by Bethany-Kris
He thought he did.
Was this … “Am I getting my button tonight?”
Marcus lifted his hand to show three cards he held. Saints. Even from Bene’s position ten feet away, he could see the different religious figures on the cards, and he knew he had been right about his assumption.
“Pick your saint before we enter, and you speak the omertà.”
“That’s why you had me running like crazy?”
“Part of it.”
Bene had another thought, then. “Am I getting my button because Dad’s worried someone might kill me otherwise, or is it that he thinks I earned it?”
Marcus didn’t answer right away.
He didn’t like that.
“Well?” he demanded.
“Is being a made man what you want, or not?” Marcus asked.
“Of course, it’s what I want.”
“Then, pick your saint, Bene, and let’s get this night started. The boss has places to be this weekend—we’re handling famiglia business, it’s the boss—so let’s not make him wait, so that he can finish this, and take his wife out of town for the weekend like he promised her.”
Well, then …
“Saint John the Apostle,” Bene said.
Marcus smiled. “The saint of loyalty. Smart choice. Keep making those, and you’re going to be just fine tonight, little brother.”
His palm stung.
Like a motherfucker.
In Cosa Nostra, it was tradition for a man’s hand to be sliced with a knife chosen by the boss as he spoke his oath, and after the patron saint he’d chosen burned to nothing but ash in his palm. Symbolic, in a way, speaking to the oath they all had to take for this life.
The mafia came first.
La famiglia was held most important above all else.
Family.
Friends.
Love.
Even God.
Hence, the saint.
It was Bene’s only thoughts when he finally got home—the watch on his wrist said it was only five, but hell, it felt like one. In the morning. Maybe that was because the past two weeks finally caught up to him, and he now realized what it was really about and what it meant for the rest of his life.
The cut on his palm? Dried with blood? Dirtied with burned ashes from the picture of a saint he’d picked for his initiation into Cosa Nostra?
It only meant one thing, now.
He was made.
Bene walked through his penthouse in a haze, of sorts, seeing different things he had left scattered and forgotten while his life was upended for two weeks. A bag of chips on the counter. Unwashed dishes in the sink. His bathroom had turned into a hurricane, and his bedroom didn’t look much better, either.
Clothes strewed across the floor from just changing when he needed to, but not having the time to properly put things away. He hadn’t made his bed in two weeks, and the sheets needed to be washed. He had a pile of shit that needed to go to the drycleaners, and he just had zero desire to clean anything. Not after the day he had.
Couldn’t he just … enjoy this moment?
This milestone?
Bene didn’t know.
So, while he tried to figure it out, and settle everything that had happened over the course of an evening, he did attempt to clean up his penthouse. At least now, he had the time to do so, and no one would be calling him away as soon as he started something.
Maybe it was time to hire a maid.
Besides, after today, there would be no more running to do odd jobs or answering to whichever made man had his phone number. He was now set to work as his brothers’ right-hand man, for whatever Chris or Marcus needed. Considering Marcus was the underboss of the family, Bene knew he’d be making his brother’s life easier as the go-between for Capos controlling the men on the streets.
Work he liked.
By the time Bene made it back to his bedroom to pick up the clothes strewn all over the floor, and strip the bed of the dirty sheets, he was ready to call it a night. And yet, when he picked up a pair of pants he hadn’t worn in two weeks, and a piece of crumpled up paper fell to the floor—writing side up—he hesitated.
Her number.
That signature V.
Christ.
Why could he still taste that woman on his mouth? How did she make him hard when he hadn’t even seen her in weeks? Not to mention, why did his exhaustion suddenly disappear at the idea of calling that number, and seeing if he might be able to celebrate this night with her?
Bene had no intention of questioning it. He simply grabbed that paper and pulled his phone from his pocket. He was already dialing the number before he even left the bedroom.
Surely, he earned this.
Right?
“This is delicious,” Senior praised.
“Isn’t it? Wasn’t sure what she was doing at that college, but this is a good sign,” Mario replied to his father. “Might even dare to say it was worth it.”
Senior turned his gaze on Vanna, and nodded. “Not sure how much longer you’ll be attending there, but while you do, I need you to cook for me more.”
Across the table, the man’s wife—and Mario’s mother, Gemma—did her best to keep a straight face, and not roll her eyes. Barely. Vanna might have been offended about that on another day, but she kind of got it.
Men were praising another woman’s cooking at her table, and no Italian woman took very kindly to that. To her benefit, Gemma was attempting civility, and politeness. Vanna couldn’t say she would do the same if she were in Gemma’s position. Not that anyone gave her a choice. Mario called the week before, said his father wanted to spend more time with her, and he agreed with the promise she would cook them all something to eat the next week.
Well, that turned into this. A table full of people from their Camorra clan. Vanna killing herself in the kitchen. And now a woman across from her who looked like she had finally found her limit with all the compliments going around that were not directed toward her, or her cooking. Just perfect, really. This night couldn’t get any worse than it already was, surely.
