Chapter 16
ROMERO
“Romero.” The way she moans my name—Christ, it’s like a prayer and a sin rolled into one, and I can’t stop the groan that escapes my throat.
My cock responds instantly, throbbing and hardening as I dig my fingers deeper into the soft skin at the nape of her neck.
She clings to me, her moan vibrating against my mouth while I stroke my tongue across hers.
The kiss is electrifying. Madness.
I tear my mouth from hers with a ragged breath that sounds more like a growl, and suddenly the restaurant snaps back into focus.
Fuck. A few whoops and cheers drift from nearby tables, but they sound distant, muffled by the hypnotic pull of those slate eyes staring up at me with just as much pent-up desire burning through me.
Patience. I force the reminder through my skull.
With herculean effort, I drag my gaze from hers and help her back into her seat before resuming mine across from hers.
She turns her hand to study the ring, and possessiveness rears its ugly head.
The sight of my mark on her finger—the tangible proof that she belongs to me—makes something primal and savage roar in satisfaction deep in my chest.
“It’s so beautiful,” she breathes, her voice soft with wonder.
“Not as beautiful as you, uccellino.”
She gives me a shy little smile, then glances back down at her hand, which makes me smile too. I’m glad she likes it. It took me a while to choose the perfect ring.
“You should eat your dessert.”
“Right.” She clears her throat, dropping her left hand in her lap and picking up the dessert spoon with her right. When she scoops up some of the chocolate soufflé, her eyes slide shut as the spoon disappears between her lips.
She doesn’t make any of her usual noises—those soft, breathy moans that drive me crazy—but I can still tell she’s enjoying the dessert.
Her face is always so expressive. God, I love watching her eat.
Love watching her experience pleasure, even something as simple as dessert.
Her eyes flutter open, and when she catches me staring, her cheeks flush that delicious shade of pink. But she doesn’t call me out on it.
This woman. I swear, she burns through a gallon of blood blushing every day. Any little thing sets her off—a look, a touch, a compliment… Her innocence is refreshing, and I love it so much it almost makes me hesitate about ruining it, ruining her.
I hope she comes out of this unscathed.
She demolishes the soufflé in record time, and the waitress appears almost instantly to clear the table, leaving just her wine and my scotch. “How did you like it?” I nod towards the glass of white wine.
“It’s great, but I think having that… that chatu dkeem as my first experience has spoiled me for all other wines.”
My lips curl up, my chest warming as amusement threads through me. “You mean Chateau d’Yquem?”
She snaps her fingers at me. “Yes, that.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, it’s one of the best sweet wines in the world.
” And having me as your first will equally ruin you for all others.
The thought wipes the smile from my face.
Just the idea of her with someone else makes me want to break something, preferably the hypothetical bastard who would dare put his hands on her.
It’s irrational, this possessiveness. She’s only mine for a year, after all.
My good mood soured, I turn to the briefcase on the floor next to my chair and lift it onto my lap, pulling out the admission packet I received this morning.
I place it on the table between us and push it towards her.
“I got a hold of your brother’s high school documents and applied to some schools on his behalf. He’s been offered admission into NYU.”
Her lips part, those beautiful gray eyes lighting up like stars as she glances between me and the packet. “Is that even possible? You can’t apply to schools on someone’s behalf.” But she’s already tearing through the packet, her knees bouncing as she takes out the official acceptance letter.
“I assisted my brother-in-law with his application,” I amend, immensely pleased with her reaction. When I looked up Ethan’s academic profile, I wasn’t expecting much. But I’ll give the kid this—he impressed me.
A weighted 4.5 GPA, AP classes in core subjects, SAT score of 1400. Him getting an admission was a no-brainer; all I had to do was apply.
Of course, the fact that I’ve helped a few NYU staff members out of legal trouble a few times over the years helped me get around that pesky ‘no third-party applications’ rule. And my generous ‘donation’ towards university research didn’t hurt Ethan’s chances either.
“I’m honestly surprised someone with grades that good somehow got mixed up with the crowd that got him arrested.”
“Ethan has such big brains, and I’m so proud of him.
But after high school, I just couldn’t afford to send him to any school, no matter how much I wanted to.
He saw me struggle and got it into his head that he needed to make money—quickly.
It was unfortunate that he started hanging around Keith, a member of the Mudrats, when he came to that decision. ”
I nod, understanding all too well how circumstances and the people you surround yourself with can change the trajectory of your life. “Your grades weren’t terrible either.”
Her eyes snap up from the welcome brochure she’s reading. “You checked out my profile too? Wait—how is that even possible?”
I give her a pointed look. “Nothing is impossible for me.”
I expect her to argue, but she just drops her gaze back to the brochure. She doesn’t want to talk about it, huh. While not as impressive as Ethan’s, considering she was juggling work with high school, her grades were actually decent. But she seems embarrassed, so I let it go. For now.
“Are you ready to go?” I ask, signaling to a passing waiter.
“Sure.” She tucks the brochure back into the packet and gathers it up with her purse.
The waiter stops at my elbow and I tell him to let our waitress know we’re ready for the bill. Once it’s settled, we get to our feet, and like a magnet drawn to metal, my palm finds its way to her waist as I lead her out of the restaurant.
She’s quiet as I open the back door of my SUV for her, but her body practically vibrates with energy. I close the door and circle around to get in from the other side, thinking she might be uncomfortable and move away from me like she did last time.
I shouldn’t have worried.
As soon as I slide in, she scoots towards me, closing the distance between us with a bright smile. “Thank you so much for tonight, Romero, bello.”
The unexpected nickname hits me square in the chest, sending my heart into overdrive, and I can only stare down at her, stunned.
Bello. Beautiful. Handsome. Her smile widens like she knows what she’s doing to me, then she leans her head against my shoulder, looping her arm around me.
