Mine (Citrione Crime Family #2)

by Penelope Bloom

  I turn and see that he has finished his phone call. “Yeah, actually. I did it in college for a few months.”

  “My little brother owns a restaurant called The Spot. Things are a little icy between us, but I know he’d give you a job if you told him I sent you,” says Vince.

  Aubriella gives him a warning glare. It’s husband and wife nonverbal communication, but I can pick up that he’s treading on dangerous ground right now.

  “I-I could…” I stammer, wanting the job, but not wanting to do anything to irritate Aubriella.

  “Vince,” says Aubriella through her teeth. “Callie is my friend.”

  Now it’s his turn to give her a warning look. “And she’s just going to be bartending at the restaurant. Nothing else. I promise. I’ll warn Damian to leave her alone.”

  She glares harder at him, if that’s possible. “Since when has Damian listened to anyone?”

  After a brief staring match, Vince turns to me with a reassuring smile. “The pay is great.”

  Who is Damian?

  The last two hours were a whirlwind of activity as the Aubriella got her kids ready for their vacation. I spent thirty minutes alone with her and a pair of drinks in their basement bar while Vince watched the kids for us. A few gallons of tears later and she knew the whole story. It felt good to get it all out, but talking about what happened is like scratching a mosquito bite; each time I give in and go back to it, I’m only making it worse, breaking the skin even deeper. God, I’m such a mess right now. I just want to put all this behind me and move on with my life. I want to start over. Hell, I could even go for some rebound sex. After a lifetime of the clinical procedures Greg called “making love”, I could use something real and passionate.

  Where did that thought come from? Am I still thinking about the guy at the gas station? Of course I am...besides being pissed at myself for not seeing that Greg was an asshole sooner, I have hardly been able to think about anything other than the man in the suit. Just remembering the power of his eyes is enough to give me chills.

  Maybe the next few weeks that I’ll be watching Aubriella’s house will be the perfect opportunity to reorganize my life and start moving on. It could be a chance to put Greg and all his stupid fucking coral colored shorts and polos behind me.

  Leaving Greg meant leaving my job and my financial security way behind though. I’m good at what I do, really good. I’ve launched ad campaigns that have saved struggling businesses and turned prosperous businesses into thriving ones. The only problem is Greg and his father are so connected that I’ll probably need to leave the country if I want to find a job after pissing them off. I had my own accounts, but I checked on my phone and Greg somehow managed to get them frozen. He probably thinks I’ll come crawling back and begging for money. Screw that. And screw him.

  1

  Damian

  I splash cold water on my face and look in the mirror. Fuck. There’s blood on my suit, and this shit didn’t come cheap. A bruise is forming beneath my eye, so dark it’s almost purple. I slam my fist on the sink so hard that the plaster holding it to the wall crumbles, spraying the ground with white dust. The lights in this place are like needles in my still aching head.

  Benny is slumped in the corner, tapping his sweaty head with the hilt of his .44 over and over. “Fuck man,” he says.

  “Get it together. We’re not stopping. I don’t give a shit what they say.”

  He looks up at me. He has a long face like a dog who has been kicked one too many times. Come to think of it, he’s got the personality of a dog, too. He’s not the smartest or the strongest guy I know, but you bet your ass he is loyal to a fault. “That could have gone bad.”

  “But it didn’t,” I snap. “I got scratched a few times, but we got what we came for, didn’t we?”

  “Scratches? He stabbed you! He fucking stabbed you!”

  Yeah, there is that. The pain is getting worse. It’s like someone has a hot poker beneath my armpit and they are just jamming it in there, twisting it around. I pull off my suit jacket and undershirt, tossing them on the ground. They’re ruined anyway. I look at the damage in the mirror. I didn’t have much to do in prison besides work out and plan. My body shows it. There's no fat on me, just slabs upon slabs of muscle that cast hard lines of shadow in the overhead lighting of the bathroom. There’s a thin red gash beneath my armpit and a long trail of blood soaking me all the way down to my slacks.

