“Your authority?” It’s all I can do to keep my tone even. It’s certainly more than I can manage to contribute anything to the conversation beyond repeating his nonsense.
He leans forward, elbows on knees, fingers steepled. His expression is the epitome of reason and fatherly concern. “You’re living in my house, spending my money. While you’re here, you do what I say.” Leaning back again, he gives me a dark, level look. “Until you get married, you’re my responsibility.”
Your property, you mean. I don’t say that out loud, but damn, this grates. It’s not like I don’t know this is his attitude. This is just the way things are in this family. The women do what they’re told and the men do what they want. They run the “family business.” That’s not a venture women should dirty their hands with.
“Then maybe I’ll just get married and move out,” I shoot back, but it sounds a little weak even to my ears.
“That’s fine with me. I’ll discuss the details with Carmine.”
My fists clench. “I am not marrying Carmine. Forget it.”
Again, he speaks with careful reason. “I don’t understand this, either, honey. Carmine’s a good guy. We’ve known him since he was a kid. Shit, since he was born. He’s from a good family. He’s been raised right.”
A mob family, he means. And by “raised right,” Pop means Carmine has learned from right at his father’s knee the “proper” way to treat a woman. How to keep her under control. How to make sure she doesn’t know what’s going on. That she’s kept ignorant and controlled and covered in furs so maybe she doesn’t know she’s ignorant and controlled. He demonstrated that all too well tonight.
That’s not me. I won’t do it. I won’t be that. I’d rather live on the street. “I don’t like him.”
“Oh, you’ll learn to like him.” He picks up the paper again. “Your mother learned to like me.”
Did she? I’ve always wondered. Mom had seemed fairly content, but there was no way to tell. She never crossed Pop, never did anything he didn’t approve of. And if she came to breakfast with a purple eye once in a while—carefully disguised with make-up, of course—well, no one ever said anything about it. That was just the way things were.
I decide it’s not worth my time or my energy to argue with him anymore. I stand. “Maybe. May I go?”
He’s already starting to disengage, figuring he’s dispensed all the necessary chastisement. “Yes.” He flicks the paper and gives me another level look. “Don’t plan to go anywhere tomorrow. I need you in the office.”
“Fine.”
I swivel and head for my bedroom. I’m too angry even to cry.
I’ve known since I was about eight that I’m supposed to marry Carmine Romano. There’s never been any question about it. It’s like Medieval England or something. But there’s something dark in Carmine, and he showed me that tonight. Again. He’s never actually raised a hand to me, though he’s come close. I’ve been careful not to give him an excuse.
There’s darkness in Cain, too, but somehow, when I’m with Cain, I feel safe, even though he’s seething with danger. With Carmine, even though he’s safe in the eyes of my family, I feel desperate, like I’ve got my leg in a trap and I’m going to have to chew it off to get away. Cain won’t hurt me—I’m certain of that, but I don’t know why. Carmine? Carmine would backhand me across a room if he felt like I deserved it.
I’m surprised to feel my eyes going hot. I’m crying—not a lot, but my eyes are definitely leaking. I backhand the tears away and sniffle, disgusted with myself. There’s a way out. There has to be. I can’t keep living like this.
Again, that thought drifts across my mind. Cain. Cain could be the answer. He could be the one who gets me out of this hellhole.
Bad idea, Jess. Just let it go.
But I can’t. I just can’t.
3
Cain
There are days I wonder why I fight. Days I wonder what gets me into the ring, makes me almost crave the adrenaline, the smell of the sweat and the blood. The pain. Days I think it would be so much easier if I gave it all up and became an accountant or something. Something easy.
This is not one of those days.
Why? Because today I’m supposed to win. And it’s not going to be a cakewalk. If Spada’s scouts misjudged the last opponent as stronger than he was, they misjudged this one in the opposite direction. He’s not nearly as far beneath me as they seem to think he is.
