Machiavellian: Gangsters of New York, Book 1

by Di Corte, Bella

  “You belong to me, Strings,” he said, his voice cold, “and I won’t stand for any man to run behind you like you’re a dog in fucking heat.”

  In what seemed like slow motion, my arm came up, and my hand connected with his cheek. The slap rang out in the night air. “You might be my capo,” I said, “but that doesn’t mean I’ll allow you to disrespect me.”

  He didn’t even flinch at my slap, but something in his eyes changed. They softened some, but in a way that I wasn’t used to.

  One, two, three, four breaths, and he took my wrists, raising them above my head, his face coming close to mine. His mouth was a kiss away, his breath warm as it flowed over me, and I breathed him in.

  The bulb lights had been turned on in the backyard, and between us, a white spark flared in the darkness. My chest heaved up and down, my breasts pressed against his chest. The friction felt so good. I’d never been more starved for this kind of connection in my life. I had hungered for the unconditional love of parents, for food, for all of the things that money could buy, but never for this.

  A lover’s touch.

  He showed me something that I craved the mere idea of. I’d sampled it the night at The Club, and I was already addicted to the flavor.

  I inhaled again, breathing him in even deeper. The heat made his scent stronger. Cool. Clean. Healing. His eyes had turned a darker shade of blue, the color of the deepest part of the water. Sapphire.

  Pressing against me as he was, he never felt more intimidating. He was like a monster wave before it comes crashing down on someone who doesn’t know how to swim. He was made up of hard lines, and he radiated power, control, while he swept me away.

  His teeth raked over his bottom lip, and in the glow of the lights from the yard, it glistened. I wanted to lick it, to taste his mouth again. “I seem to remember telling you that I’m not an honorable man, Mariposa.”

  “And I seem to remember telling you that you will not speak to me that way,” I said, hoping he saw the defiance in my eyes. “If you’d rather a woman that goes for anything, a different kind of purchase, you know which way the city is. Thata way.” I moved my head to the side to give emphasis to my words. “And I’ll just see myself back to the party after you go.”

  “So you can run back to Harry Boy and finish your earlier conversation.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “So I can hang out with family and friends while I wait for you to do whatever it is you feel you have to do. Then, once you come back for me—because I know you will—we’ll see Rocco about changing the terms of the agreement. You’ll be discreet with your lovers, and so will I. If your mouth can’t respect me, then your hands have no place on my body.”

  When I said the words “you’ll be discreet with your lovers, and so will I,” his grip on my wrists tightened, enough that I almost wanted to squirm out of his hold. I came close to giving in and resisting, pushing against him so I could turn my back on him and take a much-needed breath. But I didn’t. I held my ground.

  All of my life, I thought that holding my ground meant fighting for it. In that moment, I realized something. Sometimes holding ground meant going with the flow, saving energy, so when the wave passed, I could go in a better direction.

  We had come to terms in Rocco’s office, but we both knew there would be times that we’d have to draw lines outside of that room. This was one of those times. And he’d either call my bluff or he wouldn’t, but since I was committing my life to this man, proposition or not, and he could easily crush me, I had to be as term-oriented as he was. He seemed to like the control it gave him, and for a man who was always in control, I needed to learn to work around him in a way that he was familiar with.

  After a tense stretch of time, he lowered his head, his nose skimming my neck. “Concordato,” he murmured against my overheated skin. Agreed upon. “I will choose my words wisely around you, Mariposa. They seem to cost me more than our agreement.”

  I closed my eyes, giving myself over to the feel of his body so close to mine.

  “Never…” he said, pressing his hips against my belly, giving me a taste of what was to come when I was ready. Even though I was nothing but skin and bones, he was still harder than me, and he made me feel...soft, feminine. “…think that I need to pay for a fuck. I never have. I never will. Come tomorrow, you’ll be the only one I’ll be fucking for good. Plans and dates and times can go to hell.” Then he said something in Italian against my pulse. Il tuo profumo mi fa impazzire. I think it had something to do with the way I smelled. He kept breathing me in, inhaling my skin like it was air. Sandalwood hung heavy between us.

