“Your parents shouldn’t have given valium to a kid.”
“My mother told me she’s sorry.” Sorry that she’s my mother.
“Izzie.”
She gazed across the table at him, didn’t have to look to know his fingers would touch hers and bring her a little closer to true comfort, something her hard life had told her to stop trusting. “Lots of men wouldn’t want to stick around after hearing that, Milo.”
“I said I’d protect you. That means staying with you through the fucked-up shit, whether it’s in the past or waiting around the corner.”
***
When they ran through the drizzle of rain to her apartment building some time later, she decided she couldn’t predict what would unfold, but she knew exactly what she wanted out of her time with him.
“Milo,” she said when she shut the door, secured all the locks, and joined him near the sofa, “I want to know something. And I can’t know it by having you say yes or no.”
“Go,” he encouraged, spreading his arms, and she used that opportunity to rush his body. Taking him back a few steps, she aligned her mouth with his.
“I need you…” Izzie lost her words in their kisses, worked her fingers through his hair. Massaging his scalp, moving her hands across his shoulders to the bottom of his shirt, she got worked up and impatient and breathed a frustrated sigh against his mouth. “Please take off the shirt. Nothing else.”
He lost the shirt, revealing the abstract tattoos that dressed him from shoulders to wrists. Izzie touched the cross on his right biceps, studied the word artistically written inside the intricate pattern. Anne. He’d had his mother’s name tattooed on his arm.
As Izzie was perilously close to dissolving into tears at the sweetness and sadness of his way of honoring his mother’s memory, she directed her attention to his splendid body. This was beauty—a male body battered through a violent sport but reconditioned and made stronger.
Pointing to the stripper pole, now naked of holiday lights, thanks to her roommate’s insistence that it was ridic to leave them up past New Year’s, Izzie said, “Stand in front of that. Line up your spine to it if it’ll help.”
“Why?”
“Because I need you to lock your hands behind your back and control yourself.” She guided him, drawing back his arms and securing his hands together. “That’s what I need to know tonight, that you can control your urges and sacrifice for me. Are you capable of giving me control when I need it?”
“I can do that for you, Izzie,” he said in a quiet promise.
“I have to see it,” she said. “So I need you to not touch me until I say it’s okay.”
She dragged the coffee table until it was directly in front of him, yet a few safe feet away. She got rid of her earrings as she stepped out of her shoes. “What do you want from me, Milo?”
“Loyalty,” he said automatically. “I want to know you think about me.”
“I do,” she said, and damn did the honesty hurt. She took down her hair, shook it free, and turned away from him as she unzipped her dress. She shed the dress and her panties, then sat on the coffee table. “I’ve thought about you from the beginning.”
“When?”
“When we lived in your father’s house and I wore his ring. I thought about wearing that ring while I worked your cock. I thought about letting you hate-fuck me in the middle of the night while he slept.” She boldly watched his body tense as he registered her erotic confessions. “I thought about you when it was so wrong to do it. I thought things I had no right to think. I dreamed it vividly, because I swore I’d be…faithful.”
“To him?”
Him. Luca. Neither could say his name and that made them both cowards. “Resenting you and fighting you made it easier to tolerate the dreams. Until I started waking up wet every morning.” She leaned back, spread her legs. “Wanting you inside me.”
“Wider.”
She could give him that, but first— “Tell me if you ever thought about it…about fucking your father’s shiny new trophy wife. Did you think about taking your stepmother?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I never believed he’d marry you.”
She flinched at that. “Oh. So you knew he’d eventually realize I wasn’t worth it.”
“You’re worth more than what he could give you. And I knew I wouldn’t let him take what’s mine.”
Could she do this? Leave Luca Tarantino behind and take a hesitant step forward with his son? “What did you want, Milo?”
“To have you naked, just like that. To be man enough for you.”
Izzie spread her legs wider until she heard him groan. She touched herself, pinching her nipples, sucking two fingers into her mouth and gliding them into her already wet pussy. She fucked herself until she broke in front of him. Then sighing, shuddering, she went to him.
“I want you,” he said over and over as she unfastened his pants and stroked through his pubic hair to his cock. “Fuck, Izzie…”
She stroked and teased but couldn’t coax the hardness she’d need to ride him. There was too much interference in his head, and it almost broke her heart that she couldn’t help him through it. “It’s okay,” she said, easing her hands up his chest and kissing his mouth. “It’s all right. This won’t be what ends us.”
She gave him permission to drop his arms, and the first thing he did was bring her down to the sofa to hold her. And later, even though he was the one to console her, he fell asleep in her arms.
He wasn’t the first to be drawn to her for peace. A baby had drifted asleep in the crook of her arm. Then a friend had concluded her cry-fest by slumping against Izzie’s shoulder. Now Milo Tarantino, a big, tough, rude brute of a man, had found her safe to literally sleep with.
So was she boring or comforting? With a little smile, she closed her eyes. She was happy to be either one.
***
A man could sense when he was no longer welcome on the doorstep of a friend. It came in glimpses or like the puff of a changing wind. At times intuition attacked with the severe strike of an opponent’s fist or a bullet released from the chamber of a smooth, powerful gun.