That’s okay. I need to work for it once in a while, if for no other reason than to take my mind off the fucking cesspit that my life has become. To forget that I don’t only want to win, but I have to. Because if I don’t…
Well, Spada’s made that pretty fucking clear. And right now I’m not thinking. I’m just hitting. Punching. Dodging and weaving. I want to move in and pull my opponent down into a grapple. I always feel like I have more control that way. The boxing, the hitting—it’s not my favorite part of my time in the ring. No. I like the primal tangle in the grapple. Using every inch of my body with every inch of my strength to pin another man down, manipulate him, overpower him. Then we can get to the hitting.
He makes a very slightly wrong move and I’m on it like a cat on a mouse. That’s my job—to watch until they do something wrong, and then make them pay for it. A moment later, I’ve got him on the mat where I want him, and I’m punching him in the face, at the same time weaving my own body out of his reach so he can’t retaliate. After a while, he manages to get tangled back up with me again, and for a few long seconds neither of us can move. The ref moves in then, ordering us apart.
I hop to my feet and move back, as instructed. As I head for my corner, I glance over the crowd. I didn’t see Jessica anywhere when the match started. She’d better be here. I wasn’t kidding about hunting her tight little ass down if she isn’t.
I don’t see her at first, but then I do. She’s not in her usual spot; she’s farther back from the ring. She sits with her hands folded together between her knees, her back straight, expression neutral. I wonder if she’s afraid for me. I give her a quick wink, but I’m not sure she sees me.
When I turn back around, there’s an extra jump in my step. Because my girl’s here. Because she’s watching while I pound this guy into the ground. Because I can pound this guy into the ground. I don’t have to hold back. I can show her exactly what I am, what I have, what I do.
Maybe I forget she knows all that already. It doesn’t matter, really, because when she’s watched me before it’s been under very different circumstances. Circumstances that didn’t involve my having fucked her to within an inch of her life. Twice.
I grin around my mouth guard. The fight’s on again. I know I’m going to take this guy. There’s no question now. I’ve got all his weaknesses filed in my head, and my instincts take over. He won’t last five more minutes.
He lasts three and a half. It’s a knockout again. Can’t say I always enjoy knockouts—it’s dramatic, but they lack a certain finesse. On the other hand, you don’t have to wait around while the refs tally up points, so there’s that.
I wait until all the ceremonial shit is over, and then I look for Jess again. She’s still in the same spot, standing now. She has her arms crossed under her breasts, holding herself tight, like she’s nervous or upset. I get the feeling maybe she’d just as soon nobody know she’s here. I wave to her and get a feeble wave back. “Stay,” I mouth, pointing at her. She nods, though with a bit of reluctance.
She’ll stay. I know she will. I head in her direction.
It occurs to me for a second that there’ll be no way to hide the fact we’re talking to each other if anyone sees us here. A second later I decide I don’t care. Maybe Jess does—she looks like she might. But if this is her way to piss off her father, why does she want to be so secretive about it? On the other hand, I know what happens when you cross Phil Spada, and I’d just as soon she not experience it.
Still, I’m drawn to her, and I make my way to her through the crowd. Fuck Spada
, seriously. What gives him the right to control either one of us? If I want Jess, I’ll damn well have her.
She waits for me, still acting a little tense and upset. I stop by her, suddenly all too aware of the sweat and stink on my body, the blood on my face and arms. I’m too brutish for her. She’s so clean and perfect, standing there in her neat linen suit, her low heels, and her hair falling straight around her oval face. But she reaches up and gently touches my lip where it’s still stinging from a hit in the first round.
“I was worried,” she says.
“Really? Why?”
She shrugs. “I just… Well, he seemed like he knew what he was doing.”
I laugh. “He did. So do I.” I lift a hand to rub sweat off my forehead and notice the blood starting to soak through the wrappings on my hand. She sees it too; her eyes widen a little and she reaches for the hand, draws it toward her.
“You’re bleeding.”
“It happens. You know. When you hit other people in the face.”
“How bad is it?”
“Can’t tell without getting the tape off.”
She picks at the end, trying to peel back the corner. “Isn’t this stuff supposed to protect your hands?”
