Giovanni

by Natasha Knight

  He straightens. My legs are half hanging off the bed, and he’s standing between them.

  I look at him, confused.

  “You don’t get to come twice, though. Not after how you behaved tonight.” He slaps my hip before he turns and heads toward the door, but stops just before he gets there, and I sit up.

  He retraces his steps and, reaching into his pocket, he takes out a stack of bills. He sets them on the nightstand, then reaches for me and grips my jaw, his fingers digging into me as he tilts my face upward.

  He’s firm when he speaks. Like he’s just remembered his annoyance with me. “You don’t pay for dinner when I take you out. You eat, and you say thank-you. And you definitely don’t walk out. Understand?”

  “And then what? I spread my legs?” My heart is racing. I shouldn’t challenge this man. I know better.

  But he’s ready for my comment. I think he likes it from the narrowing of his eyes, the grin on his face.

  “That’s ideal. Although like I said at dinner, I didn’t expect to sleep with you. Dinner wasn’t about me buying your pussy. Because that’d make you a whore, wouldn’t it? And I don’t think you’re a whore, are you, Emilia?”

  Before I can answer, he releases me. I’m not even up on my useless, shaky legs before he’s gone. Out of the bedroom and out of the apartment. I hear the door open and close. Hear the lock turn.

  The bastard has a key.

  4

  Giovanni

  I swear I can still taste her on my tongue, and fuck if I don’t want to go back to her apartment and fuck her raw because my hand just isn’t going to do the trick tonight. Coming against the shower wall won’t give me the release fucking her tight little cunt will. I want to be inside her. I want to feel her wet pussy squeeze my dick. I want to empty inside her and watch her face as I fill her up. Watch her face when she comes.

  But I meant what I said. She doesn’t get to come twice when she acts like an idiot.

  This girl is a complete mystery. When I first sought her out, I did it because she was my best bet on finding Alessandro Estrella. Her resemblance to the skeleton in my closet caught me unprepared, but that’s not what this is about. There’s something beneath the surface, that sadness I sensed last night at dinner, that well of darkness inside her. I can’t resist it. I don’t even want to. For having a big mouth, she has a vulnerability, a quiet courage. Although courage can often lead to stupidity, and I have a feeling she might just be self-destructive enough to go that route.

  Is that it? Is she self-destructive?

  Or is she smart, hedging her bets, knowing the battles she may have a shot at winning and rolling over for the ones she can’t? Because if that’s the case, then something happened to her. Something made her like that, broke her, because by nature, she’s a fighter. I’d be willing to be my life on that.

  And I have a feeling the scars on her back are that something.

  The thought makes me angry. To break something wild, it’s not right.

  The image of those silvery-white lines is burned onto my mind. I’ve seen some shit. I’ve done some shit. But her back, it was bad. She was whipped and badly. I can almost see the rage in the hand that held the lash.

  I want to know who did it.

  I want to know what she did to earn it. If she deserved it.

  My gut tells me no and that all roads lead back to one man: Alessandro Estrella.

  But I don’t know their family history. Why would her own brother do something like that to her? It doesn’t make any sense. They’re twins. Seriously, aren’t twins linked somehow? I have no fucking clue.

  The next morning, I’m in my study making calls. The first one I make is to a florist. I order three dozen blood roses sent to her work. I like these. Black and darkest red. Fitting from a mobster to a cartel princess. And even if she is distancing herself from the cartel now, she is still that. A cartel princess. The note attached tells her that Vincent will pick her up at eight for dinner, and if she’s good, she’ll get to come twice tonight. I’m still smiling at the silence on the florist’s end of the line when she took down my message.

  That assistant of hers will be spilling about who she thinks sent them. I don’t know why I get a certain pleasure from that. I know Emilia will hate the attention. Will hate anyone poking into her life, nosing around. She’s afraid they’ll find out who she is, but what I said about family, it’s also true in that that you can’t run from who you are, and she is an Estrella whether she likes it or not. She can change her name a hundred times, it won’t make a single difference.

