Blood Always

by Ramsower, Jill

  “I knew if anyone could do it, you could. You’re amazing at these things.” Yup, I’d resorted to flattery.

  She hmphed but calmed her tirade. “The church shouldn’t be an issue,” she offered begrudgingly. “But every halfway decent reception location will be booked.”

  “Let’s just do it as his estate. The grounds were lovely, as much as I hate to admit it, and we know it’s available.”

  “Ehhh,” she moaned. “You know I hate outdoor events—leaves too much to chance. August will be hot, and what if there’s a rain shower?”

  “They make outdoor air conditioners, and you can rent party tents. You got this, Mom.”

  “Sofia and Nico at least gave me until October for their wedding, which still wasn’t much time. What happened to year-long engagements?”

  After our announcement at the barbeque, I learned that my youngest sister, Sofia, was engaged to her boyfriend, Nico. I’d slipped away from the party at the first chance I could get, but while I was there, I watched them together. They never separated, like the electron and proton of an atom orbiting its nucleus, always moving, but never far from one another. It was cute in a nauseating sort of way.

  “My generation binge watches entire seasons on Netflix and does all their shopping on Amazon Prime. They want what they want now, anything beyond that is too long to wait. Delayed gratification is a thing of the past.”

  “Well, it’s absurd. Haven’t they ever heard of anticipation? That’s half the fun!”

  “They’ve heard of it, and they think it’s overrated.”

  “Nonsense. There’s nothing like knowing something’s coming—the suspense and excitement—it’s the best feeling in the world.”

  We had been talking about millennials, so why had her words conjured the image of Matteo in my head? It had been almost a week since the barbeque without any word from him. After his fervid insistence that he was going to coax out all my inner demons, I had expected a relentless pursuit. I found myself checking my phone more than usual, just to find no missed calls or messages. My behavior was ridiculous because I had no desire to hear from him.

  Keep saying it, and maybe then you’ll believe it.

  “Well, you have a whole month to anticipate my wedding.” At least one of us would be.

  “Fine. But before you go, don’t think I forgot what day it is.” Her voice softened, bringing on a dreaded sense of awkwardness. “Happy birthday, Maria.”

  “Thanks, Mom, but it’s just like any other day. You know I don’t do birthdays.”

  “I know, but I do, and I want to celebrate the birth of my first baby girl. You coming Sunday for dinner?”

  “You know I always do.”

  “Good, I’ll make a cake. And before you argue, no singing or candles, just the bare minimum.”

  I sighed, pressing my palm to my forehead. “All right. I’ll see you Sunday.”

  “Love you, Maria.”

  “Take care, Mom.”

  With a sigh of relief that the conversation was over, I flopped back on the couch and tossed my phone on the cushion next to me. I could finally get back to my annual birthday tradition of pretending it was any other day. Unlike many women my age, I didn’t hit the club or go to dinner with my bestie. Hell, I didn’t even have a bestie.

  Instead, I did one of the most cathartic things I could think of, aside from kicking Tamir’s ass at the gym. I cleaned my guns—it was what any halfway decent mafia princess would do.

  The summer sun still lit my apartment at seven in the evening. I laid a protective cloth over the kitchen counter and set out my cleaning supplies, along with my nine-millimeter and my thirty-eight. I had several more guns, but these were my favorites to work with at the range, and therefore, needed the most frequent cleaning.

  There was something about the smell of guns—ash and oil—that calmed my nerves. I loved the feel of the cool metal against my skin and the solid weight of a weapon in my hand. If there was ever a time someone could accuse me of being OCD, it would be because of how clean I keep my guns. But it had little to do with cleanliness and everything to do with how the process made me feel. Tranquil. Powerful. Unstoppable.

  Guns weren’t well-suited for every situation, but there was nothing like a good pistol. For more everyday wear, I had other less bulky options, but I always, always had a weapon on me.

  I only made it halfway through my routine when a knock sounded at my door. Picking up the Glock I had yet to disassemble, I moved to the door and peered through the peep hole.

