“I’ll be sure to keep a lookout for your article.”
“And I’ll be sure to keep these little secrets between us. I don’t really want to be assaulted with a chair.” A snort of laughter escapes. “Or worse.” A sudden jolt grabs hold of my heart, reminding me that I shouldn’t be laughing with this man. I’ve had so much hate and anger bottled up for months and months, how is it even possible that a mere look can make my knees morph into limp spaghetti noodles?
The sensations consuming my body are waging a brutal war against the toxic thoughts looping in my mind.
Sensibility versus salaciousness.
It’s like everything that happened two years ago…feelings of rejection, pain, and loss…fades to white noise, and I’ve fallen victim to that heated gaze yet again, just like the lovesick teenager I used to be.
I need to get the fuck out of here and away from Tommy Marcone.
He deserves everything he has coming to him, and I don’t feel the least bit guilty or remorseful about what I’ve conspired to do, which is still a black hole right now.
Lies, lies, lies.
My heart thumps harder and harder with each passing second, and my eyes drift over to the trays of cookies in an effort to stay away from his.
“So you have a sweet tooth,” he notes with a grin. “I guess you know I do, too, huh? I mean, if you’ve done your research.”
I nod, sweat pebbling down the column of my spine. “I’ve read.”
“Wanna try one? You can even take some pictures if you want. A behind-the-scenes look.” He snickers and turns back to the stove, pulling it open again. He nods toward the cookies. “Help yourself.”
My mouth waters at the invitation, and I can’t stop my feet from dragging me into the kitchen. Despite myself, my anger, and my need to escape this place as fast as possible before I’m found out, I pick up one of the salted cookies and take a huge bite. My eyes droop closed, and a loud moan escapes my lips as the chocolate chunks melt in my mouth. “Oh my God,” I whisper.
He twists around again, and my eyes fly open, feeling his studying me. “That’s, ah, really good. Probably the best I’ve ever eaten.”
He rubs the back of his head. “It’s really crazy,” he says in a soft voice. “You remind me so much of someone. She used to love those cookies, too. Always moaned like she was having an orgasm after biting into one. Just like that.”
“I did?” I clap a hand over my mouth. “I mean, of course she did. They’re probably better than sex.”
“Probably?” He quirks a brow.
A hot flush creeps up my neck and floods my cheeks. “Well, ah, since I can’t speak from experience, I, um…” I rasp. “I’d guess they would be better.”
“See, this is the part where my publicist would press the panic button,” he says with a wink.
I cough, sputtering cookie crumbs when I hear that. Something tells me Tommy Marcone’s cookies would never need to serve as a consolation prize for bad sex.
“You okay?” He grabs a bottle of water and hands it to me. “Here, drink this.”
I twist off the cap and guzzle it, mainly because I am failing so miserably at this job and need to remember why I came here in the first place.
I hate this man!
“Do you have any questions you wanna ask?”
I swallow hard. Questions? Fuck. Like, did you mean it when you told me in the hospital that you loved me? Were you lying to me in the coat closet when you told me you didn’t have feelings for me anymore? Did you really set up my father and destroy our family for your own gain? These are the questions that have been tormenting me for the past two years, the ones on the tip of my tongue, the ones I’m aching to ask. But I can’t break character. I can’t reveal my inner-most thoughts. I’m Alessandra fucking Giaconne! “Oh, um, sure.” Think, think! “Well, can you tell me about the name of the restaurant? Any special reason why you picked Il Gioiello?” There. That’s a safe one. He can answer that without a physical threat or sexual innuendo, right?
He turns away from the stove and puts the pot on the counter next to him. “Yeah, I named it for someone.”
My eyes widen. The model whom he came in with? “Who?” I can barely speak out the word.
He looks at me and then nods his head over toward the cookies. “The person I told you about? The orgasmic moaner?” He smirks. “I named it for her.”
Suddenly, my throat tightens to the point where I can’t even squeeze in a breath.
