Mercenary (Gangsters of New York Book 3)

by Bella Di Corte

  We moved to the song as we kissed.

  Would it always be like this? The intensity of my feelings for him? What I felt from him? The secret thing that moved between us, that kept us moving closer and closer together until there was no him, no me, but only us—would it live as long as we did?

  I breathed the lyrics around his mouth, and then I lost my breath when his mouth trailed down my neck, his teeth biting, his tongue licking, his warm breath moving like hot wax from a melting candle. When he reached my pulse, he sucked on the spot and I pulled his hair even harder. “You like it when I get rough with you.”

  “I do,” I barely got out. “I am not made of glass.”

  “No,” he said. “Just the fucking madness from the moon.”

  I laughed at that, and then he dipped me, making me lose my breath completely. A second later, he pulled me close to his body again. “Let me remember,” I said, tapping my chin, pretending to think. “You do not sing and you do not dance.”

  “Corretto,” he said. “I also don’t do the love thing. It’s not for men like me.”

  “Ah.” I smiled even brighter, using my thumb to caress his cheek. His cheekbones looked as if they had been chiseled, giving him a fierce look. The look of a man who had seen and done many things. I was sure most of them were not good. “But you do with me.”

  “Solo tu,” he said. Only you.

  Even though the song was slow and romantic, we moved even slower, even closer. His breath was mine when I breathed in.

  He took the fabric of the dress in his hand, almost violently, and I could feel the heat from his palm burning through the delicate lace. When he removed a strand of hair from my face, it was as tender as the breeze. “Ti amo, Alcina Maria Capitani.”

  “Ti amo, Corrado Alessandro Capitani,” I breathed back. I closed my eyes, using his shoulders to lift myself, placing a soft kiss on his lips.

  The song ended, the music changed, and more people were starting to dance, moving faster around us. Anna was making her way toward us with a few of our cousins.

  Corrado grinned at me. “That’s my cue,” he said, giving me a firmer kiss, patting my culo as he did. His hand lingered as he put his mouth close to my ear. “It’s all fucking mine.”

  I stared after him as he walked away and took a seat next to his nonno, his eyes finding mine after he’d settled. Even after I’d turned away, I could still feel them watching me wherever I would go.

  17

  Corrado

  Don Emilio didn't expect my wife—who she was or what she looked like.

  When I'd called him and told him the news, it was brief, very little detail, and he'd been satisfied to think Tito had arranged it all. That the sound of my voice, eager, had been more to do with expediting the process of being a mere spectator in the family business to a man who ruled the entire empire.

  He didn't expect anything more.

  In fact, the first time he saw her, before I had introduced them during dinner at Giuseppe’s restaurant two nights before the wedding, he leaned over and whispered in Tito's ear, “She is too gorgeous.”

  The four words bothered me at dinner. I was quiet for most of it, thinking over the comment and its true meaning.

  She is too gorgeous.

  “Ah,” Tito had said when I mentioned it. “Your grandfather and Carmine were of the same mind when it came to one term of the arrangement. That she be plain.”

  That she be plain.

  Rosa made sense, though it seemed like Tito was being a little generous. She had hips that were padded enough not to bruise when she bumped me hard with them.

  She is too gorgeous. She should be plain.

  I had come to a conclusion, but I knew it was only a matter of time before my grandfather came out with the reason in a blunt explanation.

  He sat on a bench by himself, looking over the party like a king. A king who ruled a major family, whose reach spanned from New York to Palermo. There was a reason why he had exiled me here. He could hide me in the mountains.

  He knew this territory like the back of his hand. He grew up traversing the terrain, climbing the mountains and setting sail on the sea. This was his world, even though he had a kingdom in New York.

  He was not a benevolent old man, full of acceptance and bedtime stories. I had once read a book about his life as one of the most powerful Godfathers in history. The book spanned back to his time in Palermo, when he had walked with a priest along the shore of the Mediterranean as a young man. The priest was a family friend who wanted to save his soul before it was too late.

  “I walked next to the devil that day,” the priest had recounted. “There was no line between good and evil, only what had to be done.”

  It was not hard for me to read my grandfather's thoughts. I usually knew when he was going to nod—a subtle, deadly move—a second before he did it. I was quicker than him, but we usually came to the same conclusions. I knew that the one second I had on him was the reason he wanted me married and settled. That one second could make a difference when it came to the longevity and success of the family.

  That one second was the reason, as he watched my wife dance with her family, that he wondered whether I had been too hasty in my choice. Whether he should have taken matters into his own hands and picked a woman like Rosa himself.

  I had surprised him, which was unusual. He couldn't predict my exact actions, but he already knew the mistakes I would make and the level of success I would achieve. He had groomed me to become him, but better.

  There was always this drive inside of me to become better than him. It was the reason they all called me Scorpio. I never let go of what I wanted, once my mind was set. I would have what I wanted no matter how high the cost.

  My eyes rested on her. She was worth heaven in hell.

  My grandfather’s eyes were on her, too, but harder with judgment. It rubbed me the wrong fucking way, but out of respect, I bit my tongue.