I inhale sharply, every muscle in my body going rigid with shock.
“If you keep being nice to me and doing things that aren’t in the contract, I might fall in love with you and refuse to grant you that divorce at the end of our year together.” She giggles at her little joke as she runs a dainty palm up my chest.
I’m unable to come up with any kind of smooth, charming response, and what comes out is a lame, “You’re welcome, bellezza.” Which makes her giggle even harder, and I realize I lapsed into Italian. She’s got my thoughts all tangled up. Can she feel the frantic beat of my heart?
“In English, please,” she asks sweetly.
I clear my throat, pulling myself together. “There’s no need for thanks between us.” But her gratitude is immensely satisfying. I find myself thinking of other things I can do to make her happy, already craving more of this kind of reaction.
Without conscious thought, my hand curves around her shoulder, my fingers playing with the strands of hair that look spun from silk, sunlight, and flame. “I love your hair.” The words slip out unbidden.
“Grazie,” she murmurs. “I think your eyes are gorgeous.”
Are we exchanging compliments now? I twine a few strands of her hair around my finger, loving how the red-gold looks against my skin.
Acting on instinct, I dip my head and press a gentle kiss to the crown of her head, breathing in her intoxicating scent.
She goes stiff, then slowly relaxes again. I could get used to this.
No one has ever belonged to me before. Not really. Her playful words about falling in love with me echo in my head, and I make my decision—I’m going to pull out all the stops to make that happen. What would it feel like? Her love?
Tread carefully, comes the warning. But I’m not concerned. I know what I’m feeling. It’s lust, plain and simple. Maybe mixed with a little possessiveness and protectiveness, but at its core, it’s just lust. I can handle myself.
My heart is ice. No matter how much she gives, I know I can’t return love. I simply don’t possess the ability. Besides, a healthy dose of lust and protectiveness is more than enough for me.
As Logan takes the turn leading to the gates of my house, Leni breaks the comfortable silence that’s settled between us. “Tell me about your parents.”
Every muscle in my body locks together like I’ve been hit with a taser. I regretfully let go of her hair and gently push at her shoulders until she’s pulled away from my chest. She frowns, but I avoid meeting her gaze, adjusting the lapels of my jacket as we drive through the gates.
“You’re going to avoid my question? Don’t you think it’s a little unfair that you have access to every piece of information you want about me and my family, but I know next to nothing about you and yours?”
Is that a hint of hurt I detect in her voice? It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to delve into the past with her. “You should know by now, uccellino, life isn’t fair.”
Her lips part in surprise, her slate eyes wide.
That is definitely hurt in her eyes.
My stomach lurches, my tie suddenly feeling like a noose. “Prepare for dinner with my brothers tomorrow night. They’re the only family I have now, and the only family that matters.”
Logan rolls the SUV to a stop, and I’m out in seconds, greedily inhaling the crisp night air. When I walk around to open her door, she’s already climbing out, stomping her way into the house and slamming the door behind her.
Sighing, I watch her go, then turn to Logan to bid him goodnight.
He gives me a sympathetic smile. “Women, eh?” he says, shrugging before driving off.
Inside, I scan the space for her. Nothing. She’s upstairs, no doubt. My mood darkens as I yank off my tie, roping it around my wrist and undoing the buttons of my shirt as I head towards my home office.
I’ve never brought anyone into my home before, so the thought of installing cameras never even crossed my mind. Now I can’t even satisfy my curiosity by checking on her. In my office, I shrug off my jacket and toss it onto the couch, my tie landing beside it, before making my way towards the desk.
There, I drop into my chair, flip open my laptop, and tap the power button to bring it to life.
Sometime during dinner—after Rafael’s arrogant text demanding I bring Leni to dinner tomorrow—I received a text from my private investigator saying he had the background check report I requested on my soon-to-be wife.
Don’t you think it’s a little unfair that you have access to every piece of information you want about me and my family, but I know next to nothing about you and yours?
I brush her words away as I log into my laptop and navigate straight to my email, where a PDF file titled ‘Barlowe’ is waiting for me. I download the file and click it open.
The first page is filled with basic information I already know—Leni’s age, her academic qualifications, where she lives, etc. The next is her medical report, which I find… interesting. Why is she on birth control if she’s a virgin?
The next page covers her mother—a young housewife who spiraled after her husband went missing and was declared dead. The section on her brother is shorter than the rest. There isn’t much to know about him yet, and what there is, I already know.
Then I reach the last page, and my heart jerks.
John Barlowe.
Somehow, that name sounds familiar. And as I read through his profile, I realize why.
When my brothers and I just started taking over the city and I began making Brooklyn mine, there was a small gang already established here.
The Verona Outfit. They didn’t like my presence—they could see their future extinction because of me and tried to stop me by sending someone to infiltrate us. John Barlowe.
I liked the older man almost as soon as he joined my ranks. He was smart, quick on his feet, and his history working in the police department gave us a huge advantage over the cops—at least until I started making connections with the corrupt eggs in the department myself.
But he was a mole. A spy for Mikkel Verona and his crime ring.
It took me longer than I care to admit to figure it out—he was that good at playing both sides. He fed us information about the Veronas that he claimed to have gotten during his time on the force, while simultaneously feeding them everything he learned about our operations.
He had to be punished for that betrayal. So I sent Sandro to deliver the usual punishment we reserve for traitors. Death.
He was Leni’s father?
Fuck.
For a brief, insane moment, I consider calling the whole thing off. I could let go of the debt I’ve repaid on her behalf and just set her free. But I’m in deeper than I realized, because the thought barely forms before I crush it.
What Leni doesn’t know can’t hurt her.
I don’t bother examining why the thought of letting her go makes my chest tighten with something that feels dangerously close to panic.