Il Gioiello.
Gem.
Gemma.
How did I miss that?
Blood rushes between my ears, and I wipe my now-clammy hands on the sides of my dress.
“You remind me a little of her,” he says, waving a spoon at my face. “The eyes.” He chuckles. “And the moan. Can’t forget about that.”
“W-what happened to her?”
“I think the orgasm comment was personal enough, don’t you?” he asks.
“Not really. It’s not like you compared her orgasmic cookie moan to one she had with…um…you.” That was ballsy as hell, but this whole thing has gone from bad to horrifically worse in so many ways, so why not spiral a little longer?
He tosses the spoon into the sink with a clatter. “You sure you work for a food magazine and not a gossip rag?”
A huff escapes my lips. “As if I’d ever be caught dead working at one of those when I’ve spent most of my life avoiding them.”
His eyes narrow. “And they’d have been interested in you because you were an aspiring food critic?”
Gulp.
“Oh, ah, no. But my parents were kind of connected. Like, socially.” Understatement of the century. “So they were always rubbing elbows with socialite types. I just got dragged in by association.” I clear my throat and pepper him with another question before he can poke holes in my half-baked story. “Um, what, ah, made you start cooking?”
He walks over to the refrigerator and pulls open the door, grabbing a container of what looks like his famous cannoli cream, and my knees go weak the second I see it. I almost forget about my question.
Almost.
“My mother taught me. It was before she got sick.” A faint smile appears on his face and he waves a hand around. “She’d have loved this. But not the comment about my gnocchi. It was her recipe. She’d have thrown a machete if she were alive to hear it. As it is, she probably turned over in her grave.” The weak attempt at a joke flopped because it does nothing to erase the sense of loss in his deep-set gaze.
“I’m so sorry,” I murmur, my heart twisting all over again because I remember when he first told me how he ended up living in the kitchen. I stare at him, seeing the same sadness and anguish in his expression that I hold deep inside of me.
We both know loss.
We both know grief.
The difference is, he caused mine.
“It’s okay. It was a long time ago.” He holds out a small bowl and spoon. “You wanna sample this before I send it out?”
My jaw drops. Do I want to sample his melt-in-my mouth cannoli cream? Should that even be a question?
I reach out to take the bowl and our fingers graze each other. A flicker of something that makes my insides sizzle appears in his deep, dark eyes and he mutters something under his breath.
Except it’s loud enough that I can hear.
“It’s my fault I lost her.”
“Wait, what was that?” I ask, the spoonful of cream halfway to my mouth.
“Hey! How come I didn’t get an invitation to this private tasting party?” A booming voice makes me jump, nearly dropping the spoon. I spin around to see a tall, muscular guy walk into the kitchen. His dark hair is slicked back, his eyes and jaw so similar to Tommy’s. I recognize him, too. It’s his older brother, Ant.
Tommy groans. “Oh, Christ. With you here, there won’t be anything left to serve.”
Ant looks from me to Tommy, a wicked grin on his face. “Am I interrupting something? Sure as hell looks l
ike it. Hey, Tommy, what were you planning to do with all that cream?”
My jaw drops, the hot flush that spotted my cheeks before now floods my entire body as Tommy’s gaze flits over to my horrified one.
He flips his brother off. “You’re embarrassing her, asshole. I’m trying to be a professional here because she’s covering the restaurant opening. She writes for Dolcesalato.”
“Oh yeah?” Ant asks, inching closer to me. “And what does that make you, bellisima?”
“A food critic, Ant.” Tommy rolls his eyes and scoops cream into his homemade cannoli horns.
“You don’t look like a food critic to me.”
“Well, I’m not really a critic—” I start until Tommy interrupts me with a smile.
“Do you have an opinion?”
I nod.
“And do you write that opinion?”
Again, nod.
He points his spoon at me. “Then you’re a critic, amore.”