  “I didn't expect her,” he said, finally getting to the point. “Martina would have done.” He was quiet for a minute, studying my wife even harder. The cross around her neck glinted against the lace in the glow of the candlelight. “You could have kept this one on the side.”

  Martina was the daughter of one of his men. She was the girl next door, and she could cook. Whenever we had family functions, she was the type to help bring them to order.

  Simply put: wife material.

  She would be the kind of wife who kept to the kitchen and didn't question why her husband smelled like blood and another woman's perfume at night.

  All part of the life. The excess of it.

  Besides, they liked to keep it in the family, so to speak.

  The only thing the wives and the goomahs—mistresses—had in common: both were sworn to loyalty, both in same and different ways.

  I considered all of this before the night I spent with Alcina under the moon. All of the temptations that were not temptations before I left New York, but fucks that came with no strings attached. I had decided that I would set that one rule for myself. No other women. I wouldn’t hurt Alcina in that way, not after everything she’d been through. Though I was sure there were countless other ways that I would.

  I'd leave my wife before it came to that, but I didn't see that happening, either. The thought of me without her, after I found her, was the first truly painful thing I’d ever felt. It proved that I had a heart under this armor. Even after the loss of Emilia, all I could feel was the need for vengeance.

  “My wife is not a side dish,” I said finally. “She’s the centerpiece—the golden platter.”

  “Filled with exotic fruits, none more symbolic than the grape,” my grandfather muttered, almost to himself. “She’s the entire focus, which is not an option. You were groomed to take my place. The famiglia comes first. She knows what kind of man you are—who you are.

  “She’s intelligent and intuitive. A smart man can sense that about her. She also has a temper. I can sense that about her, t
oo. Which means she will not sit back and accept it all—not without a fight.”

  I grinned at that, watching her dance with her sister. Even though my eyes were trained on her, I knew my grandfather was watching me.

  “Famiglia e lealtà,” I said, holding out my hand for his. It took him a second, but finally, he took it. “This thing of ours…that is my oath—family and loyalty. My code. I won’t fail you or the famiglia.”

  He squeezed my hand and then let go. “This is going to be a problem with Silvio,” he said. “He is seeking justice for what happened to his son.”

  We had had a talk about that the night he arrived. I told him everything I knew. It fucking pissed me off that Junior had come to the old country threatening innocent women and their families with the Capitani name to get what he wanted. My grandfather and his famiglia were known in Sicily, and most people were aware of the empire he’d built in America. He was respected.

  What made me thirst for blood, more than anything ever had before, was the picture Anna had showed me of my wife after Junior had beat her when she told him no.

  Alcina had downplayed the situation—omitting two black eyes, five stitches in one eyebrow, a busted lip, and head to toe bruises—but there was no denying that she was a smart woman. She knew if he beat her that badly once, just for saying, “I’m not ready,” he’d beat her for the rest of her life. So she chopped his balls off and then ran away, valuing her life too much to stay.

  “Junior lies to us,” I said. “Silvio covers for him.”

  “Your wife tells her story one way,” he said, and I could tell he was rubbing his chin, his pinky ring glinting in the light. “Junior tells it another.”

  He became quiet for a while and then made a noise that told me his mind was made up. “I will talk to him. We will come to terms on this situation.” Silence settled between us once more before he cleared his throat. “The Scarpones are dead.”

  Four words.

  The Scarpones are dead.

  I didn’t even turn to look at him.

  “You didn’t involve me,” I said.

  “You are in enough trouble,” he said. “Both situations are being taken care of. Once they are, you will return home to take my spot. You don’t need anything else standing in your way.”

  “I should’ve been there,” I said.

  “None of us were there,” he said, his voice so calm it was like he was talking about the weather. “It happened a month or two after you left for Sicily. Someone acted before we had the chance. All signs point to the Pretty Boy Prince, Vittorio Scarpone. I knew it was only a matter of a time. My hunches are rarely wrong. The Irish—Cash Kelly, Ronan Kelly’s son—helped, to a certain degree.”

  “He’s a walking dead man,” I said. “Vittorio Scarpone.”

  “You must really enjoy the scenery here,” he said.

  That was easy to translate: the more I pushed the issue, the longer he would keep me here, even after the smoke had cleared at home.

  I didn’t turn to look at him, keeping my eyes on my wife, who was talking to a man. Ezio, my sister-in-law had called him earlier, when she’d introduced us. Word going around was that he had just returned from Greece after his wife left him. Before he built up the courage to talk to my wife, he’d been watching the way the lace moved against her body when she danced. The way her hair fell down her back and swayed. The way her mouth moved but no words came out. The way her eyes brightened when she laughed.

  “Corrado Palermo,” my grandfather said, barely breaking through my concentration. “Your biological father. He got a taste of powerful blood when he came close to killing Arturo Scarpone, when he was this close to slitting his throat. After, it did something to him. It clouded his judgment. He lost it all because he couldn’t see past his own arrogance. He became blinded by it. A blind man doesn’t go far in war, especially on an old battlefield, where he’s up against ghosts who died there.”

  I leaned forward some, watching her eyes when she looked up into the man’s.

