“Charlotte!” She braced herself for Jenna’s recriminations, but the other woman hurried toward her from across the kitchen, enveloping Charlotte in a hug. After a few seconds, Jenna leaned back, studying Charlotte’s face. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay,” she said.
Jenna pulled back a lock of Charlotte’s hair, her eyes taking in the cut at the top of her forehead. “Does it hurt?”
Charlotte thought about lying, then thought better of it. “Not as much as everything else,” she said, tears leaking from her eyes.
“Oh, Charlotte…” Jenna guided her to a chair in the kitchen. “You poor dear.”
Isabel put a cup of coffee in front of her and Charlotte took a sip, more to distract her from the fuss she was making than because she had the stomach for it.
“I’m sorry,” Charlotte said, wiping the tears from her face. “I have no right to cry.”
Angel set Stella down. Stella toddled over to Lily, obviously enamored with the older girl. Angel claimed the chair next to Charlotte, then took her hand.
“You have every right.”
Charlotte shook her head. “It was my fault. If I hadn’t wanted to leave - ”
“Stop that now,” Jenna said from across the table. “The only person to blame for Julien’s death is Raneiro Donati. Don’t you dare take an inch of it on yourself.”
Isabel spoke angrily in Spanish, and Jenna sat up straighter. “I have no idea what she said, but I agree.”
Charlotte laughed through her tears.
“It’s what we do,” Isabel said in English. Something dark crossed over her eyes. “We take the blame. We assume responsibility. Everything is our fault. I did it for a long time. No more.”
“Let’s put on your sweater,” Mrs. Pendleton said to Lily. “Then you can go out and play with Sophia and Lessa.”
“I don’t want a sweater,” Lily proclaimed.
Jenna picked a bundle of yellow knit from the back of a chair and bent down to her daughter’s level. “You must wear a sweater, love. Look, even little Stella has a sweater.”
Lily grudgingly allowed Jenna to wrestle her into the sweater. When she was done, Jenna turned to Mrs. Pendleton. “Will you keep an eye on them outside?’ she asked. “I think they were going to help Ernesto with hay in the barn, god help him.”
“Of course.” Mrs. Pendleton reached for Lily’s hand, then scooped up Stella. “Come along now. Sophia and Lessa will be waiting for us.”
They left through the terrace doors, and Angel looked wistfully after them.
“I’m not used to having her gone,” she said. “In Thailand I’m with her constantly. I suppose it’s not very healthy.”
“There’s nothing wrong with spending a lot of time with your child,” Jenna said, setting a fresh cup of coffee down in front of her. “And there’s nothing wrong with spending time without her either.”
Angel laughed. “I’ll try to remember that.”
“Let’s go onto the terrace and sit in the sun,” Jenna said. “It will do us all good.”
“I think we might need something stronger than coffee,” Isabel said.
“I like the way you think,” Jenna said, moving to a wine cooler against the wall. She removed a bottle and held it up. “Will mimosas do the trick?”
“They will do nicely,” Isabel said.
“I second that,” said Angel.
Charlotte allowed herself to be carried on the current of camaraderie as they settled onto the terrace. The air was slightly cool but the sun was high overhead, still strong enough to warm her skin as she tipped her face to soak up its rays.
She didn’t know what was coming. She didn’t know what would happen to Christophe in New York or what would become of them when he returned. But she knew she loved him, and she knew that love was returned. She felt it even here, among the women who were quickly beginning to feel like family. Amid Jenna’s raucous laughter and the curse words Isabel taught them in Spanish. In the gentleness of Angel’s gaze, the strength Charlotte sensed behind her peaceful exterior.
She’d heard stories, knew they'd all lost something. But they were here, proving that life somehow always goes on. They would find their way together, and for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel alone.
33
“Before we get started, there’s something we have to work out,” Nico said.
They were back in the study to make their final preparations for New York. Nico had gotten word back from his sources, and while he hadn’t shared the information with them yet, they’d been told that New York was a go.
“I’m assuming there’s a lot to work out,” Farrell said.
Nico’s eyes flashed with annoyance, and Christophe had a flash of the leader he must have been. “It’s about the women,” he said. “Someone has to stay.”
“I agree,” Farrell said. “I’ve added eight new guards since the shooting, and we have 24/7 surveillance on all the security cameras, but I’m not going to rest easy unless we have someone with a personal stake in all of this.”
“I’ll stay,” Luca said.
They all looked at him in surprise. Staying was a sacrifice. Satisfaction was in the battle to take down Raneiro. To make him pay for all that he’d done. To Nico and Angel. To Christophe and Charlotte. To Julien.
“You’re volunteering to stay?” Nico asked.
“I am.”
Luca had been Nico’s Underboss in New York and had been on the front lines of Nico’s war with Raneiro when he’d met Angel. He had a long history with the Vitale family, but Christophe was still surprised by his offer to stay.
“I’ll stay, too,” Leo said.
He looked at Farrell, and a moment of understanding seemed to pass between them. Then Christophe understood; Leo would stay for Farrell.
To protect Jenna and Lily.
“Thank you,” Farrell said.
Leo nodded.