  Matteo De Luca stood impatiently waiting on the other side.

  Lowering the gun, I yanked open the door. “What the hell is this?” I blurted, gaping at the bouquet of flowers and a bag loaded with takeout containers.

  “It’s called a birthday, Maria. And today happens to be yours.” He pushed forward into my personal space, forcing me to allow him inside.

  I closed the door behind him and made a show of setting down my gun. “So, you thought you’d drop by unannounced and sing me happy birthday? As you can see, I’m not exactly a fan of uninvited visitors.”

  “Put down your quills, little porcupine. I’m not here to attack you. Grab a vase so I can set these in water. I’m starving.”

  The bouquet was comprised of greenery and half a dozen white roses smattered with red splotches, making them look like they’d been through a massacre. Their imperfection was stunningly beautiful, but I couldn’t bring myself to utter the words. Besides, he’d probably just grabbed the first thing he saw on his way over. I would be an idiot to assume anything more.

  Handing him a vase, I watched as he extracted the thorny stems from the plastic with his agile fingers. Fuck. Even his fingers are sexy. They were strong and deft, nails cut short for function and scars that spoke to a hands-on approach to life. I would bet the pads of his fingers were rough and calloused, making me wonder what they’d feel like as they traced my curves.

  I needed to get my shit together, or I’d need a tissue to wipe the drool.

  “They tried to refuse to sell me these because the thorns hadn’t been removed yet. I insisted that made them even more perfect than they were already. Blood and thorns, the combination was perfect for my Maria. Scissors?”

  I was wrong. He had put thought into the flowers. Not only that, but his assessment had been unnervingly accurate. I wasn’t even going to think about how my stomach flipped at his ‘my Maria.’

  Matteo’s eyes slid my way and caught me momentarily off guard. “Scissors?” His voice was a velvety purr against my skin, the sensation snapping me to attention.

  I retrieved the utility scissors and began removing the four cardboard food containers from the bag they arrived in. My eyes were desperate to stray to his tattooed forearms and the sinewy muscle that flexed and bunched as he cut off the ends of the thick stems.

  From what I could tell without stripping him bare, Matteo De Luca was the modern-day statue of David. If aliens arrived from above and demanded to be shown the most perfectly sculpted example of the human form, Matteo would be the unanimous choice.

  His shrewd eyes were the mossy green of a dense forest, tempting me to lose myself in their depths. His angular brows belied his unruffled exterior. They warned of the turbulent waters that coursed just beyond the shallows. Another hint at his darker side was a slight notch in his nose—perhaps the result of a break during a fight. It was the only kink in his otherwise refined profile.

  He was still dressed from work, a white button down rolled up at the elbows. A treacherous part of me yearned to pull his arms close so that I could examine each of the inked drawings dancing across his skin. But it was best to keep my hands and mind occupied before I did something I’d regret.

  “You’re lucky I like Chinese,” I mused as I examined the contents of each box.

  “I hoped you wouldn’t—more for me.”

  Was he … playing with me? I felt like I’d been tumbled by a series of waves, unable to tell which direction was u
p. It was the same every time I was around him. Did he do it on purpose, or was that just one of his special gifts?

  I set two plates at my dining table and assembled the containers between us. “Next time, bring sushi. You’ll have every bite to yourself.”

  Matteo sat next to me at the round table, immediately diving into the food.

  “Aren’t we going to say grace?”

  His fork paused mid-transfer, a pile of noodles dangling precariously over the wood table as his eyes rounded.

  “I’m fucking with you, De Luca. Eat your noodles before you devour my furniture.”

  He huffed out what sounded like a chuckle and resumed scarfing his food.

  I put a small serving of each dish onto my plate, and we ate in silence until his feeding frenzy slowed. Leaning back in his chair, his eyes studied my apartment, probably taking note of the lack of typical girl clutter. I saw no reason to crowd every surface with throw pillows and picture frames. I enjoyed the simplicity of clean lines and minimal distractions. The city was busy enough—I didn’t need to come home to chaos and overstimulation.