She would usually enjoy someone praising her cooking considering the effort that went into her attending George Brown College for their amazing culinary program. A program that would, essentially, guarantee her success in her chosen field once she finished, and went on to apprentice under a chef in the city.
Unless, someone else stopped her dreams.
Considering some of the offhanded remarks Mario made over the course of the dinner, to his father and the other Camorra men attending, Vanna was beginning to think he intended to do exactly that. Cage her into this life, somehow, and keep her with him.
Across the table, Mario watched her with a smile playing at the edges of his lips. She could tell without him even needing to say it that he was enjoying this night. It was almost as if he had been able to show her off, like some trophy he’d been keeping hidden from the rest of his family and his father’s people. As if they hadn’t known Vanna her entire life, and now they were getting a fresh look at her on Mario’s arm.
Up until now, Vanna had felt forgotten by a lot of the clan. The little orphan teenager who had been taken in by the boss and his wife but had never really been favored or put on display for the rest of the clan like Mario had been as their son. In that moment, during the dinner, it felt like everything changed, and Vanna hadn’t seen it coming.
She hated it.
All of it.
And yet, the only way she could continue to have the freedom she did, like going to college, living on her own, and more … was to feed into Mario’s nonsense. It was his word in his father’s ear, after all, that allowed her all she had and could do.
Vanna didn’t want to play with fire.
“Thank you,” Vanna said to Senior when he stared at her expectantly, waiting for a reply to his earlier praises. “I love cooking.”
And she did.
Before her father died, cooking had been a way she spent one on one, q
uality time with her dad. Because she didn’t have a mother to teach her any useable skills, like cooking, the job fell to her dad, and it was just her luck that he enjoyed it, too.
Then, after his passing, cooking became the way Vanna coped a lot of the time. Baking cookies at two in the morning when she couldn’t sleep because she kept dreaming of getting the news about her dad … well, it got her through it.
The people at the table didn’t care to hear that, though. Nothing about her father, or her life then mattered because then they might look at her as though she was nothing more than Adam’s child. His blood, determined to ruin their clan and life the same way he and his father had once done, even if that had never been her plans.
“Back to business,” Senior said, waving a hand as Vanna stood to clear the plates with Gemma’s help. Just like that, the men at the table went back to discussing their plans to take over several road construction rackets the following year after a few deals they’d pulled in this summer. “And bring me in a drink, love.”
Gemma nodded to her husband.
Mario looked Vanna’s way expectantly, clearly wanting the same. He didn’t outright ask, but the raise of his brow when all eyes turned on the exchange between the two of them, and his quiet, “If you wouldn’t mind, of course.”
Yes, she minded.
She wasn’t his.
Nor was she a maid.
Vanna still smiled. “Sure.”
The men had no issue with discussing business while the women milled about, even a few of the wives of other men attending the dinner. So was the Camorra way—not entirely unheard of for a woman to control, or even head, the family should the time call for it. That didn’t mean women weren’t highly controlled in the Camorra, because they were.
Far too much.
Women were held to a far higher standard than any man. And things a woman would be punished—or even killed for—a man would be praised for doing the same. Funny how that worked, except it wasn’t really funny at all.
Vanna listened to their conversation as she helped to clean the table, and then proceeded to load dishes into the dishwasher. Gemma barely spoke to her at all, but that wasn’t anything unusual. The woman never held much affection or care for Vanna, even when she agreed to bring her into the home after her father’s death.
She didn’t take offense.
It wasn’t personal.
It just was.
After they brought the drinks to the table, Vanna excused herself to the kitchen to finish cleaning, even though there wasn’t much left to do, if anything at all. She busied herself with wiping down the counters while watching through the entryway.
Occasionally, Mario would look her way, but mostly, he watched his father, and engaged in the conversation at the table. A little king in waiting, or so he thought. She used to think his strange infatuation with her would die once he figured out she didn’t feel the same, but if anything, the man seemed determine to prove she would someday be sitting at his side at the table with the rest of them.
Vanna didn’t think so.
But one thing at a time.
She had other shit to focus on right now.
Finishing her work in the kitchen, Vanna washed her hands as a familiar ding echoed. She darted for her purse to find the phone hidden inside and checked the screen to see the contact that lit up the ribbon with a text.
It was an unknown number, but the text explained it clearly enough. Bene.
Vanna smiled.
Well, well, well …
Hey, it’s Bene. You free tonight?
That’s all his text read.
She shouldn’t leave the Detti home yet.
She had other things to do.
And yet, the vendetta …
That man.
Those thoughts warred. She needed more on the Guzzi family to have anything useable to ruin them, and nothing she had now would work. That much had been confirmed by the man who received her initial findings from Bene’s place. Not to mention, she would be a damn liar if she said she hadn’t thought about Bene a lot in the last couple of weeks. It was memories of him that helped her find relief in too-hot showers with only her hand between her thighs.
