Chapter 24
CHAPTER 24
SANDRO
“Change in plans. The yacht’s been directed to Salerno.”
There’s a long pause on the other end of the call. We’ve shit to do, and prolonging this trip upends the meetings I’ve scheduled tomorrow. I wait for Tommaso to ask why, but he doesn’t.
Next to me in the passenger seat of the Maserati, Miss Ears quietly listens. I should make her take her tits out and get us back into familiar territory. “I’m taking this baby for a test drive and am considering purchasing one. The car’s fucking sweet.”
“You’re shitting me, right?”
I scowl.
Riley studies me. Probably preparing for me to lash out, as I’m notorious for doing.
“Because of the car, my ass,” Tommaso comments. Perceptive motherfucker.
“Keep talking to me like that and I’ll be handing you yours.”
Time isn’t on my side.
Yet that’s exactly what I’m doing—stealing time.
Was it foolish presenting her to Don Gallo as my girl? He might mention it to my father, but the check I wrote to extend nut sales into the US market will more likely be at the heart of any conversation. If my sidepiece accompanies me to the meeting, so fucking what? What, does my father expect celibacy before the vows are read? Which would be rich considering he’s likely screwing my fiancée.
Anyway, news that Hollywood still has his star on the Beneventi Walk of Shame is a more interesting topic than who I’m fucking.
She glances up from beneath her lashes and offers me a shy smile.
My dick stirs. Christ, I can’t keep my hands off her. I was seconds from taking her virgin ass against Don Gallo’s bathroom door. But like the obedient son I am, I refrained from disrespecting a good business associate.
“And Hollywood?” Tommaso asks.
“All clear. Met Conti in Rome to handle an issue with the Atlanta casino expansion. Heard it was ugly.”
“It always is with that worm.”
I place my arm on the back of her seat and coil a lock of her hair around my finger.
“Your weekly call’s tomorrow with Don Beneventi.” Dread fills his tone. You’d think he spent his formative years picking daisies in a fucking field instead of burying bodies beneath the soil.
I weigh my answer. But if I call my father from the yacht, it’ll raise questions. Fucking pass on that. “Tell him business with Don Gallo went better than expected and I’ll review our new arrangement in two days, that something’s come up.”
“Like your dick.”
Jesus. Am I that fucking obvious?
Dusk spills across the horizon, the sun’s golden warmth fading into a cool wash of silver. I'm not one for sentiment, but when I catch sight of the lone billboard rising in the distance, I see it for what it is—and opportunity. I’ll fuck her right there, driving her into the sunset and back again.
“Gotta go,” I tell Tommaso.
“Wait.”
I pull off the road and park. “Be quick. I’ve shit to do.”
“I’ve a present waiting for you.” His excitement says our men have done the impossible. But I’m done with business and focused now on pleasure.
“Call you from the yacht.” I disconnect, then turn to Riley. “Out, and on the hood.”
She turns pink, glances around to be sure no cars are around, and then scrambles out.
By the time I’m in front of the car, she’s seated on it.
“On your stomach.”
She obeys.
“Should I spank your pretty bottom for your disobedience?” I ask in a silky voice.
She looks over her shoulder at me in confusion. “I thought…”
“Thought you were a good girl?”
“Yes?”
She was, perfectly so. Even Don Gallo was smitten. “Luna Gallo have something to say that you’re not sharing?”
“You knew?”
“That the Don Gallo’s principessa is full of shit? Or that my so-called fratello is knee deep in it?”
“She’s a girl with a crush.”
Riley’s gaze softens. And suddenly, my collar burns my neck. Hot, I quickly unbutton my shirt.
“Fuck.”
“Alessandro?”
“What?”
She stares at me unflinching. “I’m going to say it.”
I still. “That’s in the past.”
“Not that—this. I love you, Alessandro.”
My shirt shreds beneath my fingers, and buttons fly everywhere.
“Show me, then, if you can’t say it.”
“Riley …”
My girl flips her skirt. If I wasn’t a tit man, I’d be an ass man. Her tight ass is spank bank material. The stuff of wet dreams.
I’m back in control within seconds.
Hands on her hips, I tug her forward until her legs hang over the chrome grill. For a long time, I just look at her.
She wiggles her bottom, teasing me.
I simply stare.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking a mental picture of the beautiful sight.”