Luca wasn’t to publicly acknowledge Tonio as a friend. Their fathers’ falling-out had dictated that. Now, in their sixties, both men had sons who were old enough to be fathers themselves. Tonio’s son had died mixed up in a drug cartel in Columbia, and now he relied on his daughter to carry on his name and fortune and the consequences of his mistakes. Luca’s sons would survive the adversity of having him as their father. Because they were Anne’s sons, too.
Anne’s blood ran through their veins, but her spirit stayed with him. It gave him the will to face another long day of hiding in Tonio’s fishing village market. It also bore down on him to the point that he sometimes had to lie still with his eyes open, staring at the cracked and sagging water-damaged ceiling of his room.
Today she was disappointed in him. He’d heard her spirit whisper as anyone would hear the determined buzz of a fly. Tonio wanted him gone, Anne warned. He’d stayed so long that he’d become a liability.
On guard, Luca had come downstairs to the kitchen at dawn to roll out dough, as Tonio had asked of him the previous day. His chore list came the day before the tasks were expected to be completed. Each day of perfection—and staying out of the way of business—earned him another day in this crumbling safe haven.
He’d felt strange to reach out for something and find his finger naked of the only wedding band he’d ever worn—from his marriage to Anne. A card dispute with Tonio and some other bastardos Luca didn’t know and should never have met, had almost found him on the other side of the door and fending for himself without a plan.
He was fortunate to have lost only the ring.
Rolling the dough with the pin, shaping it with his flour-dusted hands, he kept his head down and his focus on Anne, who looked after him. He couldn’t see her p
orcelain skin and ready smile, but he could remember how cold her hand was a few years ago when over a hundred people had come to kiss his grandfather’s ring, which he’d put on her finger so that she could hold on to part of his treasure until they met again.
His sons had cried soundless tears for their mother. He’d howled and prayed, thrown his rosary but found it again because he was in the nastiest pit of despair imaginable for a man whose money could do shit.
Now he was alone. Grunting, moving a circle of dough to a tray, he went back to his task. That was the damn thing. There came a point, toward the end, when you found yourself utterly alone.
The aloneness made him worry what he’d do next. Antony Grimaldi hadn’t sent word in days, but the man was his friend so he need not worry.
But he did worry, every time Tonio cut his eyes at him or someone unfamiliar trampled through the kitchen and muttered in Italian about strangers and treachery.
The kitchen was hot. He lifted an arm to wipe the sweat sticking to his forehead. How would he get out of this place?
The door opened and boots hit the flour-sprinkled floor. Luca did his chores, but not always cheerfully or neatly.
Wiping the sweat again, he looked up at the dark-clothed man. Not an Italian or one of the Colombians Tonio had brought through a few days before. An Arab or an Indian? Either way, the stranger was an intruder.
Springing back, Luca snatched up a knife.
The man smiled patiently. “Luca Tarantino, I’m wearing a Glock but didn’t pull it. Would you set the knife down so we can talk?”
“Tonio’s not here.”
“I know.” He offered a rough, brown hand to shake, but Luca kept the knife steady and tight. “I’m Remy. I’m your only chance of getting out of this hiding place and your troubles in Nevada. Now put the knife down.”
Anne’s encouragement tickled his ears and he set the knife on the counter, the handle pointed toward him.
“Now I need you to do your part, Tarantino.”
“What part?”
“You and Antony Grimaldi caused a lot of problems. You boys are keeping me busy untangling it all.”
“Fanculo.”
“That hurts, Luca.” Remy edged closer to the counter. “Save your vulgarities for this.”
He stayed behind the counter but looked at an image on a phone as large as his palm. “Is that…Izzie?”
“She dyed her hair dark brown. Back to dark brown. Did you know she’s a brunette?”
Luca shook his head.
“Tarantino, Tarantino. You were going to marry her and you didn’t know her real hair color?” Remy wagged a finger at him, and Luca felt his face reddening with insult and shame.
“I wasn’t,” he said to Anne, because he could feel her behind him.
Remy responded, “But you trusted her to hold down something for you on Cora Island, didn’t you? Tickets for a flight out or—”
“Money. My money.”
“There’s no money. Izzie Phillips closed her account on Mahé on February 15. Where did you tell her to put the money?”
Luca frowned. His eardrums hurt. His mouth was dry. Over two million euros… “The money. I didn’t tell her anything, but she was supposed to stay on the island for two weeks. She—she was supposed to love the island. The water is cerulean. She swims like a fish and she likes jungles and—”
“Who’s this man?” Remy swiped the screen to show him another photo.
“Milo. My son. What was he doing there?”
“I’m thinking he was doing Izzie.” He swiped again, revealing the next image. It struck Luca in the gut. Milo was kissing Izzie.
“That’s a kiss. Doesn’t mean a damn.”
“Does this?” Another photo. Fuck. “Luca, any man would agree that kissing a woman between her thighs means a damn. Everything about her says pleasure. Arched back. Closed eyes. Open mouth. Did she offer her cunt to you like that?”
Never. Izzie had escaped his every attempt.