  I kneel and rip two strips free from my undershirt. I ball one up and press it to the wound, holding it in place by pinning my arm against it while I wrap the other strap around my broad chest and tie it off. It hurts like a motherfucker, but I don’t so much as flinch.

  “Benny,” I say. “You remember what we said when we decided to do this?”

  He lowers his head, tapping the barrel of his pistol against his scalp repeatedly.

  “I asked you a question.”

  “We said we’d go all the way or die trying.”

  “Exactly. Did we say we’d stop because one of us got stabbed? Did we say we’d stop because we had to make more bodies than we wanted along the way? No. We said we were going to bite and fucking claw our way to the revenge we deserve. We said we were going to bury them for what they did to us. I need to know if you’re still in this. Because if you’re not, I don’t care how long I’ve known you. I’ll find someone else. Do you understand me?”

  Benny looks up. I can’t tell if the look on his face is fear or determination, but he nods. “I’m with you.”

  I don’t bother putting my shirt back on before moving into the restaurant. After all, I own the fucking place.

  It’s early afternoon and the restaurant is mostly empty. The staff is changing over shifts. Servers are flipping tablecloths and sweeping beneath the tables. I glance to see if the bartenders are behind the counter because I could use a...holy shit.

  It’s her.

  The girl from the gas station. I don’t even bother to wonder what she’s doing here. All I know is she’s mine now. I feel a predatory smile spread over my lips. The stab wound can wait, I need to talk to her. Now.

  2

  Callie

  Five Minutes Earlier

  It’s four in the afternoon, just three hours since I caught Greg with that woman. Every time I close my eyes I see the discarded trail of clothes leading from the living room to the kitchen I found when I came home early. I didn’t call ahead to let him know I was coming like I normally would. I just drove, and I opened the front door as quietly as I could.

  I can still see the thin, smooth legs, and the way her glossy red stilettos dangled from well-manicured toes. I remember the way her legs shook every time he pounded into her on our kitchen table.

  Slap. Slap. Slap.

  I take a deep breath and push it all down. I’m standing outside a classic looking brick restaurant. It’s tucked between a dry cleaners and a laundromat in the small town of Pike’s Ward where Aubriella lives. A huge wave of what the hell am I doing washes over me. Shouldn’t I be lying on Aubriella’s couch, swimming in a sea of candy wrappers and tissues right about now? Maybe. But screw that. What Greg did makes me angry more than anything. I won’t be sad for him. I’m going to pick up the pieces of my life and move on.

  I don’t know how long bartending will last. I’m used to handling million-dollar marketing accounts for corporations, after all, but I know I need to do something. Aubriella practically begged me to get some sleep and start tomorrow, but that was the last thing I needed. I want to get my mind off of him, to do something physical and just forget.

  Vince said the dress code wasn’t strict, so I just wore one of the few outfits I grabbed on my way out: a black top with a deep V-neck and a pair of black yoga pants and black converse sneakers. Bartenders always seem to wear black, but I wonder if I subconsciously picked the outfit to suit my mood. Black and bitchy.

  I stand outside the restaurant and gather myself before stepping in. It’s called The Spot and it looks a little
run-down from the outside. Am I absolutely sure I want to do this? I can’t put my finger on it, but something deep in my chest tells me that my life is going to change once I step through those doors. I shake the nerves out of my hands and blow out a long breath. I don’t really want to do anything right now, except maybe find the Cosmic Brownie headquarters and gorge myself to death in the warm brownie mix. But I need to do something. I can feel how close I am to giving up. If I don’t keep moving and find something else to put my energy into, I could lose myself.

  I pull the heavy wooden door open and it creaks like a dying animal. The interior of the restaurant is surprisingly modern but elegant. The floor is some sort of light, unpolished wood and the walls are dark with patches of leather padding above the booths. Pictures of what look like the Italian countryside and vineyards adorn the walls. It’s exactly the kind of restaurant the Olive Garden tries so hard to look like, but never quite manages. I immediately like the place.