She groans. “Someone might drive by…”
I run a palm across her tight ass. “You want it quick and hard, baby?”
“Please.”
Music to my fucking ears.
Zipper down, I palm my erection, giving my dick a few firm strokes. Anticipation makes my hand shake—it better be anticipation and nothing to do with her earnest declaration. Stepping closer, I bend her knee, getting a better look at her wet pussy.
Once again, my control slips.
I push inside her so fast, I see stars. Instincts take over, and I flex my hips and sink deeper. “So tight, baby.” Then my pace turns frantic, like I can’t get deep enough. Inside her warmth is my favorite place to be.
Problem is, my lips are moving quickly, too, and I unleash a litany of love bombs in rapid succession. “Love your tight pussy.” “Love how perfect you are.” “Love how you were made for me.”
“Harder,” she demands over the bullshit noise I’m making.
I anchor an arm around her waist and pull her flush against me, fucking her mercilessly now. The car shaking beneath us.
Perfect.
Special.
“Riley.” My release tears through me, and my seed jets into her womb. Beneath me—thank fuck—her body shivers as she climaxes hard.
We stay like that for a while, until I withdraw. I roll onto the hood next to her.
She flips onto her back and stretches, a smug smile hugging her lips.
She doesn’t bring it up again.
I’ll protect her as long as I can—even from myself.
Abruptly, she sits up. “Oh my God.”
I follow her gaze up to the billboard. A decaying sign advertising the Grand Hotel di Palermo.
“Alessandro, please tell me you trust me.”
My eyes narrow on her. She looks ready to puke.
“I swear, I didn’t know until now. Even during your conversation with Tommaso, everyone refers to him as Conti. The first time I heard his first name was at lunch.”
What. The. Fuck?
Wide-eyed, she pleads for mercy.
My gaze cuts back to the cause of her abrupt freak-out. Then she delivers a motherfucking bombshell.
“Emilio Smith … Conti … is hiding at that resort.”
RILEY
Twenty-four hours of bliss blows up in my face within seconds. If there was ever a time to be afraid, it’s now.
I hang on to the door handle as he drives like a madman, making repeated calls while navigating the roads. Darkness descends long before we reach Salerno. He hasn’t uttered a word to me since I made the Conti connection. Does he believe me? Or does he think I withheld information on the man who hurt him?
I can’t ask. My attentive lover’s turned to dust, and out of the ash the monster’s resurfaced.
He makes two stops. Each time, I’m ordered to wait in the car.
I don’t protest.
I don’t say a peep.
The back door swings open, and a rectangular black bag is flung onto the backseat along with … “Is that a …?”
Chain saw .
He glares me back into silence.
The car pulls away from the curb, and then we’re winding through a series of alleyways. A few times, the GPS directions lead us astray, which has him cursing and smashing his fist into the steering wheel before recklessly reversing the car down the narrow roads.
When we arrive at the Grand Hotel di Palermo, he parks on a dark side street, and then turns his blistering attention my way. “Listen to me. This is the life, Riley. We mafiosi live in a violent world. An eye for an eye, that’s how we deal with issues. Conti knows this, yet still moved to sabotage my famiglia. If Tommaso hadn’t warned you, you’d be buried beneath rubble, dead.” He punches the steering wheel. “I’ll murder that stranzo, and it won’t be pretty. I need to know if you’re in?”
I consider what he’s said. Is he asking if I’m in … like in love the monster? But there’s something else within his words that gives me pause. “Tommaso warned me?” Memories of that morning rush through me. “You had Tommaso call my cell to warn me to get out?”
“You’re fucking alive, aren’t you?”
He broke up with me that morning. Crushed my soul so it matched my empty heart.
The gunshots. The explosion. “What were you doing while he called me?”
His lips pull into a line. “Fucking up.”
I wait, sensing there’s more. And I get it, in spades.
“You want the truth? Conti paid Ciro to spy on me, and then sent his men to murder me. They sealed the apartment beneath yours, filled it with fucking gas, set a detonator, and then waited. But I didn’t show for three weeks, and the stupid stronzos were too busy drinking lattes and missed me by minutes. But when I spied them outside your building, I went back.”
I watch him closely, his frustration with his actions obvious.
“They grabbed me, beat me, and thought they’d chop me up with a chain saw. Turns out, I’m the motherfucking chef. It’s Conti’s turn now.” He turns off the car. “You in?”
