Chapter 23
CHRISTIAN
ONE YEAR LATER…
L e Petit Café. Thank fuck Tony serves good coffee and pastries here otherwise I might have long since lost my mind to boredom.
Carmela likes it.
It’s Friday morning again and we're here for her normality fix, as she refers to it.
“Morning, Christian,” Tony calls.
“Morning, Tony,” I reply.
“Usual?”
“Yeah, please, and one of those pastries.” Some shit has kicked off, and we have another soldier with us today, sitting in the car outside.
Roman’s alright. His girl is expecting their second child, and that’s all he talks about.
“And get your barista to take one and a coffee out to Roman, would you. He’ll bleat like a bitch if he misses out. ”
Tony grins. Lifting the dome on the cake stand, he uses a set of tongs to put a pastry on a plate before sliding it across the counter to me. He gets a brown paper bag for a second one.
I bite in.
Fucking amazing.
I take it all back. She can come here every day if she wants to.
I’m all in. Tony’s assistant drops her usual cappuccino off at her table.
He doesn’t linger or offer more than a polite smile.
He’s young, probably the same age as me, and attending the local college.
He’d bang her in a heartbeat given a chance.
But he doesn’t talk to her, not after that first time when I took him aside and had words.
I take my job seriously. Don Ettore would not be happy with some college kid hitting on his woman.
That’s not why I did it.
I can’t even claim it’s because of my brother anymore, not only.
Obsession.
I was obsessed with her before I tasted her. Now it’s a twisted devotion bordering on insanity. We’re like two weather fronts colliding into the perfect cataclysmic storm.
She hates me.
I hate her.
But she loves my hands on her, and my dick pounding her cunt. Last night, while her husband was getting blown at the club, I had my tongue inside her. Then I wrapped my fingers around her throat and fucked her hard.
“Sweet young pussy.”
She might not suspect it—my brother certainly doesn’t—but at some point during the last year since she married that fuckwit who pretends at being a don, I’ve claimed her.
CARMELA
Le Petit Café. The name is French; it serves Colombian coffee, and the owners are third-generation Italians.
It sounds messy, but the coffee is excellent, and the bistro-style decor has charm.
Also, it’s considered part of the family, and I’m allowed to come here for my coffee fix and dose of normality.
Normality… What does that even mean? I don’t think I’ve experienced a normal day in my whole life. But as I stare out the broad, slightly foggy window at the rain-slicked sidewalk, I see it passing in the form of everyday citizens going about their lives.
“Is this seat taken?”
I turn from my people-watching, confused as to why a stranger would be speaking to me, and make eye contact with a handsome man in a business suit. Probably an actual businessman and not… well, he looks regular, for want of a better word.
“I was waiting for someone,” I lie, politely.
He smiles. “Well, he or she is not here yet, are they?”
Maybe his playful persistence usually wins him some points. It just leaves me faintly irritated. I spot Christian leaving his regular place at the counter, and my irritation shifts to unease. “You really should leave.”
“But we haven’t even exchanged names.”
His megawatt smile finally falters as he turns to see a man wearing a suit—this one not of the business variety—bearing down on him.
“Which part of fuck off did you not understand, asshole?” His deceptively soft voice bears a faint hint of amusement.
“Christian—” I start.
“I was only speaking to the lady.” The businessman-turned-asshole fronts up to Christian, giving him an up-down look of distaste. “I don’t believe that’s a crime… or any of your goddamn business.”
I wince.
Christian smiles cheerfully. “Start praying.”
Mr. Persistent finally picks up on the vibe and takes a hasty step back—too slow. Christian fists the lapels of his suit and jerks him toward the small counter.
Tony doesn’t utter a word as Christian manhandles the former customer around the counter and out through a door into the rear of the shop.
Silence. The few other patrons pointedly go back to their business.
My chair makes a sharp screech across the wooden floor as I stand.
“Mrs. Gallo—” Tony steps forward, like he might block my path. When I keep going, he quickly steps aside, lifting his hands. He, at least, knows better than to touch me.
That doing so is signing his death warrant.
Speaking to me without my husband’s permission is apparently not much better.
I slam through the door just as Christian slams his fist into the man’s stomach. The rough grunt as the blow takes the wind out of him is followed by a crack as Christian yanks the man’s head down to meet his rising knee.
Blood splatters.
“Chris!” My voice is high and filled with anxiety, and his head whips around.
Meanwhile, the former customer’s eyes lose focus. He wobbles in slow motion before he slides to the tiled floor. Another louder crack follows as his head makes contact.
I blink down at him, made stupid by the horror. I’m trying to process what just happened.
Christian’s dark eyes slide to the door I just passed through and back to me. His face softens into a smirk, at odds with the violent scene. “What are you doing back here, babe?”
The man on the floor gurgles, drawing Christian’s attention, and he casually lifts a booted foot. I belatedly register his intention when his heel comes down toward the man’s vulnerable head.
“Don’t!” The scream feels like it’s torn from me—I’m surprised when he actually stops.
He lowers his foot to the floor beside the victim’s head and quirks one brow at me. Too pretty, too young, and yet his face tells a story in the faint scars: evidence of the brutality of his profession.
The door creaks behind me, and Tony edges through it.
“Get one of the boys to dump him at the hospital,” Christian says, his voice soft and completely calm. “And get a takeout coffee for Mrs. Gallo.”
Tony nods, turns, and leaves.
Suddenly I can’t breathe. It’s like my throat has been sewn shut, and a terrible hoarse sound is all that I can manage.
Delayed shock?
A panic attack? Even surmising what it is doesn’t help me get air into my lungs.
Christian palms my throat and yanks me over the body so abruptly that I crash into him. His other arm anchors me when my legs cut out. “Look at me, babe,” he says. “You’re okay. Just look at me.”
Touching him is making it worse.
Behind me, I hear the door leading to the coffee shop open again, followed by footsteps and low voices.
“Breathe for me, Carmela. Slow and easy.” His body is solid and represents a confused source of safety. His hand is warm against my skin: the same hand that just administered violence to an innocent man.
Someone curses.
I suck in some much-needed air and try to break free. “Take your hands off me.”
“You’re as white as a sheet,” he says, not bothering to glance at whatever is happening behind me. “And will probably fall over if I do.”
I hear scuffling and muttering as they drag the man out.
I can’t tear my gaze away from Christian’s.
Cold.
A killer.
Completely unhinged.
My bodyguard.
The man that my husband pays to ensure my life and the life of anyone who stupidly stumbles into it play by his rules.
We’re alone. The silence is broken only by the rough saw of my breathing.
He still has not released me.
Do I want him to?
“Can’t have you fainting on my watch.” He winks. “Mr. Gallo would not be pleased.”
I let the name jibe go, distracted by the heated look in his eyes. He’s smiling—he smiles easily and often. Not always for me.
“You were going to kill him,” I hiss.
He finally releases my throat and steps back. Where his fingers touched feels like a brand.
Strangely, the ghost of his fingers locked around my throat centers me and keeps the demons of the past at bay.
He shrugs.
No apology.
“You smell aroused. Clean yourself up in the washroom.” He adjusts the cuffs of his suit and smirks.
It transforms his looks from handsome to devastating for the female population.
His smile should be illegal or, at the very least, come with a health warning.
“If word gets out you get off on violence, who knows where that might lead?”
It’s not the violence.
Not only, I correct.