7. Nerio
7
NERIO
I drum my fingers against the leather steering wheel of my BMW, scanning the empty lot behind the abandoned textile factory. Perfect spot for a meet — clear sight lines in every direction, multiple escape routes, zero foot traffic. My informant better have something good.
A rusty Civic pulls in, parking three spaces away. Smart kid. Carlo steps out, hands visible, wearing that ratty Cardinals cap I told him to.
"You're late." I keep my voice low, authoritative.
"Traffic on Roosevelt." He glances over his shoulder. "Look, this is big. Mantiones are planning to hit your shipment coming in through Gary next week. Tuesday night."
My jaw tightens. "Details."
"They got someone on the inside at the port. Planning to swap out product, reroute the whole thing to their warehouse on 95th." Carlo shifts his weight. "Luca's calling the shots himself on this one."
"Luca?" That gets my attention. Little prince trying to prove himself more than we thought already. "Who's his muscle?"
"Brought in some new guys from New York. Real nasty pieces of work." Carlo wipes sweat from his forehead. "Four, maybe five of them."
I pull out my phone, typing quick notes. "Names?"
"Only caught one - Ace, they call him. Built like a tank, full sleeve tattoos."
"Time?"
"Around midnight. They're paying off the night supervisor to clear the dock."
The pieces click into place. Young Luca thinks he can muscle in before his dad's even in the ground. Time to teach him about Chicago hospitality.
"Good work." I slide an envelope across the console. "Keep your ears open, especially about these New York guys. And Carlo? You didn't hear this from me, but stay away from the port next Tuesday."
He nods, pocketing the cash before climbing back in his car. I wait until he's gone before making two calls – one to my crew chief to prep for a welcoming party, another to my contact at the port. Time to set up a proper Chicago reception for Luca's new friends.
After I'm done, I guide the BMW through familiar streets, heading back to the Vault. The evening air carries a hint of autumn, reminding me of last night - Jazz's perfume filling my car, her lips inches from mine.
She was going to give in to me. I saw it all over her face. She was leaning in, cupping my jaw, and as much as I love the thrill of the chase, I wanted her sweet, sweet surrender. I wanted her to kiss me so she couldn't deny how much she wanted it.
And then my fucking phone rang because my cousin has the worst mother fucking timing. Yeah, I'm still pretty pissed about that.
I grip the wheel tighter, recalling how I'd watched her all night at the club. The way she commanded attention, working the room in that black dress that hugged every curve. How she'd lean over the bar to talk with regulars, laugh with the staff, handle any issue that came up with effortless grace.
Just then my phone buzzes — text from my mechanic confirming he'd fixed her car this morning. Good. I like taking care of problems before they become issues, especially where Jazz is concerned.
I park behind the Vault, still caught up in the memory of her fingers brushing along my chest, so featherlight and perfect that all I could think was what will they feel like wrapped around my cock. My hand was no replacement for hers last night no matter how many times I've tried to soothe this ache in my balls.
Running the Buetis' interests should be my focus right now, especially with the Mantione situation. Instead, I'm replaying every interaction with my club manager, analyzing each loaded glance and sharp comeback. The chase is intoxicating - more than any whiskey in my private stock.
"Getting soft, Bueti," I mutter, but there's no heat behind it.
Jazz is a distraction I crave. And soon I am going to have to give into this addiction because staying away from her is driving me insane.
I step into the Vault, the familiar bass thrum vibrating through my shoes. The usual Thursday crowd fills the space — suits unwinding after work, regulars at the bar, couples hidden in shadowy booths.
My gaze finds Jazz immediately. She's behind the bar, spine straight, shoulders tense. A drunk in an ill-fitting suit leans over the polished surface, invading her space.
"Come on, beautiful. One drink with me." His words slur together. "I'll make it worth your while."
"Sir, I've already explained I'm working." Jazz's voice carries that edge I recognize — the one that says she's reaching her limit. "Perhaps you'd like to close out your tab?"
