Mercenary (Gangsters of New York Book 3)

by Bella Di Corte

  My eyes rose to meet his while my hand touched the cool gold strands. His eyes bored into mine, but his hands roamed. Each stroke of his skin against mine made me hotter and hotter. When his finger started to caress my culo, along the thin fabric, a low, rocking moan left my lips.

  He pulled against the tightest necklace, and it dug into my throat some. “No one hears you but me,” he said. Then he pumped a finger inside of my patatina and I bit my lip, keeping my moans quiet and deep. I placed my palms flat against the mirror, needing to steady myself.

  I could see what he was doing to me from all angles. It turned me on beyond anything we had done before.

  He reached around and pulled the bodice halfway down, exposing only half of my breasts. My nipples strained against the fabric, and the harder he pumped into me, the more the satin and lace would rub.

  “What do you want, Alcina?”

  My head rolled before it fell forward against the glass. “You.”

  “How?”

  “Buried.” I hissed out a breath when I glanced in the mirror and saw the way he was looking at me. “Deep inside of me.”

  “What do you want buried deep inside of you?”

  Opening my eyes and focusing on him, I said, “Your cock. Lo scorpione.”

  He grinned at me, pulling my hair back, my neck twisting toward his at an angle that gave him access to my mouth. He kissed me deep, hard, and so long that I started to get dizzy. When the kiss ended, I panted for breath. My skin was slick with sweat.

  “The moment I saw you,” he said, undoing his pants and pulling himself out. He was rock hard, and he stroked it before he rubbed himself against me. “I knew you were the sorceress. Those eyes have me fucking obsessed.” Then he rammed into me so hard that I had to bite my lip to keep from screaming.

  The necklace bit into my throat, but I could not keep my eyes off of him, of what he was doing to me. He was fucking me like he needed me to breathe, his grunts deep and quiet, and it was beautiful but cruel to watch. My patatina was taking a beating, each stroke on display as he buried himself deep inside and then pulled out. He had a firm, almost painful grip on my hips. But his eyes…they stole my breath.

  “You feel so fucking good,” he said, his voice gruff. He started moving faster, even harder, and I wondered if my hands were going to shatter the glass from the intensity. “Your body is mine to pleasure,” he said in Sicilian, his fingers biting even harder into my hips. “But other times, I am going to make you beg for mercy.”

  The sound of our bodies slapping echoed around the room. I wanted to scream out at the maddening pain, at the insane pleasure, but I kept it locked inside, waiting for the right time to unleash every ounce of desire he had freed inside of me.

  After the trip, we spent our days between Milan and Como.

  Corrado wanted the house furnished, so we spent time choosing pieces that seemed to fit us as a couple in the city.

  In Menaggio, we spent time on the Vaporina, exploring the lake by boat. We visited all of the quaint villages set around the water. We spent hours hiking up the mountains, finding obscure old churches and other places that took some breath and muscle to find. During these times, we became familiar with restaurants and the staff, finding that we had “our” places while we were there.

  Corrado even taught me how to drive the Vaporina, and even though I caught on right away, sometimes I pretended not to know what he was talking about. He would put his arms around me and help me steer whenever I did.

  I loved watching him drive the most. Especially in the evenings when the sun was starting to sink into the water and the world around us turned shades that were hard to describe in words. I would wrap my arms around him, setting my head on his shoulder, and we would watch together as the stars came out. He would kiss my head, letting his lips linger, and it was one of the most intimate things I had ever felt.

  I found that my husband could be as romantic as he was ruthless.

  “Your body is mine to pleasure,” he had said in the shop. “But other times, I am going to make you beg for mercy.”

  No truer words had ever been spoken from his mouth, and I turned to the side, staring at my reflection in the mirror, wondering which version of me he would get tonight. The woman who inspired his romantic side or the one who teased his wild side?

  The necklaces he bought me in Milan complimented the dress I had hoped to surprise him with. I slid my fingers against the one around my throat, remembering how it had bit into my skin when he was fucking me against the mirror.

  I sighed, straightening, admiring how gorgeous the gold fabric was against my skin. The dress showed off my shoulders, and the sequins danced under the soft lights in our bathroom. I had put my hair up because he liked to take it down.

  Movement from the corner of my eye made me jump a little. Then I put my hand over my throat, smiling, but my heart raced. Not from the scare, but from him. His tux was black and his tie gold—it enhanced the color of his eyes. They glowed dark amber against his black hair and tan skin.

  He was careful that he did not step on the hem of the dress as he came closer to me, slipping his hands over my hips. “You finally bought something on your own,” he said.

  I smiled. “The day we went to Milan. I wanted to surprise you.” I fixed his tie, even though it was straight. “Grazie, mio marito.”

  “What are you thanking me for?”

  “For all of this—” I gestured with a hand around the bathroom, even though I meant the entire house. “For the clothes. For you. For everything.”

  “I’m actually a selfish bastard,” he said. “I didn’t buy the clothes for you. I bought them for me.”

  I looked up at him, confused.

  He grinned. “So I can see you in them.”

  “And take them off?”

  “Guaranteed,” he said.