  My grandfather made a noise in his throat. He was put off by my lack of focus, but not surprised by it. But if he thought I wouldn’t recover at some point, he would have said so. “I am proud of the man you’ve become, Corrado,” he said. “That is why I give you the gift of this woman, of clearing her debt with one of my closest men.”

  “Is that my wedding gift?” It was the closest thing to a wish from a genie in our world. Whatever his children or grandchildren asked for on their wedding days, he gave it to them.

  “No.” He sighed. “You still get your choice of a gift.”

  “I want Junior dead. There’s no room for the both of us in this world.” I would have done it myself, but I had no idea when my exile to Italy would be over. I couldn’t risk defying my grandfather, and I refused to risk Alcina’s safety. No one could protect her like I could.

  “It’s her word against his,” my grandfather said.

  “She tells the truth.”

  “You would put your balls on a chopping block for her word?”

  “Both of them,” I said. “Even my heart.”

  He became quiet for a minute or two, stroking his chin. Finally, he cleared his throat. “It will be my pleasure to bestow this gift upon you on your wedding day.”

  “I want his face unrecognizable,” I said. “I want him to run, to feel real fear.”

  “No,” he said. “This I cannot do. His father is one of my best men, my most trusted men.”

  “They lied,” I said, reiterating the point.

  He moved around some and then placed a key in my hand, signaling the end of that conversation. “This is from your grandmother and me—something more personal. A gift for you and your wife. A private plane will take you there tonight. Nunzio has the information. I’m sending more men with him, since it’s a little further than I’m comfortable with.”

  “Grazie,” I said. After I stood, I kissed him on each cheek, and then turned to go.

  18

  Alcina

  The post wedding high was still surging after we left my grandparents’ casa. We were headed toward Catania—that’s as much as Corrado would tell me. Once there, we boarded a private plane. The men who filled the cabin were unknown to me, except for Nunzio, the serious Italian, and Adriano, the Chipmunk. I’d finally learned their names during our reception. I did not think Corrado would be introducing me to anyone else.

  He had been quiet on the drive from Forza d’Agrò to Catania, and he was still quiet an hour into the flight. Though right after the plane took off, when he must have sensed my unease—it had been years since my flight from America back to Italy—he opened his arms for me, and I found peace there.

  “Grazie, mio marito,” I whispered and then looked down at the dress. Mamma and Anna had helped me change into it before I left.

  Corrado had given it to me as a gift. It came in an elaborately wrapped box, stamped with a luxury brand name. Inside was a gorgeous cream silk dress. It was the most beautiful dress I had ever worn, apart from my wedding gown. The material was thin and soft, it had no sleeves, and it came in at the waist. It showed a good portion of my back but fell below my knees. It came with a pair of heels to match, with silk bows at my ankles.

  His fingers stroked the bare skin on my back. The soft touch and his steady heartbeat lulled me to sleep, and when I woke up an hour—or two?—later, we were bouncing on the runway as we touched down. I went to get up once the plane came to a complete stop, noticing the jacket from his suit over my arms, but he kept me in place. A second later, he picked me up.

  “It’s customary,” he said, “for a man to carry his wife over the threshold.”

  I grinned, but I could tell that the mood that had followed him from Forza d’Agrò had caught up, or never left. It started after he had a conversation with his nonno.

  He carried me to a waiting car. It was too dark to see anything but the immediate area around us. Corrado pulled out a long strip of black silk and told me to turn
around in my seat. I did, and he secured it over my eyes.

  “This is overkill,” I said, but smiled. “I cannot see in the dark.”

  “You might figure it out on the ride, or if you see our next mode of transportation.”

  All I could tell was that our next mode of transportation was a boat. I could smell water in the air and feel the sway of it beneath his feet. He still refused to let me walk.

  It did not take us long to get to wherever we were going, but we did not disembark right away. The men from the plane were whispering to each other, and as soon as Nunzio told Corrado all was okay, he lifted me up and started walking. This part seemed to take time, because he was being careful of his steps.

  Finally, he set me down on my feet, and I had to secure the jacket over my shoulders before it fell to the floor. I lifted the collar closer to my face, inhaling, my heart rising and my stomach dropping at his scent. A second later he took it from me, and I stuck my hands in the pockets of the dress, not sure what to do with them.

  Even though I could not see him, I felt him moving around me, as if he were appraising me.

  “You are so beautiful,” he said to me in Sicilian, his voice coming from behind. I craved the heat of his body. My head fell back, letting the weight of it settle against his chest. His fingertips barely traced the cross around my neck and then brushed my bare arms, my back as he moved toward the zipper of the dress.

  “That’s one of my favorite sounds,” he said. “Me undressing you.” The dress made no noise as it hit the floor, but my body was instantly aware of his heat. No barriers, except for the lace lingerie.

  His arms came around me, pulling me closer. Already his cazzo was hard enough to strain against his pants.

  I hissed out a breath when his hands searched my body, and then sucked it back in when he pulled me against him roughly, his cazzo to my behind. His hand fisted underneath my hair, tugging, and I gave him access to my neck, the frantic pulse there.