  “Do you have plans to celebrate your birthday?” he asked, sidestepping the subject of my apartment.

  “I’m not a fan of birthdays, so no.”

  “No birthdays and no weddings.”

  I shrugged, not anywhere close to being ready to explain myself.

  “Is it the aging process or the attention you don’t like?”

  “Age is just another name for experience, and it’s experience that helps us make better decisions in life.”

  “I take it that means the ten years of life experience I have more than you isn’t a problem?”

  I debated about sharing and decided a little tidbit wouldn’t hurt. “The first man I ever had sex with was one of my high school teachers, so no, age doesn’t bother me.” I wasn’t sure why I told him. Maybe he’d judge me, call me a slut and end the whole charade. Whatever my reason, his reaction was not what I expected.

  His stormy eyes sharpened until I was sure they could slice me open. “How old were you?”

  “Sixteen. He was just twenty-six, so it wasn’t gross or anything. I mean, it was good. That’s the same age difference between us.” I was rambling, trying to brush away the tension I could sense was mounting.

  “That’s a fucking pedophile, Maria. You were a child, and he was in a position of power. That’s not a relationship, it’s rape.”

  “You don’t understand. I was the one who seduced him, not the other way around.”

  He shot out of his chair and began to pace the room, hands fixed on his hips. After several quick strides, he whipped around to glare at me. “What was his name?”

  It was my turn to rise up indignantly. “Not a chance. If I’d wanted him punished, I would have done it myself. I’m fully capable.”

  “What. Was. His. Name.”

  I glared. He fumed. Neither of us budged.

  “Fuck!” he yelled, running a hand through his wavy hair. “You drive me bug-fuck crazy.”

  I coaxed my muscles to relax after my fight instinct had kicked in. “So, the unflappable Prince of Tranquility can be riled. Good to know.”

  “It appears to be one of your talents,” he grumbled.

  “If you don’t like it, walk away.” My voice took on a harsh edge.

  “You don’t know how many times I’ve thought about it.”

  Silence.

  When he glanced my direction, he must have seen that I’d gone rigid. I was a shattered piece of pottery, put back together by my own hands. Proud of my imperfections, but flawed nonetheless. Despite how much I didn’t want to lose my identity, his rejection burned deeply. Deeper than I would ever admit.

  Like a sharp knife across the jugular, he sliced through the space between us, grasping my face in his hands and assaulting my lips with his. His tongue licked and savored, saying what his words hadn’t—he may not have been happy about it, but he wanted me.

  I could relate to the sentiment.

  I felt the same way.

  My prior warning about not touching me without my consent was a distant memory. His name and my family were dandelion seeds scattered to the wind. In the alternate reality of our kiss, everything else ceased to exist.

  Reveling in the absolute freedom of worry or consequence, I surrendered to his kiss and melted into his touch. His hands slid down to my backside, lifting me against him and coaxing me into his arms. I wrapped my hands behind his neck as he walked us to the kitchen and set me down on the counter, pushing aside my guns.

  “Do you have any fucking idea how sexy it was when you opened the door with a Glock in your hand? And this tiny tank top without a bra—I thought I was going to come in my pants.” He spoke with his lips against my neck, raking his teeth across the sensitive skin, while his fingers ran up and down beneath the thin strap of my camisole.

  His words were just as much of a turn-on as his touch. I wanted to return the favor—tell him how I wanted to lick each of his tattoos until my tongue had memorized his entire body—but that wasn’t what came out when I opened my mouth. I blamed my sex-addled mind. His intoxicating pheromones took a whisk to my brain and scrambled all of my thoughts.

  “I like the flowers, De Luca.” My voice was impossibly small.

  As if throwing myself at him wasn’t enough, I’d done the unthinkable.

  I’d offered up proof that he was already chipping away at my walls.