  After the florist, I make a call to Killian Black. He’s the owner of Mea Culpa and a man Dominic trusts. He and Hugo Drake. Killian answers on the first ring.

  “This is Giovanni Santa Maria.”

  “Dominic said you’d be calling. What can I do for you, Giovanni?”

  “You have surveillance of the meeting with Estrella, correct?” Mea Culpa was where the meeting between myself and Estrella took place. That’s when we discussed specifics. He’d brought men with him when he was supposed to have come alone, but I forgave him that. A gesture of goodwill. But no good deed goes unpunished. I should know better.

  I know about Killian Black’s penchant for recording things. Even though that meeting was off-limits, I have no doubt he has a copy of it somewhere.

  He clears his throat. He’s not going to lie about it. He may work for Dominic, but he’s a force to be reckoned with in his own right. He’s not scared of me. I know that, and I respect him for it.

  “I want a copy.”

  “I’ll have a copy sent to you this morning.”

  “The men he brought, I assume you already have names?”

  “Would you like that file as well?”

  Of course he has files. “Yes.”

  “There was one complication.”

  I notice his use of the past tense. “What complication?”

  “Estrella had brought four men. Only three are alive.”

  “And you know why the fourth one isn’t?”

  “Turned out Hugo knew him from his time in prison.”

  “Ah.” I smile. “Good to know. Let me ask you another question. The sister, Emilia, know anything about her?”

  “No. Just that she disappeared after the attack that killed her father. Assumption is that she’d died in the fire too.”

  “No. She’s alive and well. Goes by Larrea now. Em Larrea. See what you can find on those four years she was missing, will you? I’m coming up short.”

  “Will do. Anything else?”

  “That’s it. Thank you.”

  I would collect Emilia myself but for the fact that I’m delayed at a meeting. But when I get a call from Vincent, telling me she isn’t at work, that she’d apparently left earlier than expected, I am surprised. I call Katy, her assistant, who recognizes my voice. I can almost see her blushing through the phone. Katy lets me know that Em decided at the last minute to join her birthday outing with several other colleagues and had gone home to change. She promptly invites me to join after mentioning how beautiful and romantic the delivery of roses was. I take down the name of the place and ask her not to mention it to Em—Christ, I hate when they call her that—because I want to surprise her.

  At midnight, I show up at the club where the party is taking place. Katy’s apparently turning twenty-one and wants to celebrate at a new trendy place in town with the worst possible music. Or maybe I’m just too old for this shit.

  Vincent and I enter and find the long table in the corner reserved for Katy and her friends, some of whom look like they must have used fake IDs to get in because no way they’re of age, and if they are, they obviously can’t hold their liquor.

  I scan the dance floor for Emilia and finally spot her across the room at the bar. She’s wearing a tight-fitting little black dress that comes up to the nape of her neck—and I know why now—and a pair of high-heeled sandals. Her hair’s in that tight bun, although wisps have fallen out aroun
d her face. I wonder if she’s already been dancing. She takes her drink from the bartender and smiles politely at the idiot who’s paying for it. Immediately, my hackles go up.

  “Wait outside. We won’t be here long,” I tell Vincent before making my way to the bar.

  She doesn’t see me right at first and leans her back against the bar, watching the dancers. The man beside her has his eyes trained on her. My hands fist at the look in his eyes. She’s all but ignoring him. Until she spots me, that is. Surprise animates her features, and I give her a tight grin. It feels more like a baring of teeth. I reach the bar and, without hesitation, step between them.

  “Emilia.”

  “Giovanni.”

  “Um, excuse us,” the idiot says in his too-high voice.

  I look down at him. “What do you want?” My lips are a hard line.

  Emilia throws her drink back and leans over me. “You know what? I changed my mind. Let’s dance. It’s John, right?”

  “James, actually,” the idiot corrects. I order a whiskey, fold my arms across my chest, and lean against the bar as I let them walk onto the dance floor.

