by Stacia Stone
“Having a bad day, sweetheart?”
“Are you lost?” she snaps. “There’s a funeral going on in there, not a garden party. So yeah, I’d call it a bad day.”
Sexy and a smart ass. It’s a potent combination. There’s nothing I like more than shutting up a mouthy woman with my cock down their throat. I haven’t been this turned on by a complete stranger in a long time.
I take a step closer to her. I get close enough that I can see where her modest dress gapes a bit over her chest, revealing just a hint of creamy flesh.
To her credit, the girl doesn’t flinch. But the firm set of her mouth falters just a bit when she meets my gaze as I tower over her. I reach for the door with one hand which effectively blocks her into the cage of my body.
She doesn’t say anything, but I can feel the slight tremble of awareness that moves over her body. I wait for her to try to move away or insist that I stop blatantly invading her personal space. But she just stares up at me with eyes so dark and deep that I can imagine drowning in them.
I pull open the door. “After you.”
A little shake moves over her as she moves past me. I let her go. With an effort, I ignore the animal urge to grab her slim waist, throw her over my shoulder and find some place where I can fuck her up against a wall.
I have to remind myself that I’m at a fucking funeral to get the tightness in my pants to subside.
She hurries into the church and down the aisle as solemn organ music marks the beginning of the service. I take a seat in the last pew, angled so my back isn’t completely at the door. It’s such an ingrained habit that it never occurs to me to let my guard down, not even in a church.
The girl heads straight for the front and takes a seat on the end of the first pew, right next to Cecile Matarazzo.
“The fuck?” I murmur.
Leaning forward, I nudge Fat Donny who’s sitting in the row right in front of me. When he turns to look, I nod toward the front. “Who’s the girl next to Cecile, with the dark hair?”
He cranes to see. When he turns back, a smirk creases his sweaty face that looks like someone ripped a tear in a sandbag. “That’s Mara Matarazzo. She’s Vito’s granddaughter.”
I let that fact settle over me, rolling it around in my mind to get a taste for it. I have distant memories of a quiet little girl hanging around the clubs every once in a while, but that was a long time ago.
“She’s really grown up, huh?” Fat Donny licks his lips and gives me a sly wink that he obviously thinks is conspiring. It really just makes him look like a fucking creep.
“Jesus, show some fucking respect,” I growl at him. “Vito’s laid out up there for Christ’s sake.”
“Relax, Leo.” He puts his hands up in a conciliatory motion. “I didn’t mean nothing.”
He turns back to the front, sparing me a nervous glance every few minutes or so.
Fucking creep. Not that I have a leg to stand on in that department, considering all the things that I’ve thought about doing to little Mara Matarazzo in the last five minutes.
I force myself to relax into the wooden bench. I have to maintain the stately and decorous demeanor that’s supposed to be a part of this sort of event. It ain’t exactly honoring Vito’s memory to be lusting after his granddaughter during his funeral.
The funeral drags on for what feels like an eternity. The priests’ solemn statements are occasionally punctuated by wailing and crying from Cecile. She practically throws herself onto the casket when it’s the family’s turn to pay their final respects.
How that woman created someone as sedately beautiful as Mara is something I will ponder until the day I go to my own grave.
Getting that girl out of my head proves to be a more difficult task than I thought possible. I don't even know the broad and haven’t spoken more than a few words to her. But I can’ keep my eyes off her. The ramrod straight way she holds her spine and the haughty expression on her face make me want to do something to break down that icy facade. I want her broken down and begging.
I’ve always had a thing for the ice queens. They go wild when you finally get them warmed up.
We all troop out to the cemetery in a sad procession. I’m one of the pallbearers. Getting my hands on the casket of my mentor and de facto father is enough to remind me of how shitty I actually feel. Maybe lusting after a girl I barely know is my subconscious way of forgetting that I’m in mourning. It was working until now.
It feels like half of Newark shows up for the reception, coming to pay their respects to one of the last old-school bosses left. I wade through the sea of bodies, recognizing less than half and feeling more and more cynical about the whole affair with each passing moment.
Where were all these fucking people when Vito was alive?
Willy Russo, the family’s lawyer, slides up beside me. I’ve told him before that with the silent way he moves, he would probably make a better assassin than attorney. He always replies that he’d rather kill people in the courtroom.
“We’ll be having the reading of the will now in the anteroom,” he murmurs, face near my shoulder. His voice is only loud enough for me to hear. “I would appreciate if you were there for it.”
“Reading of the will?” I ask, taken aback. “Is that even a thing anymore.”
“No. Not really.” His lips purse, and the movement is rich with distaste. “Cecile is insisting that the will be publicly presented as soon as possible. She appears to be unaware of its provisions.”
I raise my eyebrows. “But you’re not.”
“No,” he replies tersely.
Which is his polite way of saying that whatever is in the will won’t be what Cecile is expecting. And we can expect a pretty dramatic reaction because of it.
I hesitate before following him, wondering how the fuck this drama became my problem. Vito had other captains. Hell, some foot soldier could stand sentry while Cecile has her breakdown.