  I tapped at his tie. “Will you tell me where we are going now?”

  “You’ll see soon enough.” He offered me his arm and I took it.

  A car I had never seen before was waiting for us. It was all black, even the windows, and it had the name Bugatti on the back. Adriano stood close by, keeping guard.

  Corrado opened my door and helped me in.

  A second later he took off, and I looked behind us. “The other men are not coming?” Usually it was a cavalcade.

  “No. Only Adriano and Nunzio tonight. The place we’re going has enough security. The Faustis will be there.”

  “Ah,” I breathed out, and then looked out of the window. I was familiar with the Fausti famiglia.

  Amadeo was close to them, and usually, whenever he was around, so were they. After Amadeo’s grandfather’s funeral, Rocco Fausti was one of the reasons I had decided to leave. He was married to the famed opera singer Rosaria Caffi, but they had an arrangement. They fooled around with other people. Rocco made me an offer, and I turned him down. It was not something I was comfortable with.

  I could have told Rocco about Junior, but I did not want to involve them. I did not want to owe them. Anything.

  It did not feel like we were in the car long before we pulled up to La Scala.

  I turned in my seat. “The opera?” I should have known. We were listening to opera music on the ride.

  Corrado nodded. “It’s a special night. There’s a certain dress code—women in gowns and men in tuxedos. The proceeds from ticket sales go to a charity.”

  That made sense. The Fausti famiglia were big on charitable events. The fancier, the better.

  Corrado left the car running as he got out, and Adriano came from behind and slid into the driver’s seat. Corrado only trusted Adriano and Nunzio to watch or park his cars.

  “This is something out of a dream,” I said as we walked hand in hand into the theater. The air was cool, and I could smell the history floating in it. It was like opening a very old book in a chilled room. I wondered what story it would be telling tonight.

  “L’Europa Riconosciuta,” Corrado answered after I had
asked. “It was the premiere performance when the house first opened in 1778.”

  We were running late, so we took our seats right away. Nunzio sat on Corrado’s side; Adriano sat on mine. No one could get close to us.

  My eyes took in the boxes along the walls. They were lined in red velvet, and the details on the outside were done in gold. I narrowed my eyes some. In the box directly across from the stage, I thought I recognized Rocco and Rosaria, along with Uncle Tito and his wife, Lola.

  I glanced down at my program. Rosaria’s younger sister, who was also a soprano, was starring in the show. They were one of Italy’s finest opera families. I thought maybe the couple next to them was Brando, Rocco’s older brother, and his wife, Scarlett. She was a famous ballerina. They had a picture of her in the hallway on the way to the theater.

  I looked around just before the lights went dim and the show started. I wondered how many of these men were like my husband.

  I did not think on it long, not when the music seemed to steal my attention. At the sound of her voice, I grew cold, but inside, I felt warmed. The entire production was nothing like I had ever experienced before.

  My eyes were glued to the stage.

  My husband’s eyes were on me.

  Every once in a while, he would take my hand and place a warm kiss over my wedding rings. Especially when one touching scene made me cry.

  Before long, it was time for intermission. The halls were packed with people, but at least there was not a wait in the bathroom. Rosaria stood next to Scarlett, fixing her makeup, but I did not stop to make conversation. I had enjoyed talking to Scarlett once or twice, but Rosaria had never grown on me.

  I stood outside of the bathroom for a second, looking for Adriano. He usually stayed close to me when Corrado was not. I tried to stand on my toes, even in heels, looking for him, but I did not see him in the crowd. I did not see Corrado, either.

  As I searched the many different faces, my eyes crashed with a man’s who was standing across from me. He was dressed in a suit. It seemed like he was waiting for someone, but he never moved from his spot. He kept staring at me.

  My heart started to race, and I gripped the dress in my hands, my knuckles straining.

  Where was Corrado? Adriano? Nunzio?

  A group of women leaving the bathroom together were walking close, but not close enough that they would notice me if I slipped close to them. I glanced over my shoulder as we walked, weaving around more foot traffic, and the man followed.

  I picked up the pace. So did he.

  I was walking so fast that it could have been considered a slow jog. He was not far behind. He weaved in and out of people.

  “Ah!” I slammed into a chest. Two strong hands gripped my arms, and I almost flung them off until I realized who it was. “Rocco.”

  “Alcina,” he said. “What are you doing here?” he asked in Sicilian. I did not miss how his eyes took in my face and my dress. His eyes were a green made from the sea, and his skin as tan as the sand. His hair was as black as my husband’s, and just like my husband, the contrast was almost shocking.

  My chest heaved up and down, and his eyes moved to the pulse in my neck, where he could probably see it beating like a drum from the panic. I had nothing to defend myself with.

  “I am waiting for my husband,” I said.

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “I heard the news. Congratulations.”

  I nodded. “Grazie.”

  “Where is he?”

  I looked around.

  The relief I felt when I saw him made me crumple in Rocco’s hands. Rocco noticed and nodded when he saw him, too.

  Corrado’s eyes were frantic, though his face was stoic. He was looking for me. When he took me from Rocco’s hands, pulling me close, I looked around for the man who had been following me. He had disappeared in the crowd, but I could still feel his eyes on me.