  I bit my lip, not wanting an embarrassing sound to escape from my mouth at how good he felt against me. My lower stomach clenched like a fist, and my entire body was damp, and not only from sweat.

  “You taste as good as you smell.” He inhaled even harder, and then his tongue trailed from my neck to my heart and back up to my chin, stopping close to my mouth. “Say it, Mariposa.”

  “Concordato,” I repeated. We both had to repeat the word during our meeting in order for Rocco to finalize the term and move on. He was keeping to those rules. I lowered my voice. “We were only talking. Just because Harrison said those words to me doesn’t mean I feel the same. I do love him, but like a brother.”

  The neutral territory we stood on seemed to disappear beneath my feet, and we were back to opposite sides of the battle lines. As soon as the words I do love him came from my mouth, I felt the change in him immediately.

  “You.” His tone was gruff and came against my skin like a hundred stones. “You’re my territory. I say who does and doesn’t come near it. I’m the only one who touches it.”

  Territory. Like property. “Your property?” My eyes flashed up to meet his. He was right. He did own me, in a sense. He owned my loyalty, but I wouldn’t stand to be treated like some piece of land he could shit on whenever he wanted.

  “My fucking property. My territory. You seem to forget that it was you who came to my table willingly. You hashed out the details. Set terms. You signed papers with your blood. We made a deal.”

  I wanted to slam my fists against his chest, all of my anger contained there. “For all your wisdom,” I seethed, “you're not that smart. When you enter a bargain, it not only binds one but two. You might be my capo, but I own you, too, don’t I? I’m your territory, so you’re my property.”

  We were still navigating the real word, the one outside of Rocco’s office filled with terms and legal papers, but we seemed to be circling around something personal I couldn’t figure out.

  After a few minutes, he finally spoke. “I didn’t like what I saw. Or what I heard.”

  There it was. The eddy that kept sucking us under. He didn’t like seeing Harrison and me together. Why? It made no sense. Capo had me, all of the parts of me he requested at the table. What difference did it make how Harrison felt or what he said to me? They were just words, unless I made them more. Still, it seemed to take a lot to get Capo to admit that.

  “All you have to do is say that. Use all the words, Capo. I’ll understand. You don’t have to hurt me to get what you want.”

  He watched me for a few intense seconds, and then he nodded once. “Concordato.” But his look didn’t cool. It turned into something else, and the maddening desire in me responded automatically when he did something with his hips, pressing even harder into me, so hard that I sucked in a breath and a noise that I’d never heard before slipped from my lips.

  Fucka me, I bet he was going to be good in bed. He wouldn’t only touch me; he’d consume me. Still. There was hesitation. I wasn’t ready to go all the way with him. That severe craving would have to eat at me until every defense had been gnawed away.

  Hands on my mouth so I won’t scream. Sweat. From him and me. Fingers. Nasty fingers. Disgusting. Wicked. Kindness. Owing.

  Capo stopped touching me, and when I opened my eyes, his were on my face. Seeing right through me. I didn’t flinch from his kno
wing. I appreciated the fact that he seemed to understand without me having to speak the words again.

  Please don’t hurt me.

  He released my wrists, taking my hand in his—his hand practically engulfed mine—and started to lead me back toward his car.

  The haze slipped a little after he put space between us, and his words from earlier made full entry into my mind. Come tomorrow, you’ll be the only one I’ll be fucking for good. Plans and dates and times can go to hell.

  “We’re not supposed to get married until next weekend in New York,” I said, my voice the opposite of my body. Steady. A few seconds went by and he didn’t answer me. “Next weekend, Capo. What happened to next weekend?”

  “Too long,” he said. “It’s happening tomorrow. I’ll talk to Rocco in the morning about changing the terms. We’ll get married in the evening.”

  “The dress you spent a lot of money on! It won’t be ready.”