  I watch her move, watch her pick up the beat and raise her arms over her head and start to dance. It’s seductive, her dance. In time with the music, but something so different than every other person around her. I wonder if she’s aware how tempting she is.

  She only glances at me, but I’ve got my eyes locked on her. Does that fool think for a second he’s even in her fucking league? I’d kill him if it weren’t for how pathetic he is.

  But when he puts his hands on her hips, it takes all I have not to crush the cheap glass in my hand as I swallow the whiskey and stalk onto the floor. People part to let me through—they must feel the menace coming off me. I don’t take my eyes off her for a second. When I reach them, her glance is apprehensive. She knows I’m pissed, but she’s testing me.

  “Get lost,” I tell the idiot, shoving my glass at him as I push him out of the way. He takes the glass because he has no choice. “We’re leaving.” I take her arm.

  “We aren’t doing anything,” she says, planting her heels into the floor.

  I stop for a moment, turn to her, and raise my eyebrows.

  “I’m here for a party. I want to stay.”

  “That’s too bad.” I turn and take two steps.

  “Stop. Let me go.”

  I stop and face her again. “I’m going to give you one chance to walk out of here with your dignity intact, but we are leaving. Now.” With that warning, I resume my walk. This time when she resists, I stop. “I warned you.” I give a shake of my head and then, before she can reply, I wrap my arm around the backs of her thighs and toss her over my shoulder. Someone gasps, and everyone is staring at us now. I know how caveman-like this is but don’t give a single fuck.

  Emilia is struggling, pounding against my back, but I just keep moving, holding back when what I really want to do is smack that ass of hers until she obeys. This woman gets under my fucking skin. She provokes me like no other.

  “My purse is still in there!”

  Once we’re out in the parking lot, I set her on her feet beside the car.

  “I’m sure Katy will bring it to work for you.” I point to the open car door.

  “What is wrong with you?”

  “I told you that you were being picked up.”

  “No, that’s not how things work. You don’t tell me. You ask me and when I decline, you respect my wish to never see you again.”

  I chuckle at the idea. Who does she think she’s dealing with? “Not in my world, Sunshine.”

  “Why did you call me that?”

  “Because you’re like a ray of fucking sunshine,” I deadpan. “Now get your ass in the car.”

  “No.”

  “You’re not a quick learner, are you?” I don’t want to be rough with her, but she leaves me no choice. I get her into the car and Vincent closes the door. It locks as soon as he starts the engine.

  “This is kidnapping! You can’t do this!”

  “Put your seat belt on.”

  “Jesus. What is wrong with you?”

  I stop, turn to face her, drag the seat belt across her chest, and click it into place. “I don’t like seeing some man put his hands on the woman I plan on fucking tonight.”

  Her mouth falls open.

  “Please don’t bullshit me, Emilia. You knew exactly—”

  “Because you sent that note? You’re insane.”

  “I know what I want.”

  “That doesn’t mean you just take it. That’s not how it works.”

  “It’s how it works in my world, and guess what? You’re in my world now, Sunshine.”

  “You can’t just…just…”

  I shake my head and look out the window as we approach my house. Vincent parks in the garage then discreetly goes inside. I open the door and climb out. She is already opening hers when I get to her side and immediately turns to walk over to the closing garage door, but she’s not getting by me. I physically put my body between her and the exit. It’s kind of funny when she starts twice, only to stop twice, like she thought for one moment that she could get past me.

  “Inside,” I say with a nod of my head

  “No.”

  “You just don’t fucking learn, do you?”

  She opens her mouth to reply when I turn her and, keeping her arms behind her, I walk her up the stairs, to the door, and into the house. Once we’re inside, I release her. She immediately goes to the counter, picks up an empty glass sitting there, and hurls it at me. I duck, and it crashes against the wall, shattering. I look at the mess, then at her and see that she’s also looking at the floor, maybe just as surprised by her action as I am. More so, even.

