“Wait,” she says when I reach for the door. “Let’s just sit here for a second.”
“All right.” That’s fine with me. I’m in no hurry to present Vito with his drunk daughter.
I roll down the windows and breathe in the scent of freshly mown grass. The heat clinging to my skin and the heady scent of summer relaxes me. Fireflies dance on the lawn and Eva watches them. A smile curves her lips and I admire that—a woman who takes pleasure in the simple things. I thought she’d be a pain in the ass, to be honest. A high-maintenance princess. Eva turned out to be anything but, even though she has an overprotective dad. She’s been nothing but polite with me—well, until tonight.
Eva opens the passenger door and steps outside before I can reach it. I hurry to her side.
She hiccups, smiling broadly. “Relax. I’m much better.”
The slurring in her voice is gone. Good. “Ready to go inside?”
Her fingers tiptoe up my chest, tracing my collarbones. “Only if you tuck me into bed.”
I can’t take more of this. My self-control is whittled down to a thread. She keeps picking at it. “Eva.”
My lips blaze as she silences me with a finger. “I’m not trying to be a brat.”
“You are being one.” She plays with my lips. I fight the urge to bite her. “I’d bend you over my knee and spank you if I could.”
Her cheeks flood with color. “Sébastien.”
“Don’t play innocent. You’ve been revving me up all night.”
“The others know not to lose their cool in front of me.” She smiles. “You’re so different.”
“I’ll lose even more than that if you keep touching me.”
She shrugs, looking at me dead center. “What’s stopping us?”
Blood pounds in my head as I try to summon a coherent answer. “Your dad is in that house. Waiting for you.”
Get her to the door before you throw her into the car.
If she touches me another goddamn time, I’ll break. “Eva, come on. Let’s go inside.”
It happens in seconds. She buries her fingers in my hair. Her breath warms my lips, and the last thread of resistance tears away. I kiss her, giving in to my every impulse. I tighten my grip on her waist. Her back hits my car. She lets out a gasp of surprise as my mouth crashes against hers. I imagined this, but never the thrill running up my spine. Not the feverish lust pounding through my veins. Or her hands groping my ass—my cock.
I break away from her lips, yanking the dress that teased me all night. Her creamy tits are bitten with cold. I grope her as she rakes her nails down my neck. “Is this what you fucking want?”
“Yes.”
I shouldn’t do this. It’s fucking crazy.
My lips seal over her breast, and I suck her into my mouth, biting hard enough to make her yelp. She moans when my tongue heats her skin.
He can see you, moron.
I stop, lifting my head. My deep breaths hit her wet skin, which puckers with goose bumps.
Her eyes flutter. “Jesus, Bastien.”
I hate her for making me lose control. “One of these days you’ll get what you wish for.”
I release her, and she stares at me in wide-eyed shock. Fuck, I didn’t mean to scare her. I just— I don’t know what I wanted.
The front door to the house opens, light spilling into the darkness.
Vito stands in the doorway. “What the hell is going on?
Chapter Two
Sébastien
Light pools onto the lawn. It’s a balmy night, but the boss steps outside in a bulky sweater and khaki shorts. He stands at an average height with a faded tattoo of an Italian flag on his left leg. A bowl of white hair used to cover his head, but he went bald with the cancer treatments. When I met him he was as strong as a bull with a robust chest and a deep laugh. Took six months for the disease to strip the fat from his bones and make clothes droop on his frame. I’ve seen the bruises on his thin arms. I don’t know how the hell he’s on two feet. Maybe he keeps his heart alive by pure spite. His accusing stare is like a hand around my throat.
You fucked up.
The throaty voice echoes in my head. It’s a grittier version of my own. The man I created—Bastien—needed to be ruthless. Badass. He’s every evil thought I ever had dragged from a dark corner of my mind.
He saw you.
“Hi, Dad!” Eva’s smile disarms him as she walks to the door, squeezing his arm in an affectionate gesture. All trace of drunkenness vanishes. “Everything’s fine. We just got back.”
