Chapter 5
Chapter Five
B ianca
I watch as he walks away at the same time he’s pulling out his phone. I’m not blind. Gaetano is hot, not just a little, like a lot. Someone as hot as he is never has to work for a woman—I’ve seen it up close with Sandro.
They come and go without ever making a dent in Sandro’s bed. I’m guessing Gaetano is like Sandro and never has women in his place. Sandro keeps a room in the hotel exclusively for the women he sleeps with. Does Gaetano have a room in a hotel, or does he only go to their place?
I’m shaking my head, no thinking of Gaetano and women and the things he does with them. Because if Sandro knew I was here, he’d kill Gaetano. It wouldn’t matter if I begged him not to or swore nothing happened.
Sandro was happy when I chose to live in the dorms. His promise of helping me find an apartment when I graduated was often repeated. Sandro wasn’t mean about it, yet it was clear he was relieved I was living away from him as a way of keeping me from his world.
My head comes up as I realize he’s speaking Italian.
“You’re not supposed to know Italian.” Gaetano is above me, his arms crossed across his broad chest.
I don’t bother lying. “How could you tell?”
“It was a guess with how interested you looked. You confirmed it by not lying. Your mother told Sandro she didn’t want you taught the language.”
Whatever, lying wouldn’t help with him anyway. “I learned after figuring out Sandro spoke the language to keep me from knowing what was going on. Once Marissa wasn’t my nanny anymore, since I was home alone all the time, it was pretty easy to learn on my own. I could immerse myself in the language with television, music, and hanging out online with people around the world who were native speakers.”
An eyebrow goes up. “Hm, now that I might tell Sandro.”
“No, you won’t. Because then you’ll have to explain how you know.” I don’t hesitate to bluff.
He shakes his head. “I’ll think about it. Come on,” a large hand gestures to follow him into the kitchen. “Let’s go get your stuff.”
I’m confused. “My stuff?”
“Yeah, clothes and whatever you think you’ll need for a week or maybe two.”
“Two weeks?” Oh my god, that was so loud.
The damn eyebrow goes up again. “I’m not looking forward to it any more than you, princess. We can end this now. I’ll call Sandro, and he can come get you. Or you stay, get clean, and appreciate the choice I’m giving you. It’s your decision.”
I really hate him. Pushing up off the recliner, I stand and grab my purse from where it fell on the floor when I first came in. “Fine.”
He leads the way through the large kitchen to a door that opens to a garage. The garage is large and holds two vehicles. Both are black Mercedes, one a four-door sedan and the other a large, hulking SUV.
I’m not sure why I’m surprised when he holds open the door to the sedan for me to get into the front seat beside him. I get close to him, so close the scent of him fills my lungs. Instantly, I’m reminded of being in his arms. It’s embarrassing the way my knees nearly give out from under me as I get in the car.
I have my seatbelt on when he gets in beside me. When he turns the car on, music comes blaring from the speakers. It’s a guitar-heavy rock song I’ve never heard before.
He doesn’t turn the music down, so I get the message clearly and pull my phone out to block him out. Not a word is spoken until he’s a few blocks from campus.
A press of a button on the steering wheel lowers the music. “Where am I going?”
I direct him to my dorm. He parks right in front of the building in a handicap spot.
“You can’t park here.”
“Hurry your ass up so I don’t get a ticket.” Is his only reply.
God, I hate him. Embarrassed and worried someone would see me, I nearly run inside. In my dorm room I find it’s empty of my roommate that Sandro picked out for me. She spent almost all her time in the library, and I didn’t mind at all. While she was nice and we got along, I always felt like she was watching me and judging me when she was here.
Crap, crap, crap. I don’t have a bag big enough for everything I want to take. Emptying out my usual backpack and the one I bought originally and ended up not using because it didn’t hold nearly enough, I begin filling them. Stressed and fumbling, I grab a handful from my underwear drawer without really looking at what I’m grabbing. Then I’m in my closet.
My phone goes off with a text, it’s from Gaetano telling me to move my ass. I really, really hate him.
Outside, I find him sitting on the hood of the car. When he sees me, he stands and opens the door for me again.
“You’re a huge asshole.” I hiss at him as he takes my backpacks from me.
“I’m well aware.” He smiles at me as he closes the door on me.
Seriously, hating him is too fucking easy. We’re a few miles from his house when he finally says something.
“Are you hungry? Do you want me to grab something before we go home?”