  A man behind the bar with a receding hairline nods to me and moves to lean his hairy forearms on the bar. He has a shrewd face, like he’s suspicious of me, but amused at the same time. “What’ll it be, beautiful?”

  I clear my throat quietly. “I’m actually here for a job. Vince Citrione said—”

  The man’s eyebrows climb his forehead and he straightens. “Of course, of course. Come on. I’ll grab Julia and she can start showing you the ropes. My names George, but they all call me Tubbs.”

  It’s mid-afternoon and the restaurant is largely deserted except for an elderly couple at the far end of the building and a lone man who is reading a newspaper and sipping coffee. So when the bathroom door bangs open and a shirtless man emerges, I notice. I notice real fast.

  My eyes go straight to his torso. It’s not the kind of body you get from spending hours in an air-conditioned gym using fancy machines. It’s a body made from hard work and conflict. Tattoos snake over his chest, arms, and back, begging to be looked at closer, to be traced with a slow fingertip. Or Tongue… One look at him and it’s clear that every muscle on his body has a purpose, and it serves that purpose with a brutal efficiency. It takes me an embarrassingly long time to notice that he has some kind of bandage tied to his side and it’s covered in blood. Then I see his face.

  It’s him.

  The man in the suit from the gas station. The predator. That’s what I’ve started thinking of him as, whether I realized it or not. It was in the way his eyes claimed me, the way he owned the space around him. That’s exactly what he is. He’s the predator, and I’m the prey. I saw it then and I see it now. Watching him walk is mesmerizing. There’s a perfect confidence in him, as if he’s at complete ease while simultaneously coiled and full of power, ready to strike out at any moment.

  His eyes find mine and he pauses mid-stride. The shadow of a smile crosses his face, but it’s gone so quickly I don’t know if I imagined it. He scans me from head to toe, taking extra time at my hips and tits, then his attention is gone and he’s striding toward the bar without a backward glance.

  The absence of his attention feels like being splashed with cold water. I feel breathless, momentarily empty. When the feeling passes I tell myself I’m being ridiculous. No matter how hot this guy is, he’s obviously bad news. It’s not like I would actually get along with a guy like him. It doesn’t take two looks to know that he and I are from different worlds. We’re different people. Maybe right now the last thing I want is to stay in my own world.

  “Sir,” says Tubbs. “You’re hurt.”

  The man looks down at the bloody wound below his arm and shrugs dismissively. “It’s nothing. Just get me a warm towel to wipe this shit off.”

  Tubbs starts to turn and then the shirtless man stops him with an outstretched hand.

  “No. Actually, I want her to get me the towel.”

  There’s a hint of an accent in the man’s voice that I find fascinatingly attractive. It’s not overpowering, not even present in every word he says, but it’s there. It’s a faint swirl of vowels and consonants, an exaggeration of certain sounds and an omission of others that makes his voice interesting and intensely sexy.

  I’m startled to be noticed again. Hell, I had almost forgotten I was in the room, too. I swallow hard. I don’t know what comes over me, but I’m speaking before I even think. “I’m a bartender, not a servant.”

  Tubbs sucks in a sharp breath. I can see his mouth hanging open from the corner of my eye.

  The shirtless man moves toward me in no hurry, making every step feel like a threat. His voice is low, barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the room like a thunderclap. “I asked for a towel.”

  Now my temper flares. I’ve been through enough shit without this asshole thinking he can order me around like a slave. Gorgeous or not, I’m one cheating ex-fiance beyond taking crap from anyone right now. “No. You told him that you wanted me to get you a towel. You didn’t ask me for a thing.”

  He bites his lip, eyes taking me in from head to toe. “What if I fire you for mouthing off?”

  My stomach clenches and I feel suddenly breathless. I look to Tubbs. “He can’t—can he?”

  Tubbs gives me a sad look. “That’s Damian Citrione you’re talking to, hun. He owns this place.” Something in his voice tells me that owning this restaurant is the least of the reasons I shouldn’t have spoken to him like that.

