“I highly doubt that's a widely used phrase,” I muttered, moving past him and into the living room just in time to see the SUV pull up in front of my house.
Fuck.
Here we go.
The beginning of my end.
My heels clacked across the marble floor toward the front door, a death knell that seemed to ring in my head like the tolling of church bells.
An hour away, in a city loft with an orange and white cat, Bo was probably staring at the empty bookcase and wondering what the hell had gotten into me, a girl who loved her first edition classics getting rid of her whole collection on a whim?
And I could only imagine what my boss thought about the supposed 'family emergency' that would keep me away from work for the foreseeable future—especially since I'd told her my entire family was dead and gone.
A girl could wish.
“Mr. Masseria,” my father's butler, a man named Carmine Roselli, said as he opened the door for an older gentleman I recognized right away. Not Marcell Moran, but his driver. The other families were as careful about keeping their staff consistent as my father was; everybody knew everybody by this point.
“I apologize. The day has certainly been eventful. Mr. Moran has elected to remain in the car for security reasons. I'd be happy to escort you out, Miss Costello. If that suits the lady, of course.”
“It suits her just fine,” I said, deciding that at the very least, Marcell's driver had enough common sense to look me in the eye when he was talking, and the balls to actually ask me what I wanted. It was refreshing after the day I'd had.
I stepped up to him and held out my arm, letting him lead me down the damp pavement toward the idling SUV. It was nice, a Bentley Bentayga, but it was indistinct, easily looked over—like all the Costello syndicate vehicles. It was important not to attract attention.
As we approached the back door, I felt my heartbeat start to pick up.
Not only was I about to climb in this vehicle with a man who ran a quarter of the New York City underground, but I was going to have to play nice with him through an entire evening of dinner and God only knew what else.
Just not sex, of course.
I would remain faithful to Bo if it killed me.
And in this company, it just might.
“Miss Costello,” the driver said, unhooking his arm from mine and opening the back door for me.
I didn't hesitate, pushing through the moment as if I wanted to be here doing this, as if I was actually a willing participant in this whole scenario. I didn't need to ask Vincent or Carlo to know if they'd told the other families about my reluctance agreeing to this whole scenario. They'd expect complete obedience from me, just like they did any other member of the organization.
I hated being born into this life. Hated it.
“Miss Costello,” a voice greeted before I'd even gotten the chance to settle onto the leather bench seat. “It's a pleasure.”
Holy. Shit.
My skin rippled with sinful delight and I unknowingly wet my lower lip with my tongue.
The voice that was speaking from the shadows was warm, but dangerous, this easy tone that belied the true nature underneath. It was darkness made sound, like church bells in the night, a warning to lone travelers to stay away. To run.
I just wasn't sure if I was supposed to run away … or run toward it.
“Mr. Moran,” I said, feeling my heartbeat pick up in a staccato rhythm that sloshed the blood between my ears and turned the volume up on my pulse to a point where I could barely hear my own thoughts.
I blinked several times, trying to adjust to the low light in the backseat.
Before I'd even gotten the chance to gather my thoughts, a hand was coming to rest on my right leg, the scorching path of a thumbprint chasing its away across the bare skin below the slit in my dress.
Shivers of heat rose up in my skin, obliterating the words in my mouth, freezing my hand in mid-movement as I tried to shove Marcell's away.
“A pleasure,” he repeated, withdrawing his hand and leaving me an icy ruin.
“I …” I had no idea what to say, sitting there and blinking through the shadows at the most beautiful man I'd ever seen. I mean Bo was handsome, but … the man sitting next to me was pure unadulterated sin. He was lust given life, a demon risen from the depths of hell, as beautiful as he was dangerous.
The words died on my lips.
“Can I get you a drink?” he asked, his eyes as black as the darkness outside the SUV, his hair an indistinguishable shade from the shadows. His smile was liquid agony, melting my insides and calling up every single shred of my DNA that belonged to the Costello family.
Hot. Impulsive. Easy to anger and quick to lust.
It was literally in my blood.
And I'd been ignoring it for eight, almost nine, years.
That was going to come back to bite me in the ass, wasn't it?
“I, uh,” I started, looking around for the bar—there usually was one, in any proper mafia convey. After all, our families were built on the fruits of prohibition. Supplying booze was as natural as offering a smile or a handshake. A quick glance over my shoulder showed me a pair of bodyguards in the back row, a small cabinet built into the wall beside them. Instead of a third seat, there was a minibar right there in the back of the vehicle.
Figures.
“Whiskey, neat,” I managed to choke out.
I wanted that fire to burn down my throat, sear me awake, break my concentration away from the crime lord sitting next to me.
Marcell didn't repeat my order to his employees. Why bother? There was no doubt in that handsome head of his that they'd be jumping to accommodate his every whim.
I hoped it wouldn't be too much of a disappointment when I did not.
“The same for me,” he said, his words these quiet whispers that cut through the dark and drove straight into me.
Marcell was looking at me from a face chiseled out of darkness, that strong, square jaw, lightly stubbled and perfectly shaped around that full mouth of his. The way he was looking at me, I felt like he could see straight through my skin and all the way down to the deepest, darkest parts of me, the ones I tried to keep hidden from the world.