“Ugh, no. Food doesn’t appeal. If nothing else, the stuff is still working.” The thought of food is making me nauseous.
His face becomes a thundercloud. “You used it to lose weight?”
“Duh. What else would I use it for?” Why is he angry?
“I thought it was to stay up to study and keep up with your classes. Sandro mentioned you were doing a double major and trying to graduate in four years. It’s bullshit you’re putting your health at risk to lose weight. Especially when it wasn’t fucking necessary.” The words are bullets fired from a shotgun: big, loud, and painful.
“Not necessary? Do you have any idea how much it sucks to be fat and live in this world? I’m in the bookstore studying, minding my own business...” I relay what happened with the woman. With every word I speak, I can feel him growing angrier.
He makes a noise low in his throat. “She doesn’t know shit?—”
“You don’t get it. You’re a guy. Even chubby guys get a pass, but you’re also like something out of a fucking magazine. I don’t know. Maybe I should look into surgery. My doctor shrugged me off before. When she retired, I went to the doctor the practice reassigned me to. That one was shoving pamphlets in my hand for bariatric surgery before I even opened my mouth. All I went in for was an ear infection.” I wonder if I can pretend that I haven’t gone to another doctor in the last year.
We pull into his garage and he punches the button for the large door to go down. I’m jerked out of my thoughts when Gaetano grasps me by my chin and turns my face to his. Fuck, there’s that damn shock of electricity again.
“Look at me, damn it. The woman and your doctor are full of bullshit. Do you know almost all the men who worked your birthday party spent the next week talking about you nonstop, wondering how to get between your legs? We lost three men to their stupid mouths. Sandro killed two, and I killed another. Women with your body type make almost forty percent more than the skinnier women at the brothel. Some of them can’t handle all the clients they have.”
“You killed someone for wanting to fuck me?” Out of everything he says, it’s all I hear.
Gaetano
This was a mistake—all of it. I should have hung up on her and called Sandro the minute I heard what she wanted. Scratch that. I never should have answered the phone. My only excuse was the sight of her name on my phone’s display short-circuited rational thought. Like it does every time it comes to her. Then she asked for speed, and I knew without a doubt she wasn’t asking for anyone but herself.
So I lied to get her here. I needed to figure out how badly she was hooked. Speed was one of those pain-in-the-ass drugs that were too damn easy to become dependent on, and it could wreck your ass too damn fast.
In the half-hour before she arrived I rushed around the house to wipe all the traces I had of her in my place. From the pictures on my phone, computer screensaver, and the pictures in my room and office to the apps and other stuff I have on my phone to watch her and track her vehicle.
The whole time, I lied to myself that I was doing it for Sandro. Maybe she wasn’t bad. I could warn her off the crap, and everything would be fine. The lies haven’t stopped coming—for her or me.
This is the fourth time I’ve deleted the app for me to watch her on the cameras. I only made it a week the first time I deleted it. Each time, I went a little longer before downloading it again—the last time, it was two weeks.
Every time I deleted it, I told myself it wouldn’t happen again. Then I would go too long without sleep or hate the whole fucking world, and only the sight of her would soothe my soul.
I’ve lied to her a half dozen times since she walked through the door. I’m not going to tell Sandro. For her, not him. It’s the first time I’ve ever betrayed my loyalty to a man I thought of as my brother. I could lie again since I’m getting so good at telling them that I’m doing it to protect him from the pain of feeling like he failed her. It’s not why I’m doing it, though.
It's because when she comes off this, she is going to be humiliated that she did something so stupid as to become addicted to a drug beneath her. At first, she would believe Sandro when he told her everything was fine, that he forgave her for all her sins. However, as she gained more knowledge of the world and her brother, she would see up close how strong of mind and body Sandro is. How he would never make the same mistake she had—and it would eat at her and their relationship.
Better it’s me who cleaned up this mess. I’m someone she won’t see often, or ever, if I kept it the way I should. It won’t matter if she can’t look me in the eye if she never sees me. If there is something I can give her, I want to do this for her.
She’s doing it again, twisting up everything inside me by looking up at me with wide eyes filled with curiosity and fear. It’s the fear that gets to me. She should be afraid of me. This girl has no idea how badly I want her. If she did, she would run screaming from me—or she should. Except I have a feeling she wouldn’t. Too young, too trusting, too much of everything I want and can’t have.