Luca closed his eyes against the photo. “Enough, damn it.”
“The same person your son recruited to keep an eye out for you made sure I’d keep an eye on your son. In these situations, I’m usually the top bidder for loyalty.” Remy fiddled with the phone. “Your money’s gone. The woman you proposed to is in Las Vegas, Nevada, fucking your son. Luca, think about it. If you can’t trust your son, who can you trust?”
Luca was faintly aware of Remy aiming the phone. Recording. But he didn’t care. He was numb, though somehow his mouth worked. Somehow his voice hadn’t failed him.
“Can you trust your family?” Remy coaxed. “Tell me the truth, then you can rest. I know you’re tired. Let go of the burdens and you can rest, Luca. Now…can you trust the family?”
“No.”
“Can you trust Tonio or Antony?”
“No!”
“Look right here at the phone—” Remy’s face was cool, empty “—and tell me about Antony Grimaldi.”
Chapter Nine
Milo had championship victories, versatility on the field that had contributed to stellar career reception records, and an impressive profile from his rookie season through his final game, which had ironically taken place in his hometown.
Fourteen years of superb on-field performance, colored by a penalty record that was indicative of his intensity and temper, had brought Milo far in life. But he had unfinished business in the NFL. The retirement dinner held in his honor hadn’t felt like finality—more like an interruption or a pause. Staring down the barrel of March, his agent had reviewed a promising prognosis from Milo’s physiotherapy team and had begun circulating: phone calls, casual lunches, a few parties. He’d reported back that Arizona had a stable offense to start next season, so probability that Milo would return to their roster was slim. He had accepted that, wished the team well, and then his agent had cracked open a bottle of Absolut and said if he wanted to get back onto the field, he should be willing to leave the West Coast to do it.
It wasn’t something Milo had right off considered—not with his father still missing and ongoing investigations rattling the foundations of every sector of his life outside of his ambitions to get back into a jersey and onto a field. His brother kept his distance and Milo envied him that. Duty held him and he couldn’t know closure until he watched Luca be held accountable for his greed and betrayal.
And then there was guilt. Milo had witnessed the fall of his father’s relationship with Izzie, had known from the start it wasn’t one built on love, but he needed to face his father, man to man, and tell him that he was with Izzie.
He and Izzie were drifting together. It wasn’t the type of relationship he’d had with Tabitha. But he was seeing her often, talking to her more, thinking about her with a constancy that made him feel centered and possessive.
Going into a late meeting at his physical therapy clinic, Milo had sent her a text message.
My place tonight.
Izzie had right away replied,
Only if I get to bring s’mores.
Grinning, he’d pictured her saying those words with that matter-of-fact expression and spark of sarcasm in her voice that got him too fucking hot, and had answered with,
Still got the ingredients from last week.
She’d brought them, but they’d barely opened the box of graham crackers before they tumbled onto the floor and he screwed her hard and fast.
Striding into the clinic, he went to the evaluation room where he was scheduled to meet with a physiotherapist, his primary care physician, and George Bryant, his sports agent. He was expecting concrete finalized clearance that he was ready to return to the field. Once he had possession of that, word would filter throughout the league and the media and his inspirational comeback would save him.
George greeted him with a handshake and the others nodded solemnly.
“We’re going to get right to it,” his physician, Doctor Somner announced, assembling
reports and bringing up images on a monitor. “The existing nerve damage, while slight, is too vulnerable to re-injury in a contact sport, Milo. Your previous surgeries were unquestionably successful, and the consequences of your damaged intervertebral spinal disk are minimal, considering the impact of the hit and your age.”
The physiotherapist chimed in, “Your physical condition overall is incredible, especially for a man who’s endured fourteen seasons in such a demanding offensive position. You’re thirty-eight years old…”
“I have another season left,” he protested.
“It’s too risky, not only for your quality of life, but for an NFL team,” Doctor Somner said. “The flexibility of your spinal disks has already begun to deteriorate with the aging process. That’s a basic fact. Despite how well you maintain your body, the aging process continues. No debate—you look better than you ever have. You look like textbook physical fitness. Anyone seeing you without knowledge of your prior injury would jump at the chance to sign you. But your spine’s been compromised to a point where paralysis is your number one threat.”
Shit. He’d practically tasted this victory, and now it was gone. “What the fuck happens next?”
“You’re young—”
“But too old to receive a football,” he grunted.
“Listen to them,” George said. “We knew it was a possibility that the comeback wouldn’t happen. We wanted this for you, but…I’m sorry.”
“You need to establish control of what can be changed,” his physician continued. “The quality of your life is up to you. You’ve put this off before, but I’m recommending a urologist and a sexual therapist. Coming to terms with erectile dysfunction is going to help you regain your confidence.”
“A man doesn’t need sexual confidence to play football.”
“He needs it to maintain sexual health.”
“I’m capable of fucking. Erections. Ejaculation. They happen.”
“Inconsistently, right?” Doctor Somner challenged. “Is your decision to not pursue treatment options something you’ve discussed with your partners?”
The Hook: The End Game Series (Book 4) Page 15