The air around me has gotten so thick with emotions battling to erupt, and I know more than ever that I need to make a fast getaway, even though I’m more confused than ever.
Two years ago, everything was cut and dried. My brother said so, and I believed him because Tommy disappeared. He never bothered to defend himself, which confirmed that he couldn’t.
Because he was the lying, traitorous bastard Gio said he was.
But if I thought talking to him would give me closure, I was dead wrong because I have more questions now than I did before, and because of my agreement with Juan Salazar, I won’t ever get my answers.
I have to get out of here, far away from the man causing my mind and my emotions to be all over the place.
“Thanks for chatting with me and for the cookie. I don’t want to keep you from your work, so I’ll just take off.” I spin around and bang my hip into the counter. A pile of bowls skitters along the edge, and just as it topples over, I use my knee to bounce them up to my hand and set them back on the counter.
Tommy takes a few steps toward me, his eyes on the bowls now set in the center of the counter. “You just used your knee to catch them.”
I nod and tuck a strand of fake blonde hair behind my ear. “Yeah. I’m always bouncing things on my knee. It’s, ah, a nervous habit, I guess.” I flash a smile and back away from the kitchen. “Well, thank you again for the impromptu interview. It was a pleasure meeting you.” I smile at Ant. “Have a nice night!”
I stumble backward, my heel catching in the groove between the tiles before I regain my balance and dash toward the door. So many emotions cripple me at this second, and all I know is that I need to get away from Tommy. Far, far away.
The wounds are now raw, torn open and exposed.
He might as well have poured the whole box of kosher salt into them.
How could he have named the place after me?
Why would he have done that, after what happened?
After betraying me and my family?
Questions that I am desperate to ask but fear the answers to pop between my temples like bullets. My lips tremble, my eyes pooling with tears.
For two years, I’ve hated him.
I’ve cursed everything he’s built, everything he’s become.
I’ve despised his success and good fortune because of what he did to me.
To all of us.
But a nagging feeling festers deep in my gut.
I can’t forget the question in his eyes, the glimmer of hope in the depths.
It’s been two years, but do I really know the truth?
I finally let out the breath I’d been holding once I’m outside in the balmy night air. I check my watch and stifle a groan. Back to the bus stop. I look left and right, really wishing for my piece of crap car right now.
A sigh escapes my lips as I head away from the restaurant. I get one block before I stop and pull off my heels. I cringe thinking about what I’m stepping on, but it sure as hell beats the alternative. I wiggle my toes, and just as I’m about to start my trek, a strong hand grabs my wrist.
I let out a loud gasp, my fingers fumbling in my purse for my pepper spray until I hear a familiar voice.
“Hey, you left really fast and I wanted you to have these.”
My eyes widen as I turn to face Tommy, now multiple heads taller than me in my bare feet.
He holds out a white box, a wide grin on his face. “Cookies.”
And just like that, I melt. Everything inside of me. Those dimples.
Dammit!
“I, uh, well, thank you so much. That was really thoughtful.”
He shrugs. “Consider it a bribe. I’ll give you more if you write good stuff. Come by anytime.”
I nod, mesmerized by his smile and chiseled good looks, the same way I was before. “Okay,” I murmur. “It’s a deal.”
“You walking to your car?” he asks, looking past me down the deserted street.
“No, I’m going to take the bus home. It’s not too far.”
He lifts a thick eyebrow. “No, you’re not. Come with me.”
I follow him back to the restaurant entrance and he talks to a short balding man standing in front of a blacked-out Range Rover. He waves me over.
“Adolfo, this is Alessandra. Take her wherever she wants to go.”
Adolfo nods with a smile and opens the back door for me.
I look at Tommy, my mouth agape. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, of course. You shouldn’t be walking around by yourself right now. And if anyone sees you’re carrying a box from my place, they’re gonna mug you for sure.” He backs away with a wink. “Enjoy.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
Exactly the way he disappeared from my life the first time.