I drop my hand from her chin and get out of the car. I’m not going to get through the next week if I keep touching her. The moments holding her in my arms were heaven and hell. Months of tortured dreams combined with the need to hold her again were answered, and fuck me, the reality was worse because it was better than the memory and dream.
She follows me into the house.
“What do you want to eat?” I need something, anything to do to distract her and me from how badly I want to touch her again.
Her beautiful face scrunches. “I’m really not hungry.”
“When was the last time you ate?”
It’s clear she’s trying to remember. Before she can lie again, I shake my head. “You need to eat something. Your body is going to have a hard enough time going through the withdrawal—it will need as much fuel as you can give it. At least try some bread with butter, or I made some tortillas last night and a pot of beans?—”
“You made tortillas and beans?” Is an exclamation more than a question.
The chuckle comes out of me before I can swallow it. “And if you’d let me finish talking, I would have also said rice. What’s with the shock?”
She shrugs with a grin. “I don’t know a single man who has ever made anything except a drink unless they have to.”
“Ah, my mother never gave my brothers and me any choices. She had us in the kitchen the moment we were old enough. Then she pissed off my dad by teaching us Spanish as our first language instead of Italian the way he wanted her to.”
“That’s kind of cool, though, teaching you guys to cook. If Sandro wanted a drink, my mom rushed to make it for him. He and my dad never lifted a finger to take care of themselves. Sandro admitted after she first died, he had the hardest time figuring out how to work the stove to cook something for me. Once, he said he’d love to take the time to learn to cook, but he never has.”
I remember those weeks right after his mom died. He was stressed out about feeding Bianca, mainly frozen dinners he could throw in the microwave, and wondering if he was doing anything right.
“I don’t cook often, but I like having fresh tortillas, rice, and beans in the house. All three are easy to make, and you can do a lot with all of it. There are also times when I’ll go weeks without wanting to eat a single bite of any of it and I eat out. It depends on my mood. Last night, I wanted some refried bean and cheese burritos, so I cooked.” I give her my own shrug.
Tilting her head to the side, she studies me. “Your mom was Latina? How many brothers do you have? Do you have any sisters?”
I grab her backpacks from her and take them into my room. She follows me and hesitates at the open door of my room. “I’m not going to make you sleep on the hard-ass bed in the guest room. I picked the hardest bed I could find so my brother wouldn’t sleep over. It’s not great for longer than a few days, but I’ll live. You’re not going to sleep easily as it is.”
Hell will come tonight, knowing she’s sleeping in my bed where I’ve dreamed of her for months.
Her smile is small and sweet. “Thank you for letting me sleep in here. I’ll admit I’m a baby. I can’t even sleep on the couch for longer than ten minutes because it’s so hard. How many brothers do you have, any sisters?”
“No sisters and two brothers. My mom was from Mexico City. Her father was a professor of microbiology. She was supposed to follow in his footsteps. Then, she came to Las Vegas for a week of fun before starting university. Instead of fun, she was robbed. My father found her and her best friend crying. He spoke Spanish, due to it being a help for some of our employees, and stopped to help them. She never went back to Mexico.”
“How romantic. Your dad saving your mom like that.”
Her eyes are sparkling. I don’t want to dim the light, except I have to. If I don’t, she’s only going to see the good and won’t even think of the bad. Bianca believes in happily ever after. In things that don’t exist—at least not in the real world. Or maybe it does in the civilian world, but it doesn’t exist in the mafia.
“Maybe in the beginning. Twelve years in, she offed herself on her birthday. My father never met a woman he didn’t want and couldn't get. For him, it was almost a compulsion—he admitted he hated cheating on my mom. Yet he also admitted the longest he went without cheating was maybe six or seven months at a time. There was also the fact he was basically a functioning alcoholic. Mom was done because he once again forgot her birthday and was out with his girlfriend.”
Bianca loses her smile and that sparkle in her eyes. I hate it and wish like fuck I hadn’t said a word. Only there’s no taking it back.
“It wasn’t the first time she tried. She overdosed on pills on my tenth birthday. The only good thing about this time was she did it outside the house—they found her in the park down the street from our house. That time, she used a gun.”
“I’m so sorry.” The words are an exhalation of air. A hand goes up to my arm.
I shake my head and back away from her. No. If she touches me, we’re both completely fucked all the way to hell. “Nothing to be sorry for, princess. Now, what do you want to eat?”
“I guess a bean and cheese burrito will work.” She shrugs and looks around my room.
“Coming up. I’ll leave you to get sorted.”