“Okay,” Nico said. “Luca and Leo stay to protect the women. The rest of us go to New York.” He handed out briefing packets to everyone as he continued. “I cross-referenced the attacks in London, Paris, and New York, trying to find a pattern that would lead us to Raneiro’s next move. Once it was all laid out, it wasn’t hard to decipher. I’m sure you see what I mean.”
“They’re working bottom-up,” Christophe said, scanning the report. “Taking out low-level operations and street informants and moving their way up to contacts in law enforcement and in the government.”
“Exactly,” Nico said. “It makes sense. Disrupting operations at the day-to-day level wouldn’t be difficult or expensive. By the time they got to Farrell’s sources inside the London PD and your high-level sources inside Paris, you were already scrambling to recover your losses.”
“So where does that leave us in New York?” Farrell asked.
Luca turned the page. “With Mario Parisi.”
“That’s right,” Nico said.
“The mayor of New York City?” Farrell asked.
Nico nodded. “The one and only.”
“Do we know when?” Christophe asked.
“Word is that it’ll be the night of the Mayor’s Gala.”
“Isn’t that Friday?” Luca asked.
“It is.”
“Four days,” Farrell said. “That’s going to be tight.”
“We don’t have a choice,” Nico said. “If we want Raneiro, that’s where we get him.”
“How do we know he’ll be there?” Christophe asked.
“We don’t,” Nico said. “But I know Raneiro, and he likes to gloat, especially when it counts. Taking down Parisi will be the final nail in our coffin. The three territories that were the crown jewels — and the biggest money makers — of the Syndicate will be sufficiently weakened to be taken over. My hunch is that he’ll want to be there.”
“Do we even know for sure that he’s in the city?” Luca asked.
“That’s been confirmed,” Nico said. “After they take out Parisi, R
aneiro will claim New York as his new headquarters.”
Christophe understood the fresh bitterness in Nico’s voice; New York was one of the few territories in the Syndicate that had been a true family business. It had belonged to the Vitales for decades. It wouldn’t be easy for Nico to let it fall into the hands of someone like Raneiro. Someone who’d almost killed his wife and daughter. It wasn’t just business. It was personal. A matter of honor.
“So we wait for them to come to the mayor’s mansion, then take them out,” Farrell said.
“That’s right,” Nico said.
“What about Kane?” Leo asked. “Will he help you?”
“I’m working it,” Nico said.
Luca whistled under his breath. “It’s going to be tough going without the Feds.”
“I know.” Nico’s face was stony. “He’ll come around.”
“What about our gear?” Farrell said.
“I still have some contacts at LaGuardia,” Nico said. “We can get it in, and I’ve already arranged for Marco and Elia to meet us there. They’ll be well equipped.”
“I’ll need to travel separately,” Christophe said. “I’ll meet you there.”
Nico looked at him. “Why?”
Christophe forced his voice steady. “I have to see to Julien.”
“We’ll all see to Julien,” Nico said firmly. “If we leave tomorrow, we’ll have plenty of time.”
Christophe nodded, his throat tight. “Thank you.”
“Any other questions or concerns?” Nico looked around the room. No one spoke. “Good. Be ready to go at seven am.” He hesitated. “And make sure your financial provisions are in order for the women and children before we leave.”
Christophe rose to go, Nico’s words echoing in his mind, their meaning clear; they should have arrangements made in the event of their deaths.
Because they might not all be coming back.
34
The children were already sleepy by the time Ernesto pulled out his guitar. The night was cold, and they’d opted to have dinner in the cavernous dining room instead of on the terrace. It was a different kind of celebration, one marked by the melancholy of imminent goodbyes. Even the children had been calmer, and Charlotte had watched as little Stella picked up pasta with her chubby hands, Sophia, Lessa, and Anthony giggling quietly between bites.
Now the candles had burned low, the last of the wine poured as Ernesto began strumming. Stella was fast asleep against Nico’s chest, her rosebud mouth open as she breathed, seemingly in another world. Nico’s arm was draped possessively over Angel’s chair, her body angled toward him as they listened to Ernesto sing. It was something Charlotte had noticed about them: the way they turned toward each other when they were in the same room, even when apart, their bodies seeking each other out like animals with a sixth sense.
Mrs. Pendleton had taken the older children upstairs to bed, and Farrell had pulled Jenna into his lap to listen. She sat balanced on his strong thighs, her long hair cascading down his shoulder, his big arms wrapped around her waist. They always seemed to be touching each other, even in passing, their bodies like two magnets that always found their way home.
Isabel sat quietly next to Luca, her dark eyes shimmering in the candlelight.They were always so at ease in each other’s company. Charlotte had heard that Isabel was the daughter of a drug lord and that Luca had saved her from an abusive brother. She wondered if that was the source of the steel she caught in Isabel’s voice from time to time. She had the air of a quiet fighter, a perfect match for Luca’s gentle strength.
Christophe reached for her hand under the table, brought it to his knee. She felt the muscular platform of his thigh under their joined hands, imagined his body moving over hers. Her blood seemed to quicken in her veins as warmth spread between her thighs. She never seemed to get enough of him, but now the call of his body was urgent, his impending departure looming like a guillotine over their future.