But I still remember Vito’s face as he whispered to me in that hospital bed. And I know that I don’t really have much of a choice.
Willy leads me to a small room off of the main area of the chapel. I glance up at the large stained glass windows. They depict some biblical scene that I'm sure I learned and promptly forgot in Sunday School. It’s a wonder that the church hasn’t caught fire with this many sinners inside.
Cecile is already waiting when we enter the room. The toe of her kitten heel taps impatiently against the floor, making too much of her exposed chest bounce. Mara sits next to her, prim and proper with legs crossed neatly at the ankle. She makes the cheap folding chair under her look like a throne.
I’m still marveling at the contrast of the two of them together. Maybe the girl was switched at birth, or something.
The wannabe biker dude is standing behind Cecile. What was his name again — Mack? He looks just as strung-out and worthless as he did in the hospital. Except now he’s not bothering to hide the look of obvious anticipation on his face. I wonder how much of their relationship is built around the pursuit of cash and drugs.
I can only pray that Vito did something truly vicious with all that money. Maybe donate it to a charity that provides job-training to former prostitutes, or some shit. Anything but let these pieces of shit at one penny.
Willy moves to sit behind the little desk in the corner. Judging from the seminary degrees and family photos on the wall, this is the priest’s office. I wonder how much cajoling it had taken to let us use it.
The lawyer clears his throat, obviously playing for time.
“This will be quick,” he says. “The last will and testament of Vincent Antonia Matarazzo contained few provisions. It's relatively straightforward.”
“Just get on with it,” Mack snaps. I resist the urge to shoot him right in his ugly face.
Willy casts an affronted glance over the paper he’s holding, but chooses not respond. “Mr. Matarazzo requests that his estate be divided in the following manner: a stipend of $100,000 is provided
to his daughter, Cecile Matarazzo, to fund any efforts to support her sobriety. This includes, but is not limited to, placement in detox or rehab centers and clinics. In the event that the aforenamed is able to abstain from using illicit substances for a period of at least one year, as verified by a neutral third party, the remainder of these funds will be provided to her as a lump sum.”
“What the hell?” Cecile jumps from her seat. The plastic folding chair careens into the wall behind her. It comes within an inch of Mara, who doesn’t so much as flinch. “Money for rehab? Are you fucking kidding me?”
Willy sends her a blistering glare that temporarily quells Cecile into silence. “The remainder of his estate, to include his house, cars and liquid assets, is to be placed in trust and bequeathed in its entirety to his granddaughter, Amaranth Matarazzo, on the day of her graduation from college.”
“Holy shit.”
It’s like a bomb is dropped inside of the room. Cecile is screaming and crying. She has to be held back from jumping over the desk and grabbing for the will or Willy’s throat, whichever is closer. Mack yells threats and obscenities, as if Vito can be intimidated from beyond the grave.
But I only have eyes for Mara. She’s still sitting sedately in that folding chair, as chaos erupts around her. Her shoulders are held back and her expression reveals nothing but polite interest. She either has the self-possession of a saint or she’s completely shell-shocked.
Somehow, figuring this girl out has become the most important thing I have going.
Before anyone can stop me, I push off of the wall and grab her arm. Surprise blooms in her eyes, the first emotion I’ve seen in the silken depths, and I pull her from the room.
All I know is that I have to get her out of there.
Chapter Four
Mara
The estate will be bequeathed in its entirety….
…Sole beneficiary.
I feel as frozen as if I’ve been dumped into an icy river. The only sign of life left in my body is the frantic fluttering of my heart. The emotional part of me, that I so often refuse to acknowledge, howls in fear and anger. It screamed — What was Papa thinking? Was he insane, leaving all that money to me?”
The logical part of me is already considering options for investments and annuities. Or how the hell I’m going to keep my mother from getting her hands on this money and using it to drown herself in a literal mountain of cocaine?
I notice the commotion on the periphery of my awareness. Cecile shrieks and throws a folding chair against the wall. I watch it come within an inch of hitting me, but it’s as if I’m seeing it from far away. I’m too deep inside of myself to muster a reaction.
And then his face fills my vision. The man that talked to me outside of the church. The man who is so gorgeous that I couldn’t think of anything to say to him that wasn’t rude or sarcastic. Because that’s what happens when I get nervous.
I don’t know even know his name, but it’s like his face has imprinted itself on my brain.
Black eyes blaze — in anger or something else, I can’t tell. The heat of his regard is like a burning fire. He must think I have mental issues, sitting here and staring at him as the world is torn down around me.
He moves away. It feels as if all the light has gone out in a cold room, but then I realize that his large hand is wrapped around my wrist. He’s pulling me through the room and out into the chapel.
I stop at the last row of pews and try to pull away but his grip on my wrist is like a steel vise.
“Wait—"
He turns on me with a devastating smile. “You want to go back in there?”
“No…I just…” My gaze scans over his tall form in a close-fitting black suit that encases muscled thighs. The neat hang of his jacket isn’t enough to conceal the outline of his gun. “Who are you?”
One jet black eyebrow goes up in a sardonic move. “You don’t know?”
“Obviously not.”