  Rocco and Corrado made small talk for a minute before Uncle Tito and his wife joined the conversation.

  Even though Corrado acted as if nothing had happened, his body had become more rigid after we walked away, heading back to our seats. “Why did you walk away from Adriano?” he said, his tone sharp.

  “I could not find him,” I said.

  “He was standing next to the bathroom. He said one minute you were there and the next you were gone.”

  “Where were you?” I asked.

  “Not far from him. I was talking to Nicodemo.”

  “Why is he here?”

  “He had some news from my grandfather.”

  “Good news, I hope?”

  “The bull is dead,” he said.

  I stopped walking, and Corrado did, too.

  “Wh—” I swallowed hard. “When?”

  “Last night.”

  I looked around and only saw a few people rushing toward their seats. Adriano and Nunzio appeared among them. Adriano looked at me and his eyes showed nothing but remorse. I noticed a pack of nuts sticking out of his pocket.

  “Yeah, the motherfucker was eating,” Corrado said. “He dropped the bag and bent down to pick it up, and that’s when he lost you.” He took me by the arm and started ushering me back toward our seats. “Tell me what happened, Alcina.”

  “Nothing,” I said, trying to catch my breath. He had broken the news so smoothly, as though he was telling me that the rodent problem we had at home had been taken care of. Like the only reason it mattered was because it mattered to me.

  “Don’t fucking lie to me.”

  “A man,” I said. “I thought—he was following me. But if the bull is dead…” I took a deep breath. “Maybe I was imagining it.”

  “No,” he said. “Silvio might still have people looking for you, which means they’re looking for me, too.”

  “What does that mean?” I looked at him, at the set of his face, and there was nothing showing there but a man determined to get back to his seat before the show began again.

  “It means that if Silvio decides he wants me dead because I ordered his son dead, we will not agree to disagree.”

  “We should leave?”

  We took our seats again. This time it seemed like Adriano and Nunzio were on higher alert. Nicodemo took the seat directly in the back of me.

  “No.” Corrado fixed his suit after he sat, taking my hand again. “My wife will enjoy the rest of the show. My grandfather exiled me to Italy for his own reasons, but when it comes to il mio cuore, I’ll die before another man puts his hands on you.”

  He looked at my arms, where Rocco had touched me, his eyes hard. After a minute, he turned in his seat, his face as solid as the amber in his eyes.

  The lights dimmed, the music started, and the curtain lifted. Conversation over.

  20

  Corrado

  I watched my wife as she took her bag and followed the land down toward the boat slip. I told her to stay close. She took a seat in a grassy area not too far away.

  Her back faced me, her hair pulled up and a scarf around it, her sunglasses on, but her face was set toward the fading sun. It was going to kiss the water soon—that was something she said—and she always wanted to be there for it.

  Adriano stayed close to her, more eager than usual after the fuckup from the night before. It was the first time I’d ever had an issue with his eating. It usually didn’t stop him from doing his job. He claimed to have not eaten much the entire day. His blood sugar was low, so he needed protein to keep from passing out.

  “Cugino,” Nicodemo said.

  He sat across from me under the pergola.

  “You’re still here,” I said. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  Nicodemo was like smoke. The only time you really saw him was when there was a fire. He wasn’t a motherfucker you wanted to draw close, because unlike the animals who prowled in the night and were afraid of the flames, he wasn’t.

  “I found the man. He was waiting outside of the theatre—as I would have been. He was sent by Silvio. To kill you both.”

&nbs
p; I rubbed my chin. “Silvio knew where to find us.”

  “To be the men we are, we must think like the men we are.” He tapped his temple once. “He knows most of the places Don Capitani is connected to. A patient and wise man goes over the list more than once. People are drawn to what is familiar. Silvio knows this.”

  I grinned at him, but it wasn’t friendly. I knew this—this was how I knew sooner or later Alcina would return to her parents’ casa. But after I’d found the picture of her, I became curious, which changed the entire game.

  I wanted to know her village, her people, her parents, and in the end, her. I wanted to know her story. My world was usually colored black, white, and red—hers was in a colorful Sicilian print.

  Then I looked into her eyes, and that strange fucking madness that entered my blood when the moon was full took over all logical thinking. She was my madness and my sanity.

  Where was my focus? I looked at Nicodemo again. Truly looked at him.

  “He also knows about your marriage to the woman who castrated his son. He goes to sleep every night dreaming of her head on a platter. Now that you married her, vowed to protect her, and ordered his son’s murder, it is the both of you in a burning building he dreams of.”

  I nodded. “We’ll go back to Sicily then. There are more places there we can go that he knows nothing about.”

  “There are more people willing to protect you there.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I agree.”

  Nicodemo looked over his shoulder at Alcina, who had just stood and dusted off her skirt. It flowed down to her feet and wrapped around her bathing suit. She started toward the Vaporina, slinging her bag over her shoulder. Adriano stood back, watching her.

  Nicodemo grinned. “You did not stand a chance,” he said in Sicilian. “The old goat knew it.”