“Theoretically.”
Before I can protest, she’s peeling the tape back, baring my skin. My knuckles are pretty banged up, and they’re bleeding, though it’s not really flowing anymore. It’s just sticky now, making it hard to peel back the last of the wrapping.
She runs her thumb across the back of my hand, gentle. “You should get this cleaned up.”
“I should get a lot of things cleaned up.” My dick, already revved from the fight, is twitching in my shorts. Picking her up and fucking her up against a wall sounds like a very good idea right now.
Not possible though. Instead I lean forward, daring, and kiss her, right there in front of God and everybody. I wonder if anybody even notices. “Let me get cleaned up, then we’ll talk, okay?”
She nods and doesn’t even ask what I want to talk about. I like that. She’s learned not to ask a lot of questions.
Of course she has. She’s lived with her father all her life.
That thought is a little deflating. Knuckles aching, I head for the shower.
When I come out, I’m clean and minty-fresh, my hair wet, clean clothes on. I’ve changed into a suit. Spada likes his fighters to look good after the matches. I don’t know why, really—I’m all banged up and I think my eye is swelling shut, so it’s not like I’m going to be pretty for the cameras. There are only a few tonight; I talk to a couple local sports reporters, let them snap a few shots, then excuse myself to go find Jess.
She’s making her way toward me, though tentatively, and we meet halfway. I’m half tempted to look around to see if her father’s anywhere nearby, but I’m pretty sure he’s not. I put an arm around her, pull her against me. She stiffens.
“What if somebody sees?”
“Who’s here to see?”
“Pop’s goons, probably.”
Again, I don’t bother to look around. They’ll see me or they won’t see me. Not a fucking thing I can do about it. Besides… “If there’s anybody here, they probably saw us before, you know.” But I drop my arm. “Let’s go somewhere nice. I want to celebrate.”
She looks caught off guard and gives me a sidelong look through those tilted blue eyes. She looks like an elf sometimes, like something out of those Lord of the Rings movies or whatever. “Celebrate?”
I shrug. “The fact I’m not dead.” There are other reasons, too, but I’m not going to go into them right now. My brain’s been whirring all day, trying to come up with a way to get out from under Spada’s thumb. And I’ve got the beginnings of an idea. I almost want to tell Jessica, tell her everything, so she’ll know what I’m up to and be prepared when everything falls into place. I don’t think I’m quite ready to share though.
Her smile is small, a little hesitant, but genuine. “Seems like a good thing to be happy about.” She glances at me again, and this time she uses her thumb to rub something off my lower lip. Blood, I figure. “I’ll meet you outside.”
So I meet her outside, after giving her a few minutes’ head start. I take a second or two then to check for familiar faces. There are some, but as far as I can tell, they’re involved talking to each other and aren’t paying much attention to me. Probably adding up tonight’s winnings. I decide to get while the getting is good.
Outside, she’s waiting by my car. I guess she’s decided I can be trusted far enough to drive her somewhere this time. That’s a good development. As I approach, she leans that hot ass against the car door and crosses her arms over her chest. Gives me a look.
“Where are we going?”
I don’t answer her. Instead, I crowd her right up against the car and kiss her. I’ve been wanting to do that since I saw her in the crowd—before. Since the second my mouth slid off hers the last time, two days ago at the gym. There’s been a drought since then. A drought of Jess-sized proportions.
Shit, my brain’s going places it shouldn’t go. I can’t afford to be soft. Not with anyone. Fuck, I don’t even know how. Nobody was ever gentle to me when I was a kid; how the fuck am I supposed to know how to be that way now?
I shove that thought aside. This is enough—her pushed up against me, her tits against my chest. She’s warm, and I can feel her breathing in my embrace. Can feel her heart beating. After a few long, but still too-short seconds, I draw back.
“I was thinking Cartelli’s.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. Cartelli’s is expensive, but I don’t give a shit. I’ve got the money. However, apparently it’s not the money that’s got her panties in a wad.
“Pop’s guys like to go there, you know.”
