Chapter Twenty-Six
T he golden Mikado dress I swathed myself in had one purpose and one purpose only—to piss Tate off.
The plan worked better than I anticipated. As soon as I slipped into the limo, his gaze alone seared me into ash.
“What in the fuck is this?” he demanded.
“Your sweet undoing?” I pouted, giving him my best angelic look.
“I told you I’ll ruin any indecent dress you wear with the blood of your admirers.”
“And I’m telling you that gold and burgundy go exceptionally well together. Look, I even wore my Louboutins.” I flung one leg in the air to reveal a rubicund-hued heel. “To be fair, it’s full length and reaches past my ankles.” I planted my derriere on the crème leather seat.
“ To be fair , the strapless corset barely covers your nipples,” he retorted, mimicking my English accent. “Your tits jiggle every time you breathe.”
I pressed my lips together, trying hard not to giggle.
“Don’t you dare laugh.” He erected a finger in my direction. “Your tits will be dancing in that thing, and I’ll have no choice but to kill everyone in the vicinity.”
“Only when I sit down. The corset sort of rides up. Anyway, we’re alone.” I gestured around us. Iven was all the way in the front with his back to us. The partition was open, but that could be remedied.
“Not for long.” Tate sat back with his legs spread open, reaching for his cigar box. “We’re picking up Row and that thing.”
“ That thing is called Cal, and she is one of my best friends.” I scrunched my nose. “Anyway, what do they have to do with the Ferrantes?”
“Row’s in charge of the catering.”
“I hadn’t realized he offered this service.”
“He hadn’t either. But then a two-million-dollar offer in cash came along, and his schedule magically cleared.”
I was definitely friends with people outside my tax bracket.
“Go upstairs and change.” Tate bit off the edge of his cigar. “I don’t like that dress.”
“That’s all right, darling. You’re not the one wearing it.” I offered him a condescending pat on the cheek. “You’d never pull it off with your ankles.”
He ran his tongue over his upper teeth, sharp, sly eyes full of malice inspecting me. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Thierry.” He snapped his fingers. “Start driving.”
“Thierry’s here from London?” I brightened up, turning toward the driver.
Since the vehicle was too long for him to catch my gaze in the rearview mirror, Thierry raised a hand in a wave. “How do you do, Gia?”
“Very well. How about you and Annette?”
The limo slid into the heavy Manhattan traffic, driving at a snail’s pace.
“Better than ever. Got her hip replacement last week. Healing smoothly. Sorry to hear about your mother—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Tate puffed on his cigar, sending a rancid cloud of smoke to the space between us. “Nobody really cares. She’s just being nice.”
Silence blanketed the interior of the car. Each of us sat in an opposite corner of the back seat. I stared out the window, wondering if he would take me here, in front of Thierry, with the partition open just to humiliate me. He wouldn’t have to take me by force.
Deep down, I knew I’d let him.
Deep down, I knew I turned into a very different person where Tate was concerned. He seemed to pry the darkest, most nefarious parts of me out into the light.
And I loved it. All of it. Even the toxicity.
Every second that passed on our way to Cal and Row’s Fifth Avenue building had the knot in my stomach twist harder until it pressed against my sternum.
We stopped outside their building, and that was when I noticed Tate had his phone angled toward his window with the camera app on, facing him.
“Would you like me to call Cal and tell her—”
“We’ll go upstairs,” he cut into my words.
I squinted. “Why?”
“We’re being followed.”
I didn’t have to ask by whom. I ducked my head, trying to follow his line of vision, but I didn’t have a good angle.
“And you want us to go upstairs, where we might endanger our friends? Their daughter ?” I asked incredulously.
“There are rules to abide by in the underworld. Certain codes.” He clasped my elbow. His eyes, cold and empty, dug into my flesh like a metal knife. “They won’t hurt an innocent family. The Casablancas will protect us , but we won’t endanger them .”
He got out of the limo first, shielding me with his body as we slipped into the building. We took the stairs up, him following closely behind me, glancing down every few seconds.
Cold sweat settled over my forehead. I stumbled over the fabric of my dress, reaching to the wall of the darkened corridor. Finally, we reached their door. Tate rapped on it three times.
Row opened, surprise pleating his forehead. “What’s up? Thought we’re going to meet downst—”
Tate shoved past him, tugging me to his side. He strode over to the living room window.
I winced apologetically. “Sorry. We’re being followed by Irish mobsters.”