  “Have Giada call the designer. Tell them I’ll pay triple to have it finished. If not, wear paper jeans.”

  With that settled, I’d be a married woman the next day. Monday. Who gets married on a Monday? That thought flew right out of my head when the next one kicked it out.

  I’d be married to Capo Macchiavello in less than twenty-four hours. A force of a man who had me right where he wanted me, locked down in his field for the rest of my life.

  11

  Capo

  The air in City Hall was cool. It smelled of old papers, my cologne, and something that smelled a lot like love and loyalty, and if I was taking Mariposa’s ridiculous song into consideration, friendship. Three different reasons for a man to be standing in the same spot I was, waiting on a woman to commit her life to him.

  I looked at Rocco and narrowed my eyes. He had a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin on his face. He was all too curious as to why I was taking my bride today, and not on the original date planned.

  Fuck dates.

  It was a done deal; there was no reason to wait. The wedding in Italy needed time. Things had to be planned; it had to be meaningful for my grandfather. He deserved to see his grandson married. It was one of his worries. It should be put to rest before he left this world.

  However, there was no reason this wedding had to be postponed until later. Another day, another time, were unpredictable. And when I wanted something, I made it happen.

  I wanted Mariposa as my wife today.

  I lifted my arm, the sleeve of my suit pushing back, and checked my watch. She was running late. Three minutes.

  “Guido said ten minutes,” Rocco said. He and his wife, Rosaria, were standing as witnesses. She sat next to him, rolling her bracelet around her wrist, watching me.

  I met his eyes, not one to prolong the inevitable. His smirk was starting to irk me. “Parla.” Speak.

  Rocco rolled his shoulders, getting more comfortable in his suit. “I did not expect this,” he said in Italian.

  Our entire conversation took place in the language.

  “We discussed it before,” I said. “This was part of the arrangement.”

  He shook his head. “We discussed a different date. Later. Now here we are. Today.” Our eyes held, and then he switched gears. “You did not tell me how the meeting with her family went.”

  “They’re not her family,” I said. “Friends.”

  “She considers them family,” he said, not caring if he pissed me off or not. “They take care of her. She trusts them.”

  “Last I checked, family members are not supposed to cross romantic lines.” The blood in my veins burned with the thought of Harry Boy. Strings.

  He was instigating trouble on more than one account. Bringing up the war to spark Mariposa’s curiosity, even though he was a part of it. Harry Boy was the new lawyer for Cashel “Cash” Kelly, the leader of a connected Irish family. Right before Harry Boy took the job, the old leader had been killed, and Cash took his place. He hired Harry Boy not long after. Cash called him Harry Boy, so I did, too. I wanted him to know that I knew everything. Not long after that, he bought the house on Staten Island for the woman I’d be marrying in a moment.

  Too late, fucker, I cut those strings. Snip. Snip.

  “Ah,” Rocco said, the grin growing wider. “One of the Ryan brothers cares for her.”

  I lifted my arm again. Seven minutes. I started to pace the hall. Women took time to do whatever women do, but the clock ticked, and it was loud in my head. It needed to be silenced.

  “You should not worry.” Rosaria waved a dismissive hand. “I doubt there is a woman alive who would stand you up.”

  My comment about family not crossing romantic lines was aimed at her, too. Rocco and Rosaria also had an arranged marriage, but their marriage was open, to a certain degree. She had made numerous passes at me over the years. Rocco was like my brother. And Rosaria was not my type.

  That aside, Rosaria hadn’t met Mariposa yet. She had no idea how different she was, and Harry Boy could offer her something that I couldn’t. A no-scars-included history. If Harry Boy fucked this up for me, they’d find him six feet under, or maybe never at all.

  Eleven minutes.

  “I know I’m late!” Her voice carried to me through the expansive hall, her heels clicking against the marble floor in a rush.

  I turned to find her hustling toward me as though she wasn’t wearing one of the most beautiful dresses I’d ever seen, and she wasn’t the most gorgeous woman in my world.

