a beeline for the stage. I unfolded a hundred-dollar bill and approached the man singing in the microphone.
I waved money in hi
s face.
“We don’t do song requests—”
“Get off. Let my wife sing.” I tucked the cash in his hand. When he raised his brow, I shoved in several more bills. “Fuck off.”
He stepped aside, the music grinding to a halt. The patrons didn’t glance our way.
Carmela gaped at me. “Michael, what are you doing?”
“You are tonight’s entertainment.” I gestured at the hipsters neck-deep in their Bolognese and wine. “Get this whole room to clap, and I won’t bulldoze this place.”
“Fine.”
Fine?
Carmela smiled like I’d handed her a trophy, and faced the guy behind the keyboard. “Can you play ‘Valerie’ in E-flat?”
By the time I returned to my seat, Carmela had already wiped herself of emotion. She seemed calm—in her element. She adjusted the microphone stand as though she’d done it thousands of times before.
The band picked up with a jazzy, upbeat tempo. Once people locked eyes on the magnetic woman on stage, nobody looked away. Carmela belted the lyrics. I didn’t recognize it, but voices joined in the chorus.
She was perfect. She never stumbled over a lyric. She sounded great, and before the tune ended, half the place shouted the chorus. People clapped when she finished—even the fucking barman. The guitarist palmed her shoulder, mouthing good job. She replaced the microphone, beaming like she’d taken a hit of ecstasy. Heads followed my smoking-hot brunette to our table, where the jealous stares of men raked my back.
Carmela bounced with a liveliness I never saw before. The torch-like intensity of her confidence blinded me. “I win. You lose.”
I didn’t care.
I was awestruck. “You were amazing.”
Carmela sank into her chair, her cheeks flushing.
“Where the hell did you learn to perform?” I dragged my seat so that we sat beside each other. “How did you do that?”
“Everybody likes ‘Valerie.’ It’s a popular record.” Carmela shrugged, picking at the fried calamari. “I’ve had a lot of practice. I used to sing karaoke.”
“You seemed really happy up there.”
“I was. Singing is my passion. If I had to do it over again, I would’ve joined a band.”
Taken: A Dark Mafia Romance Page 12