“ Oookay , I’m gonna need a little more context than that.” Row double locked the door and pulled on the latch. “Which one of us is calling the cops?”
“No one. I’ve got it handled,” Tate said calmly. “They were bound to try tonight. Enzo and his soldiers are off for the engagement party.”
“You brought mobsters to my doorstep?” Row blinked. “While my daughter and wife are in the other room?” He looked ready to kill my husband. I was almost certain I was going to help him if he tried.
“They won’t come in here. You and your family are under Ferrante protection. You’re innocent. They’re not that dumb.”
“Maybe, but you are.” Row looked around us, sticking a hand into his tousled jet-black hair and messing it further. “Jesus fucking Christ, Tate. I mean, your ass is more disposable than a soiled diaper, but what about Gia?”
“Hi guys! Thanks for giving us a ride.” Cal appeared from the hallway, heels clicking as she put an earring on. “Serafina’s nanny just arrived, but we still need to go through her evening routine together.”
Tate ignored her, hiking over to the kitchen and returning to the window with a butcher block. “Is this the eight-pound block you used for that Netflix special?”
“Yeah.” Row rubbed the back of his neck. “Wh—”
Tate tossed it out the window.
“What the fuck?” Row snapped before the sound of a watermelon bursting filled the air. “Holy shit.”
Tate raised two fingers to point at his eyes in an I-see-you gesture. “Don’t. Your building’s in an angle that makes it impossible to see where the object fell from.”
Row, Cal, and I sprinted to the window, peering down.
Tate’d knocked down a man waiting at the building’s entrance.
The mobster lay on the pavement, unconscious, blood pouring out of his head.
Three men talking on the phone dragged him into a nearby truck.
There weren’t any pedestrians on the street, but that was hardly any consolation.
“We’re in the middle of Manhattan,” I pointed out. “You do realize that?”
“No security cameras on this side of the block.” He spared me a look. “And I knew they’d fuck off before the police arrive.”
Actually, the police didn’t arrive at all. There was no one to report the incident, I suppose. We waited a few minutes in stunned silence. Cal was shaking and giving Row the incredulous look of a woman who decisively did not want to host a murderer in her apartment.
“D-did you just kill someone?” Cal coughed out finally.
“No. But he’ll need a sabbatical to take care of that head injury,” Tate replied.
“It sounded like his head exploded,” Cal insisted.
“He moved,” Row reassured his wife. “I saw it. I don’t think he’s dead.” But I could see on his face he didn’t entirely believe his own words.
“Stop looking so scandalized.” Tate slanted his eyes in Cal’s direction. “He tried to kill me.”
Cal placed a trembling hand over her heart, trying to regulate her breathing. “This is…this is not okay.” She was hyperventilating. “You’re not okay, Tate.”
An odd urge to tell her not to speak to my husband like this slammed into me. I had no idea where it came from. Objectively speaking, she was totally right.
“I’m going to give my daughter a bath, read her a story, and put her to bed.
” Row threw a thumb over his shoulder, then pointed at my husband.
“You better not fucking kill anyone else while I’m gone.
” He glanced at Cal, then grabbed her by the hand and tugged her close. “And I’m taking my wife with me.”
“Don’t be dramatic, Ambrose. I was sending a message.” Tate rearranged his pitchfork cuff links.
“Next time, use email, fuckface.”
Row and Cal disappeared back into the hallway. Still shaken, I stumbled to their kitchen, grabbed a glass from the cupboard, and filled it with tap water, taking big gulps. I rinsed the glass, set it on a dish rack, and gripped the edges of the sink, drawing a breath.
Tate’s arms bracketed me from either side, locking me with my stomach pressed to the counter. His mouth found my ear. “ Now .”
His voice reverberated in the empty space between my thighs.
I knew what he meant.
Shivering with delight, my thighs parted on their own accord, thick, sticky heat gathering between them.
His torso was flush against my back, and my muscles jumped reflexively at the sudden touch.
He reached down under my skirts from behind, flipping the long dress over my upper body.
With his free hand, he dipped his fingers into my panties, stroking my pussy, which slurped excitedly at his touch.
“No,” I gasped, but even as the word tumbled out of my mouth, I kept chasing his elusive, maddening strokes. “Cal and Row will hear us.”
He tugged my panties down to my lower thighs, then kicked my legs apart with his shiny loafer. “They might even catch us if they get lucky.”
“Are you on some kind of an episode? I am not contaminating my friends’ kitch—”