“Get inside,” he barks.
Eva keeps her head down as she obeys, shooting me a nervous look over her shoulder. I shove my hands deep in my pockets and follow her. It’s a decently sized place, and it might’ve been nice at one point, but it’s fallen into disrepair. Not very glamorous, though I hear the other boss has a mansion. Guess Vito pissed away his savings. The wallpaper frays in a few rooms and the floors need a good sanding. Jesus Christ, is this what a lifetime of this work leads to? Two threadbare couches and moth-eaten afghans?
I imagine Eva living in this house alone after her dad passes. Sweeping the dust and replacing the peeling paper. She’s probably done everything she can to liven it up. I catch glimpses of her touch. A colorful throw draped over a couch here, a decorative pillow there. The whole place desperately needs a remodel, but Vito doesn’t have the money.
She follows the runner carpet to a closet down the hall and slips out of her heels. Smiling, she kisses her father on both cheeks. “I’m going to bed,” Eva says, waving at me. “Night!”
“See you.”
“Goodnight, sweetheart,” Vito says. He watches his daughter climb the groaning stairs with a tired smile and gestures for me to join him in the office. Vito clasps his hands as he leads me into a room filled with books. Self-help volumes, dog-eared health tomes, and a stack of pamphlets sit on his leather desk. Living with Cancer, This Is Cancer, Dealing with the Emotional Toll of Cancer, and World Without Cancer. Multicolored notes stick from the pages.
Vito sits with a heavy sigh, noticing my gaze. “Eva believes if she reads enough books, she’ll find a way to cure me.”
He laughs bitterly. Vito strikes such a powerful figure it’s hard to imagine him dying, and yet I recognize defeat. I’ve seen that shrunken look in men, and it never bodes well.
“How is it?”
“Bad,” he says. “I will not last another six months.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
He sets his mouth in a grim line. “So am I. Have a seat, Seb.”
Shit. I recognize that tone.
I sit. “Your daughter seemed upset tonight.”
“It’s been hard for her. She wasn’t too close with Marc, but still.”
“Any word on who’s responsible?” I ask.
He frowns. “None.”
I cross my legs. “Is Johnny behind it?”
Weakness draws predators. The other boss in Montreal, Johnny Cravotta, could’ve sensed the family was dying. Decided to clean up his city. Would be typical for him.
Vito shakes his head. “Not his style.”
We discuss retribution for Marc’s death. Who’ll handle it. I volunteer to help because morale is low. The assassination came after Naz got into a turf dispute with the Legion MC and lost. They’re picking us off one by one.
“We’ll find whoever’s responsible and make sure they pay.”
Another sharp sigh. And then his gaze centers on me. “I saw you with Eva.”
I can’t read anything from his face. My nails dig into the armrests.
“You put your hands on my daughter,” he says in a grave voice.
I’m dead. “Sorry.”
“I asked you to show her a good time.” He leans over the table. “Not manhandle her.”
Fucking beg for your life, moron. “I don’t know what to say.”
“How about you’re a miserable prick and I should cave your face in?”
“We went out for
drinks. Both of us had too much. That’s it.”
He falls into his chair, his smile predatory. “Fuck you.”
“She’s a beautiful woman, Vito. I’m sorry.”
I’ve never pissed off Vito. Fuck me. I could die because I lost my damn mind and licked his daughter’s tits. What the hell was I thinking? It comes down to this: whether the boss will grant me a reprieve or take the sidearm he hides under the desk and kill me.
Vito sighs. “It’s a good thing I’m not in a mood to break your arm.”
It’s a ruse. “I swear to God, I meant no offense.”
“Are you interested in my daughter?”
What should I say? “She seems amazing.”
“That’s not an answer to my question.”
“I’ve never talked to her until today, but yeah. She’s definitely—well—she’s beautiful.”
“Look, Bastien. I won’t beat around the bush. I’m asking because I want to see Eva married to a good man. Someone I get along with. You’re Italian. In the past, you’ve always been respectful. And I think Eva would like you, too.”