From myself, my girlfriends, even from Bo.
I didn't want anybody looking that closely, so I turned away, pretending to be interested in scenery I couldn't exactly see outside the tinted windows, a sea of night sky and stars my only companions.
“Are we heading into the city?” I asked.
I secretly hoped so.
Just being in the city would mean I'd be closer to Bo.
Then again, it was a four hour drive.
“To the water,” he said slowly, almost like he was testing the syllables out on his lips. “I'm very excited to meet you, Miss Costello. I've prepared a very special evening for us.”
I looked back at him, hating that sweat was beading on the sides of my neck, trailing down my spine. I didn't want to like this man. And I don't think that was really it at all anyway; I don't think that I did.
But my body did, my hormones, my senses.
I could smell him, sitting over there with a musky sharpness to his aftershave, this violently beautiful scent that I knew I'd never forget, not even if I lived a thousand years.
Bo, I need you, I thought as I curled my fingers in the silken folds of my dress. I need you right fucking now.
“Seafood sounds nice,” I said blandly, reminding myself that I was not supposed to sit here and sweat like a teenage girl with a crush. I had a job to do, and the sooner I did it, the sooner I could leave, go back home to my boyfriend and my cat and my Kindle.
“Your drink, Miss Costello,” Marcell said, taking the small tumbler from one of his men and passing it over to me.
I could smell the scorching fire of the whiskey before I even took my first drink.
As soon as I touched the glass to my lips I could feel Marcell's eyes on my mouth.
I tried my best to ignore the
penetrating reach of his gaze and tipped the drink back, luxuriating in the spicy burn of the liquid. It warmed me up from the inside out, gave me the final push I needed to collect my head.
It also made me wonder if Marcell's lips would burn so good, if his kiss would chase through my body with the same scalding warmth as my drink.
“Any place I might've heard of?” I asked casually, turning so that my back was to the door, my legs crossed at the knee. The movement pushed my dress up my thigh, flashing a long, smooth line of olive skin that Marcell ignored as if it wasn't there at all. Instead, his focus remained on my lips.
I wet them and Marcell smiled, his cruel mouth turning up at the edges.
“I highly doubt it,” he said, accepting another drink from the backseat. The way he held it, it was as if he was cradling it in his big hands, granting reverence to the aubergine glass with long fingers tattooed with words and symbols I didn't understand—didn't want to understand. Deep down, I knew who I was—the daughter of the most powerful crime lord on the East Coast—but I also knew that that was not how I'd chosen to define myself.
Whatever secrets Marcell was holding in his hands, he could keep them.
“It's local,” he told me, continuing the conservation as if there weren't long, hot pauses in between, “family run.”
“Ah, I see,” I said, with a smile that was all my own. “A family run operation. Invitation only, I presume?”
“Of course.”
Marcell took a nice, long sip of his drink, but his eyes never left my face. His unwavering attention made me feel flustered, but I took it in stride, opening up my purse and fetching the tube of lipstick Vera had given me.
Still focused on Marcell, I slowly and carefully applied it to my mouth.
“Your father tells me you're a lawyer,” he continued, just as smooth and polished as everything else he said. I wanted to tell myself it was too practiced, too perfect, but really I imagined that everything Marcell said just came out that way naturally. “I suppose that law degree comes in quite handy?”
“I'm sure my father's told you that I waste my talents on animals,” I said, uncrossing and recrossing my legs, trying to draw his attention down and away from my face. It felt suddenly too hot in here, and I swear, there were beads of sweat trailing down my temples and sticking the artfully curled bits of hair to my face.
Marcell frowned at a bump in the road, a slight swerve of the SUV to the right.
“One moment, Miss Costello, I apologize for the interruption.”
I watched as Marcell handed his drink back over the seat and growled out something in perfect Italian. I missed what he was saying because the man behind me was extracting my drink from my own hands, just narrowly saving me from sloshing alcohol all down the front of my dress as the SUV came to a sudden stop.
In an instant, I went from hot to cold.
“Mr. Moran,” I started, but this time, when he glanced at me and smiled, it was a shark's grin.
“Pardon me, Miss Costello,” he said, pulling a revolver from his pocket before stepping out of the door and onto the street. I waited for a moment, leaning into the center of the seat so I could look out the front window. The headlights illuminated a small swath of the road, but otherwise it was just darkness. The men behind me had already gotten out of the vehicle, leaving me to sit inside with the driver.
“Shit,” I cursed under my breath, closing my eyes and trying to breathe through my nose.
One day.
That's how long I'd been back in the family's fold.
And what had I gotten out of it?
Two million dollars in diamonds, three hot (but very dangerous) men to date, and a gunfight just a few hours outside of NYC.
That sounded about right.
I reached inside my purse and carefully opened the top of the tampon box, sliding my phone out just enough to turn it on. I made sure to keep it within the confines of my purse, so the screen would stay hidden. Anyway, I assumed—and probably rightly so—that the driver would be more concerned with whatever the fuck was going on outside the car than what I was doing in it.