  A man like Matteo would never give up once he smelled blood in the water. I may as well have signed my own death certificate, because Maria Genovese, as I knew her, was a dead woman walking.

  The moment the words were out, we both stilled, but for very different reasons. I knew I’d screwed up. Wished I could gobble the words back inside my mouth. He was a hunter looking to verify his strike had been true.

  I wiggled from his grasp, sliding down off the counter. “I actually have somewhere I need to be tonight, so I need to finish what I was doing.” Somewhere, as in, not here with you. I picked up my gun, assessing my progress.

  Matteo’s stare was an incessant wasp buzzing in my face, refusing to allow me escape.

  “What?” I bit out, glaring up at him. “Do you need me to show you the door?”

  His gaze sparked—icy flames scorching every inch of me. “What plans?” He’d teased and prodded, coerced and demanded, but now his words were the deadly strike of a viper.

  I could respond in one of two ways: play my flute and soothe the beast or hiss back with my own venomous attack. I knew which one was wiser. I also knew I felt exposed and vulnerable. There was nothing more vicious than a cornered animal, wounded and afraid—not that I would ever admit my fears to him.

  It didn’t take any debate or consideration to know which option I would choose. I went with my instinct, and that instinct screamed to protect. I’d been a flight type of girl before and spent years reprogramming my brain.

  Now, my brand of defense was to fight.

  “Until I walk down that aisle, my affairs are none of your concern.” The innuendo had been strategic. My voice, a whip snapped in warning.

  Matteo wasn’t one to back down easily. If anything, my response only poked the angry bear.

  He slowly, menacingly positioned himself so close, I could feel the sultry heat emanating from his broad chest. “You go near another fucking man, aisle or no aisle, and I’ll kill him.”

  Matteo didn’t do idle threats. He was making that crystal clear.

  “What happened to just business?”

  “That was before. Before you sucked the air from my lungs like your life depended on it. Before I’d felt your claws retract and saw a glimpse of what’s hiding beneath the armor. Before you made my cock so hard it hurt to breathe. I don’t know what this is between us, but it is certainly not just business.”

  Chapter 6

  Matteo

  I’d never in my life experienced such acute jealousy.

  My heart no longer p
umped blood, but ice-cold, liquid rage. The thought of her with someone else—the sickening image it conjured—made my fists clench with the need to tear something to shreds.

  I fought my body’s reaction to dominate, to claim, to cage this little wildcat.

  It was no use.

  The energy that crackled between us beckoned me. Urged me. Commanded me.

  She was mine. All mine. And it was my job to ensure she stayed mine.

  “It has to be business,” she murmured. “That’s the only way this will work.”

  “Why? Is there someone else?” Just saying the words made my blood boil.

  Her eyes scoured the floor for an answer. My wicked enchantress almost looked lost, like a child abandoned by her mother. Too bad for her, I’d had my heart wrenched from my chest long ago. I wasn’t going to go soft at the first hint of a tear.

  Taking her chin harshly in one of my hands, I forced her gaze on mine. “Is there someone else?” I demanded more forcefully.

  Iron bars slammed down behind her eyes, and she slapped my hand away from her. “No!” she screamed. “There’s no one else, and I have no plans. I just said it to get you to leave, so just fucking leave.”

  Her ire was something to behold.

  Regal and raw.

  “Then why does this have to stay just business?” I wouldn’t back down until I had all the answers I craved.

  “Because.”

  “Because why, goddamn it?”

  “Because I need to hate you!” she rushed at me, slamming her hands against my chest. “I have to hate you and all you represent. You took everything from me—you and the fucking Gallos. I hate you. I hate all of you.” Her tirade came to a close as her words were swallowed with heaving sobs. My arms encircled her, trapping her against my chest.

  “Shhh,” I whispered into her hair, holding her tightly in my arms. I hated to see this majestic queen of a woman break down, but it needed to happen. We had to dig to the heart of the matter if we were ever going to get past the barrier of our last names.