  Her hands clutched the dress, lifting it so the floor couldn’t dirty it.

  Don’t you know, woman, the dirt is what’s going to make memories one day, I had the urge to say, but didn’t. Whatever she bought, she appreciated, almost reverent about the purchase. It would take her time to understand that, if her life was full of pristine things, she wasn’t living enough to wear them down.

  Scars on skin meant living. Blood on knuckles meant living. Dirt on white clothes meant living. Living meant taking chances, even if we got soiled up in the process.

  The late afternoon light caught the material as she passed by a window, making the silky material glow and the pearls and crystals shine. Her small waist and pronounced collarbone were perfectly displayed. Her tits—the only fat she had on her body—were pushed up, jiggling as she tried to hurry. Her hair was swept back, small tendrils framing her face. The style showed off the regal set of her nose and her softer features, those lips.

  “Since this was last minute,” she said, barreling right through the fact that I couldn’t take my eyes off of her, “I had to rush and get a few things done.” She eyed me up and down. “You look...”

  “Sei sbalorditiva,” I said before she could finish.

  Her eyes narrowed. She was thinking hard. “You called me stunning. You are stunning,” she repeated in English.

  “I did.” I turned her in a circle. The dress dipped into a deep V in the back. “This dress pleases me.” You please me.

  “You wanted me in a dress, I delivered,” she said. “But that’s not…I understood what you said to me, without you having to translate.”

  I nodded once. “You’re catching on.”

  She shrugged, but I didn’t give her another second to think about it. I offered her my arm and we stepped into the room with the officiant. After a few minutes, we repeated the simple vows and I slipped the ring I’d given her back on her finger. When it was her turn to do the same to me, I went to speak, to say that we’d be skipping that part.

  “Wait!” She turned to Guido. He stepped up and handed her a box. She opened it and took out a chunky white-gold ring with a square black diamond in the center and the letter M done in gold. She handed the box back to him and turned to face me, smiling a little. “Late, remember? Something last minute to do. It wasn’t supposed to be ready, but the jeweler took pity on me and rushed the order.” She took my hand and slipped the ring on my left finger.

  After the officiant pronounced us husband and wife, the kiss we shared to seal the deal was soft, my mouth f
inding the corner of hers, hers finding my cheek. Rosaria and Rocco pulled her to the side after, each of them hugging her. As they did, I slid the ring up and down my finger, not prepared for the weight of it, like a leash around a full-grown wolf.

  Then something caught my attention on the inside. An inscription.

  Il mio Capo.

  My Boss.

  * * *

  “Capo?”

  I turned to look at my wife. She sat next to me in the car as Giovanni drove us home. Judging by the look on her face, she had tried speaking to me before.

  After we were married, something had been nagging at me until I made sense of what she had done.

  She had been miserly in using the stipend, finding bargains, even on food. She was even using coupons. The ring she bought, though, easily cost more than two thousand dollars.

  She had spent her money on me.

  The only person who would’ve done this under my nose would’ve been Rocco. He had invited us to celebrate at the exclusive Italian restaurant he owned with one of his brothers, Brando. When I had pulled him aside to question him about it, he had told me that she came to him and asked him to do her a favor.

  A favor.

  From a Fausti.

  She wanted him to buy the ring so that I couldn’t see the purchase. In return, she offered to fill in for Giada while she was on vacation. No pay. Rocco had accepted her offer, but he still had the other women in his office help my wife regularly. He said she had a lot on her plate with the wedding in Italy.

  “The famiglia jeweler created it.” Rocco had waved the issue off, drinking a glass of whiskey. He was the ruthless head of his own branch of the family, and his father was one of the most merciless men Italy had ever seen. Yet Rocco loved weddings and a good celebration. “It has already been taken out of your pocket. Your wife kept her end of the bargain. We are even. A favor for a favor. Let us not discuss this on your wedding day, ah? Business should be kept in the office.”