"Don't be like that." He reaches for her wrist. "I'm a good tipper."
I cross the floor in four strides. My hand clamps down on his shoulder, fingers digging into pressure points. "Remove your hand."
He twists, face flushed. "Who the fuck-"
"Now." I increase the pressure until he releases Jazz with a grunt.
"We were just talking," he sputters, trying to shrug me off.
I spin him around, keeping my voice low. "You're done talking. You're done drinking. You're done being in my club."
"Your club?" His eyes widen with recognition.
"Leo." I snap my fingers and my bouncer appears. In reality, I'd like to take this guy downstairs and show him just how little I care for his hand by cutting it off, but my desire for Jazz outweighs my need for violence. He's lucky really. "Show our friend out. Make sure he understands he's not welcome back."
Leo grabs the drunk's arm. "This way, sir."
"I didn't mean any-" His protests fade as Leo escorts him toward the door.
With him gone, I know I need to get Jazz alone. I need to soothe the anger in my blood, to see that she is unharmed.
Coming around the bar, I rest my hand against the small of Jazz's back, feeling the warmth of her skin through the silk of her top. "Come with me."
"I have work to do." But she doesn't pull away.
"It can wait." I guide her through the crowd, past the VIP section toward my office. Her steps match mine, that familiar tension crackling between us.
The thrum of bass fades as we reach the hallway. Jazz's breath catches when my thumb traces small circles against her spine. I unlock my office door, ushering her inside before following and turning the deadbolt with a decisive click.
"Nerio..." She crosses her arms, but I catch how her pupils dilate in the dim light.
"That wasn't the first time he's bothered you." I step closer, backing her against my desk. "I've seen him watching you all week."
"I told you, I can handle-"
"I know you can handle yourself." My hands grip the edge of the desk on either side of her hips, caging her in. "That's not why we're here."
She tilts her chin up, defiant even as her body sways toward mine. "Then why are we here?"
"Because I'm tired of watching other men think they have the right to touch what's mine."
Her eyes flash. "I'm not yours."
"No?" I lean in, close enough to feel her sharp intake of breath as my hand slides across her hip. "Then explain why when I touch you, you don't snap like that."
"You can't keep doing this." Jazz plants her hands on my chest, pushing back just enough to meet my eyes. But I capture her hands, keeping them planted there so she can't go too far. "This is the third time you've scared off a customer because they dared to talk to me."
I move closer, my legs straddling hers and our hips nearly flush. "He was touching you."
"I'm the manager. Dealing with drunk idiots is part of the job." Her fingers curl against my shirt. "You're going to run out of customers if you keep threatening every man who looks my way."
"Let them look. They touch you again, they answer to me."
She huffs out a frustrated breath, but I don't think she realizes that when she tugs, she pulls me closer. "I handled worse than him before you ever showed up. I don't need you playing protective-"
I can't take it anymore. I've been out of my fucking mind for so long and seeing someone else touch her has me on edge. But my hand on her hip and her grip on my shirt and the lack of space between our bodies muddles everything else until all I can think is taking what I want.
I capture her mouth with mine, swallowing her protests. Her lips are soft, tasting of mint and defiance. For a heartbeat she stays rigid, hands still fisted in my shirt. And then she melts against me with a quiet moan that sets my blood on fire.
I slide one hand into her hair, angling her head to deepen the kiss. Her tongue meets mine, challenging, exploring. She tastes like everything I've been craving. My other hand grips her hip, pulling her flush against me as I devour her mouth.
Jazz arches into me, her curves fitting perfectly against my body. Her hands slide up my chest to my shoulders, nails digging in through my shirt. I growl low in my throat, nipping at her bottom lip before soothing the sting with my tongue.
The kiss turns desperate, months of tension exploding between us. And I refuse to let her back out now as I kiss and suck and claim.
She is fucking mine, and now that she is surrendering to me, letting me take what I should have so long ago, I know that I will never let her go again.