Ernesto finished his strumming, the notes lingering in the fragrant air of the dining room. He said his goodnights and ducked out of the dining room.
Charlotte looked around the table as everyone was roused from their state of post-dinner lethargy, standing and stretching as they said goodnight and made their way upstairs. Then she was alone with Christophe, the candles flickering across his strong face.
He stood, pulling her to her feet and wrapping his arms around her waist. “I don’t want to leave you.”
She put her fingers against his mouth as she sank into the familiar plane of his body. “Let’s not talk about it. We still have tonight.”
HIs eyes darkened. “We do.”
She pressed her body against him, touched her mouth to his, slipped her tongue inside its warmth. She felt the press of his erection against her belly as she pulled away. “Then take me to bed, darling. I can’t wait any longer.”
He swept her into his arms and headed for the stairs.
35
A fire was crackling in the hearth when they entered the darkened bedroom, the air fragrant with scorched wood and rosemary. Christophe held her gaze as he slammed the door shut with his foot, then crossed the room. He set her next to the bed and stood looking down at her for a long moment.
She reached a hand up to his face, touched the remnants of the bruise under his eye, traced a path down to the almost-healed cut on his lip. He captured her hand with his, closed his eyes as he pressed his lips to her palm. Then he put her arms around his neck.
She was stretched out the length of him, every ridge of his body against the softness of her own as he slid his hands into the hair at the back of her head. He tugged, and she gasped as he revealed her throat to him, a white-hot pulse of pleasure shooting between her legs.
He hesitated, his eyes liquid as he looked down at her, like he was trying to memorize her face. Then he lowered his mouth, pressed his lips against the sensitive skin of her neck. It was like a brand, the warmth of his mouth sending a current of electricity crackling like lightning along her nerve endings.
She closed her eyes, let her head fall back against his hands as he touched his tongue to her skin, kissed a path up to her jaw, moved slowly over to her mouth. He left kisses at the corners of her mouth before parting her lips with his tongue.
It was like touching a match to jet fuel. She felt the wash of it through her body, a ravenous fire rippling under her skin. She opened herself to him as he angled his mouth over hers, his tongue sweeping and sparring like every corner was undiscovered.
Like he wanted to remember what it was like to kiss her.
The room spun around her as she lost herself to him. There was nothing but the press of his body against hers, his mouth an invading force on her own, his hands moving down her neck, over her shoulders, slipping her cardigan off her shoulders, revealing bare arms under the sleeveless dress she’d chosen for dinner.
He kissed his way down her neck as he undid the tiny buttons at the front of the dress. She cradled his head in her hands, his hair like silk in her fingers as he revealed her bra. He nipped at the rigid peak of her nipple through the black lace, the warmth of his mouth all the more erotic for the fact that it was tempered by the fabric between them.
She sighed, wanting more of him, wanting to remove every barrier between them. She wanted his bare skin sliding on hers, the pressure of his cock between her legs, his muscled ass under her hands.
He peeled back her bra and closed his hand around one of her breasts before lowering his mouth to the other one. The pull of her nipple into his mouth sent a shock wave through her body. She moaned, sinking into it as he sucked, then pulled back long enough to nibble at it before closing his mouth around it again.
He took his other hand off her other breast and let it travel down her body, lifting the skirt of her dress and slipping his hand down the flat of her stomach, inside her panties where she was already soaked for him. She gasped as he moved past her clit, his fingers sliding between her folds.
“Fu
ck you’re wet, Charlotte,” he said against her skin. “You’re so wet for me.”
She tugged at his hair until he looked up at her. “I’m always wet for you.”
He slipped his fingers inside her as he dove back into her mouth, his tongue sliding against hers in sensual, languid movements while she rocked her hips against his fingers.
She slid one hand down his body, pressed it against his bulging cock. The feel of it under her palm sent a fresh wave of wetness rushing between her legs, and she reached for the button on his pants, desperate to feel his shaft in her hand.
“Not yet,” he said against her mouth. “I’m going to taste you first. And I want you naked.”
He slid the dress off her shoulders, unclasped her bra so that she was standing before him in nothing but her wet panties. Then he pushed her gently onto the edge of the bed and ripped them off.
She propped herself up on her elbows as he knelt between her legs, spreading them wide. He ran his fingers through the petals of her sex, his face full of awe.
“You’re so fucking beautiful, Charlotte. The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
He pressed his lips to the inside of her thigh and licked a path toward the cleft between her legs. When he reached it, he pressed back on the folds around her clit, exposing the engorged seed. A split second later he was closing his mouth around it.
She moaned, arching her back as her hips came up off the bed. He used one of his hands to press against her stomach, keeping her in place while he worked it with his tongue, alternately sucking and lapping. She rocked with him, grinding against his mouth as he slid his fingers inside her, moving them in time to her rhythm while he covered her clit with the flat of his tongue.
She was already climbing for the orgasm when she felt the tip of his finger slide into her ass. It was overwhelmingly erotic: the gentle pressure against her perineum working with the invasion of his fingers and the heat of his mouth in a perfect storm of pleasure.
Rule: Paris Mob Book Three Page 13