Vanna didn’t hesitate to reply, I can be—give me a time and place, we’ll meet up.
That was that.
Vanna stepped out of the cab to find Bene leaning against the brown brick of a small bar that wasn’t very far away from his place. “Was that intentional?”
He arched a brow. “Pardon?”
“Did you get me over here so that we were closer to your place when the night is over?”
A laugh answered her back.
And damn.
The man looked sexy doing it.
She took a moment to admire the leather jacket and dark-wash jeans he’d thrown on that fit perfectly to his strong thighs, and the tall, dark, and handsome appeal of the rest of him. Everything about this man seemed to be dangerous for her body, considering the only thing she seemed to feel around him was the strongest lust of her life.
It made things hard.
“Nope,” Bene eventually said, pushing off the wall to step closer to her, “it’s just the only place I like to play pool, and it happens to be close to my neighborhood.”
“Mmhmm.”
“Not your scene?”
Vanna eyed the entrance to the bar, taking in the gold detailing around the doors, and the sign hanging above. “Not really, but if you can make it fun …”
Bene grinned. “I can make anything fun.”
“Oh?”
“That a challenge?”
He was a lot closer now.
Just a foot away.
In a blink, before she had even been able to take in a breath, he closed the distance between them. One of his arms wrapped around her back, hugging the loose fabric of her t-shirt tight to her body as he dragged her into him. His head tipped down, and those smirking, sexy lips of his met hers.
The kiss was soft at first.
Seeking.
Testing.
And then he found it.
The answer she gave back to him—the way her lips parted for him to get that taste. She didn’t even think about it, simply wanted to have him kissing her because she swore no one ever kissed like this man did, and she wanted more of it.
Even if a part of her still hated him because of the people he came from, and the last name he sported. It didn’t matter. A kiss wouldn’t have her handing over her heart to him—surely not. She had more self control than that, didn’t she?
Well, it was hard to say.
And she didn’t have a proper answer when he was still kissing her like he was. As though he couldn’t get enough of the way her lips worked against his, and how she was more than willing to let him dominate her with a kiss on a sidewalk in the middle of a city where anyone could see.
Fuck anyone else.
They could look.
She was still getting hers.
All too soon for her liking, Bene pulled away, that smirk still playing at the edges of his lips while his dark eyes looked her over. My God. His face was just as bad for her body as the rest of him, honestly.
“Was that too much?” he asked.
Vanna grinned. “Why would it be?”
“I didn’t ask first.”
“You don’t have to ask.”
“I should, though.”
Vanna shrugged. “I wouldn’t have come tonight if I didn’t plan on having fun, Bene.”
“Good to know. Do you play pool?”
“A few times. I’m sure you’re better at it than me, though.”
He chuckled. “I’ll let you whoop my ass, if you let me take a bite of yours later.”
Yeah.
Hell.
That’s where she was going. Straight to hell. Because a part of her liked this man. Another part hated him. She was making him like her, too. And yet, she would also ruin him when her plans finally came together.
Vanna pushed those thoughts away.
At least, for now.
Pushing up to her tiptoes, she kissed him and winked. “That sounds like a deal.”
Vanna leaned over the pool table, feeling Bene’s gaze firmly stuck to the way her pert ass lifted a bit over the wood edge as she readied on her next—and hopefully, final—shot. He was such an ass man, and she didn’t mind using that to her advantage while playing this game of theirs. After all, she’d just used his attention to her ass to her benefit for his last shot, making him miss to give her the next round which left her with one final ball to sink.
“Eight ball to the far right,” she said, “and that’s game.”
Before Bene could reply, Vanna took her shot, easily sinking the eight ball into the pocket she called. He let out a low whistle behind her as she stood from her leaning position, resting the pool cue to the floor as she stayed looking over the table still scattered with Bene’s solid-colored balls.
“Played pool a few times—wasn’t that what you told me?”
Vanna laughed lightly, the sounds of the bar fading in the background as she spun around to face Bene. His heated gaze met hers, and she couldn’t help but grin. “There was a billiards table in my father’s basement. Apparently, he used to play a lot when he was younger, and instead of getting rid of it, it just found its way into the basement. He taught me how to play, and a few tricks. We used to play a couple of times a week.”
Bene’s stare softened, and she saw that dawning flash across his face as he leaned forward a bit on the pool cue. “Used to, huh?”
Shit.
“Yeah,” she said, knowing she should lie but finding that she didn’t want to, “my dad passed away just before I turned sixteen. I buried him on my birthday.”
“That must have been hard on you and your m—”
“Don’t have a mom.”
Her tone came out clipped, and a little strained, despite the fact that she tried to hide it. It was almost impossible for her not to have that reaction when it came to talking about her estranged—missing, too, because she had no idea where the bitch was—mother. It wasn’t Bene, and it definitely wasn’t fucking personal to him. It just was.
Bene’s brow lifted high. “Sorry.”