Holy fuck. “Not sure I follow.”
“Marry my daughter.”
For a moment ringing fills my ears. Marry his daughter?
“I realize I have no right to ask,” he tacks on in a hurry. “This is not a demand from your boss. I’m asking you as a favor to a dying father. Please.”
“All due respect, Vito, that’s a huge request.”
“I know, but I’m thinking of her. My daughter’s thirty-three and alone because of me. You don’t understand how much that hurts me. All she wants is a family. If you’re interested, and she is, why not?”
It’s a bad idea on so many levels. My mouth snaps shut and opens again. “Because I might be a piece of shit to your daughter.”
“No,” he says quickly. “You’re a good man. I’ve watched you for six months. You’re not like the others.” His face crumples. “I’m sick, not delusional. This family won’t last.”
“That’s not true—”
“We don’t have the strength to survive a war. Making my daughter happy is more important than anything else.”
I stand, heart hammering against my chest. “I’ll think about it.”
Jesus Christ, he wants me to marry his daughter, Eva Romano. The princess and the soldier. A match made in Heaven. One fatal flaw lies with Vito’s plan.
I’m a fucking cop.
Chapter Three
Eva
What happened?
Last night is a blank page. The only memento comes as a pounding headache, a reminder I need to dig my heels in and slow the hell down.
My eyes crack open to the white popcorn ceiling I loathe. Everything in this dated shit hole reminds me how trapped I am in the cell I built for myself. It was all to take better care of my father. I wanted to do it. Gave up my life so I could drive my dad to his doctor appointments when he had a flare up. Helping him felt good until it didn’t. Somewhere along the line, my patience ground into dust.
Before he got sick, I had dreams. Lots of them. I was studying to become a nurse. It was a fast track to a high-demand job with steady income and away from my dependence on Dad. I used to fantasize about cooking for a man other than Daddy, or, hell, being served for once. I wanted to change this place. Popcorn ceilings are dated, and if my father hadn’t been so bad with money, we could’ve remodeled this disaster a long time ago.
Now I’m thirty-three, and my ambition is dried up. I don’t give a damn if I never have a career. No, all I care about is raising a family. Good thing my last hope for that is dead.
I bat the thought aside like a hand to an irritating fly. Pain fills my head, radiating from my temples. Groaning, I peel back the covers and pad toward the shower attached to my room. A broken tile slides under my feet. I slip and grab the sink. Then I glance at the mirror.
Holy hell. What’s that?
A light-purple shadow dusts a spot on my chest, right over my breast. I examine it closer, studying the tiny marks forming a circle.
That’s a fucking bite!
Red patches rise in my cheeks as I stare at the offensive mark. Good Lord. How fucked up was I last night that I don’t remember someone’s mouth on my tits? I am losing control, and it’s unacceptable. Embarrassing. I’m not a twenty-year-old kid anymore.
Stumbling into the shower, I turn the nozzle and let the water blast my head. Warmth trickles down my body. A vivid image of Sébastien burns against my lids. His lips curl into a feline smirk, and his hands grip my neck, and then his tongue strokes my skin. He bites down.
Jesus.
It was him. The silent, handsome soldier dogging me this last week. He kissed me. And I loved it. I can still taste him swirling in my mouth.
Who the hell is he? How did it happen?
I grab my head, straining in the heat of the rising steam to remember, but only fragments come back. Desire swirls where he licked me. He held me upright.
My heart pounds. Way faster than it should.
More details flood my memory, like how his cologne wrapped around me in a seductive cloud of oak and gunpowder. His wicked smile—the timbre of his voice. Bits and pieces of our conversation return. Bastien was like sunshine. He warmed my skin. My cheeks burn as though there’s a fire, and then it extinguishes. Shame takes root deep inside.
Marc’s gone.
There should be more horror suffocating my chest, but what I feel when I think of my dead ex is the same as when they lowered Marc’s coffin into the ground. Anger for the men who killed him, and grim resignation for myself. As long as my father is remembered as a Mafia boss, I’ll be alone. Having a family isn’t in my future.