  When I take a step toward her, she takes one back, then turns and runs. I don’t bother to run. I don’t have to. I stalk after her through the kitchen and into the hallway to the locked front door, which she ridiculously tries to open again and again.

  “Emilia.” I watch as her spine goes rigid at the low command in my voice.

  She turns, takes one look at me, and tries to slip past me into the living room. I capture her arm, but she loses her balance. If I hadn’t had her, she’d have gone sprawling.

  I walk her backward until I have her by the wall, where I press her against it and cage her in with my hands on either side of her face.

  “I think you like to be chased, don’t you?”

  “I hate you.”

  “Why? Because I make you lose your cool? Because I take away your control?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “I plan to. I plan to fuck you every way humanly possible.”

  Her eyes go wide. She doesn’t come back with a retort. I speak again.

  “That includes this big mouth of yours.” I lean in to kiss it, only to be met by a snapping of her teeth.

  I smile, wipe my thumb over the spot, and see the smear of blood on my finger.

  “You want it rough?” Her heart is racing, I see it in the maniacal throbbing of her pulse, in the quick rise and fall of her chest. “Because that’s going to cost you.”

  “Let me go.”

  “Make me.”

  She narrows her eyes, exhales loudly, and shoves against my chest with both hands. I chuckle at her effort. She begins pounding her fists against me.

  “Let me go!”

  I lean in closer, so her face is distorted. “Make me,” I repeat, my tone low, a threat, a warning, and a challenge all in one.

  “Is this what you want? To fuck me? Will you let me go then?”

  “Not likely.”

  But she keeps going like she hasn’t heard me. “Because I don’t think I can do the other thing.” Her voice breaks, and her forehead creases. I’m thinking of a fuck, but her face is collapsing. All I can do is watch her. “I think...” She looks over my shoulder and shakes her head. There’s a panic in her eyes when they finally meet mine. “I think you’re going to hurt me.”

>   She bites her lip, and tears glisten in her eyes. I get the feeling more and more that she’s on the edge of something. Like she’s standing on a precipice and her neatly controlled life—from the tight bun on her head, to the impeccable apartment, to her cool facade—it’s all about to come toppling down.

  And fuck me if I’m dealing with that shit when it happens. Because I know without a doubt she’s gonna blow.

  “I won’t let him hurt you, if you’re afraid of him.”

  “I’m not afraid of him!”

  “Relax, Sunshine,” I say, tapping her cheek lightly. “Take it easy.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Just shut the fuck up and let me fuck you.”

  I press my mouth to hers and pull her hair out of that stupid bun because I need something to hold on to. A hundred pins drop to the floor, clinking delicately against the marble. I grip a handful of that lush mane and tilt her head back as I devour her mouth. Her hands are on my shoulders, and when I push her dress up to her waist and shove the crotch of her panties aside to finger her pussy, test how ready she is, she moans into my mouth.

  I undo my belt, my jeans, and shove them down. I need to be inside her.

  “I’m clean.” I don’t want to use a condom. I want to feel her. I need to. “You?”

  She moans, nods her head, greedily reaches for my mouth. Holding her panties aside, I drive into her, making her gasp as her nails dig into my shoulders.

  She’s tight. Like really tight. And I’m watching her face, and I know I’m hurting her.

  Her eyes come back into focus, and she squeezes her muscles around me. I pull out and thrust again. She makes a sound, a whimper, and my cock is harder for it, harder for that sound, her pain.

  Pleasure and pain. She’s confusing them. I see it in her eyes. I see it in the way she’s biting her lip, drawing blood. I wonder if she’s even aware of it, but I don’t care.

  I kiss her again, tasting that blood, fucking her harder. I feel her come, I hear that sound she made last night, and I impale her on my dick. The walls of her pussy are throbbing, and she’s slick and hot as she comes on my dick, and fuck, I explode inside her, my mouth on hers, her clinging to me, fingernails digging into my neck, her cunt fucking milking me dry and still, I can’t get enough.