I shrug. I’d had the same thought; decided I didn’t care. “Well, I’m one of Pop’s guys, am I right?”
Her lips thin—I can tell she wants to say something, but she’s not saying it. I have an idea what it is though.
“Somebody sees us, I’ll deal with it.” I hesitate, drawing hair back away from her face and trying not to smirk. “That’s what you want, anyway, isn’t it? For your dad to know you’re defying him by being with me?”
She just makes a face. Apparently she doesn’t have a defense for her mixed signals. “It’s fine. Let’s go.”
I open the door of the car and make no effort whatsoever not to stare at her ass as she slides into the passenger seat.
Cartelli’s is busy—it’s always busy—which is another reason I figured it wouldn’t be that big a deal if we went. What are the chances anybody will see us with so many people moving in and out? Besides, I have to admit I’ve been wanting to see somebody while I have Jessica on my arm. I want to rub somebody’s nose in it.
So why haven’t you? You’ve had the chance.
I shrug that off. The maître d’ knows me, and as soon as he catches sight of me in the doorway, he waves me forward. There’s always a table for me here. One advantage of being an owned man, I guess.
Crooking my elbow toward Jessica, I lead her into the restaurant after the maître d’. Once we’re seated, she takes a quick look around, then slides a little farther back into the booth, where anybody just passing by casually won’t be able to see her clearly. I give her a knowing smile, but I don’t say anything. I’ve ribbed her enough. For now.
“Your eye’s starting to swell up,” she says quietly.
I gently prod the eye in question. It does feel a little puffy, a little sore. “He caught me a good one there.”
“Yeah. It was a hard fight.” She hesitates, as if afraid she might have inadvertently insulted me. “I mean…it looked like it from where I was.”
I’m willing to agree with her though. “You’re not wrong. That guy knew his shit. I was beginning to wonder if I was going to let your pops down again.”
She nods. I wonder if she knows anything about how her father sets up the fights—how he decides when I’m sup
posed to win and when I’m supposed to lose. How he makes sure the right man is in the ring across from me. It’s a complicated process, I know. And, in the long run, it pays for the pretty clothes she’s wearing, the nice food I’m about to buy for her. My stomach twists a little, nauseated. This is no fucking way for a man to live. It’s like Gladiator. I’m basically just a slave.
“Well, you didn’t let him down.” Her smile looks genuine. She seems off-kilter, though, like something’s bothering her. I wonder if I should ask. Instead, I pick up the menu. Not like I need to. I’ve been here before, and I always order the same thing. Meat. Lots of it. And maybe a little pasta.
Things are quiet for a bit, verging on awkward. Great. So we can fuck nine ways to Sunday, but we can’t have a conversation? I’m not sure why that bothers me. Not that it matters. Not like having a conversation is high on our priority list. A waiter comes by, brings my usual bottle of wine and jots down my order, and then asks Jess what she wants. She orders one of those barely food things—pasta with vegetables and a salad. No meat. Pointless, I think, like decaffeinated coffee.
On the other hand, if it keeps her looking like that…
She must sense the way I’m scraping my eyes over her tits, because she gives me a look as the waiter departs. “Is there a problem?”
I grin. “Oh no. Not at all.” I lean forward. “I was just thinking how good your tits look right now.”
“Nice.” Her tone isn’t impressed, but her lips curve ever so slightly.
I just chuckle at her. “So. What have you been up to lately? Anything interesting?” I might as well act like I care as long as she’s here, right?
It seems like an innocent, polite sort of question, but her hands come together in front of her on the table, her fingers tangling with one another, and her shoulders go a little tight. Not innocent at all. And I was right. Something’s bugging her.
“I’ve been busy. Studying mostly.”
“Oh?” I take a drink of the wine and it slides hot into my stomach. That’s going to make me horny. Not that I’m not already horny. I might want to be careful with that tonight though. I wonder how the night might shape up. Getting Jessica off somewhere I can get her naked might be a little trickier than it has been in the past.
Hot as Sin (Contemporary Romance Box Set) Page 46