I stopped going to baby showers a while ago, and the invitations died down as my friends get older. Whenever one pops up in my email, I come up with a nice excuse. I couldn’t take the constant talk about their kids, knowing I’ll have none of my own. It was gutting. I’d go home, cry my eyes out, and try to forget that there’s no escaping it.
Every day I scroll through my Facebook feed. My thumb flicks up, and photos splash across my iPhone’s screen. Pictures of babies. My friends’ expecting announcements. Professional shots of little Benjamin dressed as a watermelon. Happy families. I click unfollow until all that’s left are ads. Somehow there’s always more. It hurts to have them sprung on me, and I should just delete my damn account, but I don’t want to lose the privileged sight of what it could have been for me.
No one understands what this is like. I know what I’m supposed to be. Since I was a kid, I wanted to be a mom. Marc would fulfill that void. I didn’t love him. There wasn’t any time to grow something deeper, but I had the rest of my life planned out. We talked about it, and I was excited.
The handle squeaks as I twist it shut. Water drips onto my head, and I wring out my hair. A heavy white towel sits on the toilet seat. I grab it and dry myself. Climbing into bed and sleeping off this hangover sounds awesome, but I can’t do it. Dad mentioned there’d be another meeting at the house, and it’s already noon. The slimy bastards will need plenty of food. Good thing I’m always here to play maid. At least I’ll be able to corner Bastien and ask him what the hell happened last night.
I get dressed in a hurry, selecting a pair of blue jeans and a long-sleeved shirt that hides the bruise. Thank God I spotted it before Dad did. He’d be after Bastien with a shotgun as soon as he saw it.
I head toward the kitchen, grab two butcher paper rolls of cold cuts, and assemble them on a tray. I slice a red bell pepper, some cheese, and arrange them next to the crackers. Then I yank open the wine fridge and pull out a bottle from the last drawer.
Guests filter through the doors at three, when I’ve prepped enough hors d’oeuvres to feed an army. The floorboards creak with their weight, and the house fills with their voices. I stay out of the way even though Dad tries to avoid business at home because I don’t want to be involved in his world. Some news is unavoidable. I catch unpleasant
fragments when articles mention his name but stopped reading them a long time ago. When I see Romano, I click away to the next story. That’s not a failsafe, though. There’s always talk with the girls, the other wives in the family who love to revel in this shit—the stolen goods, the protection money, the heists.
I don’t approve of it.
Everything I have was bought with blood, and that sits heavy in my soul. I haven’t made peace with it, but I can’t just pick up and leave with my dad being sick. He’s all I have. I love him even though he’s not a good man, so I close my eyes to the terrible things he does because it’s easier.
I wish there was more than waiting for my turn to live.
Avoiding the voices in the kitchen, I walk into a room covered with books. The bookshelves are so old they sag under the weight. Two chairs sit by the fireplace, deep cracks running through the brown leather, yet another piece of furniture I need to replace. One of them is occupied. A man in slacks sits in a chair by the fire. I can’t see anything but the back of his head and the book cradled in his hands.
It’s a violation of what little privacy I have. First my dad babysits me because he thinks I’ll go off the rails. Now his goons are in my private space, leafing through my goddamn books. This is the one place that’s supposed to be mine.
I stand in the middle of my sanctuary, arms crossed. I expect him to turn around. He must be able to sense the waves of fury directed toward him. I cough. It’s a loud, fake sound that finally grabs his attention. He turns at the waist, and all the anger squeezes from my lungs.
Bastien.
Hot doesn’t begin to describe him. A golden tan covers his handsome face and arms. Thick, ebony hair broken with gray flows down his neck. A powerful chest hides behind a dark-blue button-up shirt. I know because I remember rolling my hands over his body, marveling at how hard his muscles were. Darkness follows him like wisps of smoke. He glances at me over the book he’s reading. Sun Tzu’s Art of War.
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