He glances back toward the anteroom, obviously expecting someone to come flying out after us. He’s probably imagining my mother with gigantic dollar signs popping out of her face where her eyes are supposed to be. “Let’s talk outside.”
I cross my arms over my chest, feeling suddenly obstinate. For once today, something is going to go the way I want it to. “Tell me your name first.”
Darkness curls behind his eyes. I fight the urge to back away and get the feeling that this is not a man used to being told no.
“Leo.”
The name tickles at the edges of my memory. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
The sound of a loud crash and female shriek can be heard from the office behind us. We probably don’t have much time before the cavalry arrives.
Dark eyes twinkle at me as Leo winks and then turns on his heel. He is shoving open the doors of the church before I realize that he’s leaving, with or without me.
I hesitate, one hand gripping the back of the wooden pew like it’s my only anchor to reality. I have a choice. Deal with the shrieking harpy behind me who’s convinced that I deliberately stole her inheritance. Or go with the mysterious and obviously dangerous man with unknown intentions.
It isn’t much of a choice.
I hurry down the aisle in my uncomfortable heels. I hit the door with enough speed that I almost plow directly into Leo’s back.
Leo turns so quickly that he must have incredible reflexes. His arm catches me around the waist and presses me against the hard wall of his chest.
Embarrassed, I try to pull away. But his arm stays locked around me as we descend the steps of the church toward the line of cars parked in front of the valet stand.
“Let me go,” I insist.
“No.”
I look up at him in shock. He doesn’t say it like he’s expecting a fight, just a simple pronouncement about what is and isn’t going to happen. I wonder if this is what it feels like to be thrown over the shoulder of a caveman and carried off into the night.
Incredibly sexy.
Except this isn’t 400 BC. And we’re standing outside of the Church of St. Francis in broad daylight.
“Where are we going?” I’ve stopped trying to pull away because the iron grip has only tightened until it’s almost painful.
He glances down at me, eyes brimming with dark amusement. “Anyone ever tell you that you ask too many questions?”
“No, actually. People usually say the opposite.”
That I’m too disengaged, too cutoff, too lost in my own head to really feel anything. The only boyfriend that I’ve ever had broke up with me after he told me that he loved me and I politely thanked him.
The look Leo casts me is quietly assessing. I want to know what conclusions he’s drawing, but don’t have the courage to ask.
He stops at the valet stand. A pimple-faced kid wearing an ill-fitting red jacket stands by the curb
“Who’s is this?” Leo asks, making a beeline toward a black sports car parked next to the kid and dragging me along behind him.
The kid just stares up at him with his mouth gaping.
“The car?” Leo snaps.
“Uh…this belongs to Mr. Russo,” the valet stutters.
Leo grabs the keys right out of the guy’s hand. “Tell him to meet me down at Sonny’s later to get it back.”
“Y-yes…Mr. Baglio. Whatever you say, sir.”
“I don’t think people can just do that,” I say. Leo propels me toward the passenger side of the car and opens the door.
“I can,” he replies tersely.
I slide into the seat, the silk of my dress like a whisper against the smooth leather. I watch Leo walk around the front the of the car and strongly consider bolting back into the church. What the hell am I doing?
But indecision costs me the opportunity to change my mind. Leo opens the driver’s side door and climbs into the seat. His body seems even larger in this closed space. I instinctively shrink back against the side.
He hasn�
��t done or said anything even remotely threatening, even if he is high-handed. But I can’t shake the overwhelming sense that I am in the presence of a very dangerous man.
“Go ahead,” Leo says, giving me a side glance as he navigates the car away from the curb and slips into traffic.
I look at him warily, but his attention is focused on the road. “Go ahead, what?”
“Scream, cry, freak out. Whatever it is chicks do when they’re upset.”
“I’m not going to freak out. But thanks for the offer, I guess.”
“Damn, you’ve got a smart mouth,” he says. There's a smile in his voice even though his face remains expressionless. “Your grandfather died and you just found out that he left you everything. Now your bitch of a mother is back there tearing up a church. None of that is worth a reaction?”
“Of course, I’m reacting,” I say, angrily. Who does this guy think he is, telling me how I should be acting about my own shit? “I just don’t see what good it would do to scream and cry, or freak out about it. And don’t call my mother a bitch.”
Now he is smiling. “You got another word for it?”
“I’m not saying you’re wrong, just that it’s rude. You don’t talk shit about people’s mothers.”
“True.” He makes a turn, his hand moving surely over the shifter as he changes gears. “Though I got to say, I’m a little surprised. Most girls would be in hysterics.”
“I’m not most girls.”
His gaze moves away from the road to glide over me, lingering on my chest before moving down over the slit in my dress. When I stand up the dress is pretty modest, but now it exposes way more of my thigh than I’m comfortable with.
“No, you’re not.”
I look out the window to hide the blush that I know is overtaking my features. Is he flirting with me? There’s no way. I’m not the girl that gets hit on. I’m the quiet, mature one who makes sure her friends don’t go home with anyone too skeevy. I'm the girl who spends more time surfing the internet than worrying about makeup and clothes. No one picks me out of a crowd.