Glancing at the extensive list of texts I'd gotten made me feel both loved and terrified. There were people out there in this world that cared for me, people that would miss me if I were gone. But that also meant there were people out there that could be used against me, hurt, killed even if things went wrong on this end.
I swallowed hard, and pushed those feelings aside. Now was definitely not the time to be delving into my own personal thoughts and fears.
Using my brief moment of freedom, I pulled up Bo's texts and scanned them as quickly as I could. Clearly, he was confused—and a little hurt—by my sudden disappearance, but his texts were all positive.
Miss you, babe! Call me tomorrow so I can hear your gorgeous voice.
For a moment, I just stared at the screen, fighting back a sudden surge of panic. A part of me wanted to tell Bo to buy us a couple of plane tickets, so we could get the hell out of here, fly to some other country and start over. I didn't think my dad would be so vindictive as to chase me halfway across the world.
Then again … running hadn't saved his brother.
I love you, I sent back, more than anything in this world or any other.
Night fucking one on my mission and I was already sending I love you texts to my boyfriend in case I died here tonight.
How awful was that?
A few seconds later, I heard the distinct sound of shots being fired.
But like a proper mob daughter, I just sat there, stoic and poised, legs crossed, face pointed forward. My phone was safely tucked back in my bag, my emotions safely tucked inside my heart.
Not a minute later, Marcell was climbing back in the vehicle and sliding onto the leather seat next to me.
His men did the same, and before I could really take in the sight and smell of Marcell Moran, I had a fresh drink in my hand, and so did he.
Only his hands … they were covered in blood.
The sight of Marcell with red spattered across his face and his beautiful, tattooed hands followed me all the way through the first and second courses.
Dinner was, as expected, a sumptuous affair of crab cakes, scallops, and bourbon glazed salmon with a fine chocolate mousse for dessert, an Italian wine that probably cost more than Bo's car.
Even though Marcell had taken the time to change before joining me at the table, I could still smell the faintest whiff of gunpowder and blood clinging to him along with the deep masculine burn of his aftershave.
“I take it you enjoyed your dinner?” he asked after I finished off the last bite of mousse and leaned back in my chair to look at him, feeling the warm sedation of wine and food slide over me. I figured if I was going to be here, I was going to take advantage of the few perks. Food, of course, being one of them.
After all, I never knew when, exactly, I'd be having my last meal.
“It was wonderful,” I said, fully and completely aware that several people's heads probably literally rested on my enjoying their food. If I said I hated it, somebody would pay a hefty price. But at least in this case, I didn't have to lie—I really had enjoyed it.
What I hadn't enjoyed was enduring Marcell's stare, the way his eyes seemed to catch and hold on my mouth, like each bite I took was an exquisite, sensual pleasure to be savored and enjoyed.
His smile, when it took over his mouth, turned his entire face into a painting I couldn't look away from, an exceptional piece of art that was meant to be enjoyed only in context, only when the viewer was aware of the meaning behind it. It was simply too beautifully severe to be taken in by an uneducated observer.
“And the wine?”
“Personally,” I said, playing with the diamond bracelet around my wrist, “I prefer a California grape.”
Marcell's smile never faltered, never changed. He didn't so much as twitch.
“Do you now?” he asked, like he was challenging me. I hated being challenged.
That was one of the things I loved so much about Bo. I felt like we were equals at all times, that he respected my independence as much as I did his. This man … he looked like he enjoyed being the only alpha in the room.
“Do you know what you remind me of?” I told him, feeling irritation creep across my skin like the legs of a thousand tiny spiders.
“I haven't the faintest idea,” he said, just the slightest hint of an Italian accent creeping into his words. “Un uomo che vuoi scopare?”
I pursed my lips.
“No, not like a man I want to fuck,” I said, letting the last word snap off my lips like a rubber band. Marcell's expression stayed exactly as it was—infuriating, engaging, utterly and completely lickable.
He was almost too beautiful to be real, but also, apparently, a fucking prick.
“Actually, you remind me of a vampire in a novel for teenage girls.” I crossed my arms over the front of my dress, feeling the expensive satin brush against against my skin like a lover's caress. “One of those old, clichéd characters that are about to turn three hundred years old and are going around hitting on high school girls.”
“Is it the accent or the suit?” he asked me, still completely unfazed, still smiling.
Marcell leaned forward and put his arm on the table.
“Because if it's the suit, me lo posso togliere.”
I can take it off, he says.
Total prick.
I picked up my glass of wine and held it in one hand, swishing the deep red liquid around and trying my best not to compare the color to blood.
“What happened back there?” I asked casually, looking up and over the top of the wine glass at Marcell's face, at the tattoos staining his big hands, the wicked smile on his face.
“Just a little misunderstanding is all,” he said, leaning back in his own chair and reaching down to take off the diamond cufflinks he was wearing. Somehow, they were a perfect match to the jewelry draped around my neck and throat, across my fingers and wrists. Asscher cut, flawless clarity, mind-numbingly expensive.
My mouth tightened.
“What is all this?” I asked, pointing at the necklace draped around my throat. “Is this from you?”
Lure (Mafia Queen Book 1) Page 3