After Stephanie’s murder sentencing for killing my father, I wanted her dead. Is it evil to feel this way? Yes. But her punishment ended up being a slap on the hand in the form of reduced jail time due to mental issues. The legal system is about whose lawyer knows whom. An eye for an eye … Yeah, I can see the merit in it.
“Yes. I’m with you, always.”
He leans in, and I blink, thinking he’s about to kiss me. Instead, he tugs at my dress, parting the neckline. “Go to the reception desk and ask what room Conti’s staying in.”
“They’ll think …”
“Exactly.” He reaches out and presses a roll of euros into my palm. “Just in case.”
“Okay.” I exit the car, then pick my way along a pebbled road and round the corner toward the main entrance. I smooth my dress but don’t fix the collar, entering without hesitation.
The foyer is spectacular, the floor covered in decorative Italian tile and tall white columns dividing the sprawling space. Reception is straight ahead, and I line up for the younger male receptionist to assist me.
When my turn arrives, I swallow back my nerves and lean in. “I have an appointment with Emilio Smith. Where can I find him?”
The man blushes, and I immediately sympathize with him. “Mr. Smith is in a private bungalow, suite number 1235.” He plucks a resort map from a stand, then circles the building. “The bungalows are at the back of the property. Follow the winding path from the pool area to reach them.”
Alessandro will be pleased . “Thank you.”
He rubs his fingers together. The universal sign for “pay up.” He’s done this before?
Oh my God. He has. And Alessandro knew …
I peel off a few euro.
He quirks a brow, prompting me to continue.
I hand him a small fortune then wait off to the side until he’s occupied before retracing my steps to the car.
A dark figure dressed in black sweats, a black t-shirt, and baseball cap waits by the car. The bag’s over his shoulder, and I’ve no idea where the chain saw is. “Did you know Conti has paid visitors?”
“What do you think?”
I pass him the resort map. “The bungalow he’s in is circled.”
He studies it intently. “Let’s go. I’ll park around back.”
We circle the car behind the resort and park. Then we’re moving. We push through hedges, and he lifts me over a grey stone wall, then creates a path until we draw up behind the bungalows.
He glances at his watch. “Head around front and locate his bungalow. Keep your chin down in case there are cameras.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
It takes a few seconds to locate Conti’s bungalow. It’s off to the side and larger than the others. I walk back toward Alessandro, who is talking on the phone. Quickly, I relay the information.
“Stupid stranzo is making this easy.” His face hardens, and a shiver races up my spine. It’s a terrifying sight to see him like this. But this is him, Alessandro Beneventi. An important mafioso’s son.
“Stay here, capisci?”
I nod.
He flicks his wrist once more to check his watch. “Time to secure my motherfucking legacy,” he grinds out, and charges off.
Every sound is magnified. Birds rustling in a nearby bush. Conversations drifting from the bungalow patios or the path out front. Robust laughter from guests in much more pleasant circumstances.
But my thoughts keep returning to the chain saw. Is it still in the backseat of the car? Did he place it in the bag?
What in God’s teeth will he do with it? And if that horrible thought isn’t enough, how about this one: If he cuts Conti up like he did his men, how will no one hear?
Lord, I’m unprepared for what’s about to unfold.
I jump out of my skin when, out of nowhere, a siren goes off. It’s louder than ten church bells and more obnoxious than the tornado siren local officials had installed in Marietta. It’s so loud, I swear the ground shakes.
I hurry back to the pathway, and find people flooding out of the buildings, coming from every which way. In panicked voices, they talk over the siren, and as an English-speaking couple passes, I learn what’s going on.
“Is Mount Etna erupting?”
“No, dear. It’s too far away from Salerno. Must be an earthquake’s imminent.”
An announcement comes over a speaker, which then repeats in English. “Please keep away from the buildings and exit onto the main street.”
This isn’t really happening, right?
I wait as the bungalow area clears. But the only thing shaking is my nerves. I head in the opposite way from the crowd, toward Conti’s location.
Outside, I pause. Because even with the ruckus around me, I can hear the chain saw’s hum inside.
Then it all seems to happen in slow motion.
Everything inside goes quiet.
The door swings open.
And Alessandro appears … covered in blood, chain saw in one hand and the decapitated head of Emilio Conti in the other.
Everything quickly fades to black as my legs buckle and I faint.