  I swallow my pride and turn to Damian, trying to ignore the sight of his ripped body only inches from mine. I don’t know why I suddenly care so much about keeping this job. Whether it’s to avoid having to tell Aubriella I got fired a few minutes after stepping in the door or because I want the distraction that bad—or if I just want an excuse to see him again. To see Damian again. “I’m sorry,” I say, the words like acid in my throat. I’m sorry that I might lose this job, but I’m not sorry I stood up to your rude ass. “Next time you treat me like a slave, I’ll obey without question.” I nearly wince. My words come out hard and dry, and I know I’m about to get fired for them.

  His face is stone, but there’s a hint of laughter in his eyes. “You’re sexy as hell when you’re pissed.”

  I bite down hard, fighting through a torrent of emotions: anger, arousal, fear. “You can’t talk to your employees like that. It’s totally inappropriate.”

  A smirk splits his face and the flash of his white, perfect teeth is too much. He’s drop-dead gorgeous and I hate him for it. “Inappropriate? Yes. You could say the things I would do to you are inappropriate.”

  That slight accent is doing all the wrong things to me. I inhale through my nose, holding back my anger as I move behind the bar, find a towel, and run cold water over it. I don’t even care if it’s a clean rag. I stomp back toward Damian and hold the rag out to him, planting my other hand on my hip as I wait for him to take it. I’m one wrong word away from walking out of this place and doing my best to apologize to Aubriella and Vince. Then again, I know if I walk away right now I’ll never stop thinking about this guy. Asshole or not, his eyes promise endless hours of steaming passion like I’ve never felt before..

  He takes my hand and presses it to his side. His palm is warm against mine, sending liquid heat coursing through my veins. I know that his hard body is only separated from my hand by the thin, wet cloth and it’s making my muscles feel as soft as butter. A brief mental image of him ordering me to bend over one of the barstools while he prowls behind me and rips down my pants flashes in my head. I’ve never met a man with so much confidence, so much command. Not even Vince, who despite the clear danger in his expression has softened some from his time with Aubriella. Damian is still wild and untamed, unpredictable and dangerous as a rattlesnake.

  My cheeks burn with mingled fear and embarrassment. Asshole. My hand moves of its own will, gently scrubbing the blood from his side, cleaning him. I can clean the blood, but I can’t wash away the source of it all. Just like I can’t change him.

  Dammit. I’ve just met the guy and he turns out to be a total asshole, ev
en if he is ridiculously attractive. Now I am lamenting how I can’t change him? Why should I want to change anyone? Isn’t that what was always wrong with Greg? He put more energy into trying to make me the woman he wanted me to be than he did into getting to know the woman I am. Eight years and he never really knew me. He just knew that I wasn’t the woman he wanted.

  So he went out and took her.

  “I think you got that spot pretty clean.”

  I start, realizing my hand has been rubbing a circle over the same smooth cluster of muscles beneath his ribs.

  The elderly couple hasn’t even glanced up during the entire exchange, but the man reading his newspaper is openly staring as Damian tries to make me jump through hoops.

  “Anything else, boss?” I ask. I mean it to come out rude and prickly, but calling him boss makes my skin tingle. There’s a seductive edge in my voice that was completely unintentional and I wish I could take it back. Hell, I wish he would just put a shirt on so I can stop trying to operate with soup for brains.

  “For now,” he says.

  3

  Damian

  Benny is pacing around the dimly lit office in the back of The Spot, running his hands through his hair like a fucking maniac, and all I can think of is her. I had to ask Tubbs after she left that night for her name. Callie Beccaccio. And holy fucking hell was she drop-dead unbelievable. Curves in the right places and Jesus Christ, those big doe eyes of hers and the way her smile is a little crooked? Yeah. She may not know it yet, but she’s going to end up in my bed. She’ll end up bent over the hood of my car for all I care.

  “You listening?” asks Benny.

  “I already know the plan, Benny. I’m just humoring your dumb ass. So if you need to keep reciting it you go right ahead.”