Chapter Thirteen
Tommaso
I walk back into the restaurant in a daze and stop once the door closes behind me. My eyes travel back toward the window, and I watch the Range Rover pull away from the curb, wondering if she’s looking at me.
If she sees me looking at her.
A floral scent wafts under my nose, and my date for tonight, Siena, wraps her arms around my waist, laying her head on my shoulder. “What are you doing out here, babe? Everyone is-s waiting for dessert to be s-served.” She slides around, pressing herself against my chest, puffing out her tits. “They’re getting impatient. Just like me.”
I force a smile, smelling the vodka on her breath and silencing a groan. The booze accounts for pretty much the only calories she consumes. Life as a runway model doesn’t afford much opportunity to indulge in haute cuisine, although I’ve heard her puking her guts up plenty when she thinks I’m not paying attention.
“I’ve been trying to get it together in the kitchen, but Ant derailed me. And I’m pretty sure he’s eaten at least half of what I made.”
“Want to give him a chance to eat the other half? Then I can tempt you with something s-sweet,” she purrs against my ear, reaching around the front of my pants to cup my dick.
I look at her seductive smile and her hooded gaze and feel not a single twitch in my groin at her offer. Twenty minutes ago, I’d have taken her into my office and bent her over my desk, dessert be damned.
But now?
I can barely even focus on the stunning model standing in front of me.
All I can think about is the girl with the violet eyes speeding away from me in that damn car.
Alessandra.
Gemma.
My heart stills just saying that name to myself, and a little nudge jolts me from my thoughts. Siena pouts her collagen-enhanced lips, her hands gripping me with a little more aggression than is necessary. I grab her wrist and she lets out a gasp.
“What the fuck is wrong with you? Why aren’t you hard for me already?”
“Relax,” I say. “I’m just a little preoccupied, okay? I really need to get the desserts outside. We’ll have plenty of time later, I promise.” But even as I say it, I know I’m going to come up with every excuse why later is
not going to happen.
Every excuse, of course, except the truth.
Siena’s eyes narrow and she pushes me against a wall, her face twisting into a grimace. “Are you sure about that, Tommy? Or is there some other reason why you don’t want to fuck me right now? I saw that little blonde bitch falling all over you before in the kitchen. And you loved every second of it, I could tell. Are you planning to s-screw her instead? Tell me the truth!” She shoves her hands against my chest. “Do I need to fuck her up so she keeps her skank ass away from you? Because I will find her. And you know what I’ll do to her if she tries to come between us.”
Good Christ. Siena is fucking gorgeous, but what a goddamn headcase. It must be because she doesn’t eat more than three carrot sticks a day. She’s always starving, and I think that’s what makes her so angry all the time. The self-deprivation is eating away at her sanity. Besides that, she’s a nasty fucking drunk. Jealous as hell, too. And when she lashes out, she’s like a boa constrictor that’s about to devour her last meal. Ironic since she doesn’t ever eat a real meal.
Yeah, Siena’s red-hot temper makes for outrageous makeup sex, but enough is enough. I don’t need this bullshit in my life anymore.
“Siena,” I hiss in a low voice. “The girl has nothing to do with it. She was writing an article, that’s it. You know how much time I’ve put into this whole opening. Right now, making sure everyone is happy and fed is more important to me than fucking you.” I put my hands on her arms, catching them right before she launches one at me. “So either go outside and sit your ass down with my family or leave. Your choice.”
Her eyes gloss over and she sways against me. “Are you just trying to start a fight so you can fuck me six ways from Sunday later?” She nips at my ear with her teeth. Hard enough that I cringe. Her teeth may as well be fangs. “I know you love riding my ass. Is that what you want later? Hmm?” She grabs my hand and slides it under the hem of her tight minidress. “Wanna feel how wet I am for you already?”
Taken: A Dark Italian Mafia Romance (Men of Mayhem Book 3) Page 14