I’m almost done when she comes into the kitchen. “We need to go to the store.”
“Why?” I don’t shop.
Her forehead knots. “Because you’re an asshole. You made me hurry, so I forgot the important stuff like deodorant, toothbrush, shampoo, and conditioner—basically my bathroom stuff.”
Fucking hell. I don’t shop or clean more than the basics. Estelle is the housekeeper I hired when I was fifteen for my brothers, so they would have someone to clean and cook for them. All these years later, she splits her days between me and Nico. She was here earlier today, so she won’t come for another three days.
“Fine. We’ll go later.”
“So, when did you move in here? Why is your place so empty?” She’s looking around the kitchen. There’s a small table to seat four in the large kitchen. Since I like to cook, my kitchen looks like it. There’s a stainless steel two-door refrigerator and a gas stove that costs what most people make in a year.
She takes in the dining room where I have my workout room of a weight machine, free weights, a punching bag, and a treadmill. With my office, library, and needing a spare bedroom for Dario, the only room that made sense for my workout room was the dining room—since I wasn’t going to have people over to need a dining room.
“It’s a way of keeping my brother from coming by and getting comfortable.”
“You said before you had brothers plural. What about the plural?”
“Nico doesn’t leave his place…” I shrug, not really wanting to go into what happened. There was an incident, and he’s scarred up pretty badly. “He runs the cameras and security for the Outfit. My other brother Dario is a pain in the ass. If he had his way, he’d be here all the time.”
“Huh.”
“What?”
She shrugs. “It’s sad that you have two brothers, and you don’t want anything to do with them. With it just me and Sandro…well, it felt like just the two of us since my mom. Anyway, I always wished I had more brothers, and a sister would have been awesome. Are they not good people or something?”
Shit. As much as Dario annoys me, she’s not wrong. I would be even more miserable without my brothers. “It’s not that exactly. Dario can be a pain in the ass, he always wants to fucking talk. About our mom, our dad, life, and shit. I prefer to be left alone.”
“So what do you do all alone? Play video games or watch television?” She roams around the living room. Her cry of excitement sends my head up. “You have an e-reader. You’re a reader?”
Nodding, I take the plate into the living room and put it on the table beside my recliner. “Yeah, my mom was. She had books all around the house. After she died, I started reading them.”
Taking the plate from me, she sits down in the recliner. Her nose scrunches adorably. “It looks good. I’m really not hungry.”
“Eat it, or I call Sandro and let him put up with you.”
Hurt flashes in her eyes, and she sighs. “God, you’re such an asshole.”
“That’s me,” I mutter as I go into the guest room and grab the recliner Dario bought me for Christmas a few years ago. Since he bought it for himself, I made him take it into the guest room.
I carry the recliner into the living room and find her going through the e-reader as she munches on the burrito.
Eyes wide, she watches me. “I can’t believe you carry that like it’s nothing. Like, how much do you bench press?”
“Three hundred pounds. If you behave, I’ll let you use it to read. As long as you don’t download any of that romance crap.”
“Whatever. I don’t read that stuff.” She rolls her eyes at me. “I read what you do. That Irish author is one of my favorite authors. I’ve read everything he’s written, including his books about the kid who saved the world from the satanic cult.”
I lift an eyebrow up at her. Despite being relieved she wasn’t going to download any of those stories, there’s something wrong with her not wanting to read romance. She is too young to have lost the optimism to believe in a romance. “You don’t read romance?”
“Ew, no. The women are either doormats, constantly falling over their own feet, or bitches. And the men are wimps who don’t know what the hell they want. There are so many other more interesting things to read than romance.”
The urge to argue won’t leave me, except I like arguing with her, so it’s the last damn thing I’m going to do. Snagging the remote from the table, I turn on the television and look for something to capture her attention.
“So, like, what do you do for the Outfit? Are you the one who cuts the coke here in Vegas?”
This girl, I can’t believe she’s asking me this shit.
“What? There are so few men beyond basic soldiers, and I know you aren’t a soldier—well, yes, but no. You aren’t one of the guys who goes around breaking legs and killing people. You’re too high up with Sandro, so I’m curious. I mean, isn’t that why you’re called the pharmacist?”
“That’s why you called me. You thought I would have drugs because of my stupid nickname.” I loathe the bullshit of nicknames in the mafia, but everyone has one—whether we want one or not.
She shrugs. “Well, duh.”
“While I might not be an enforcer called on to kill daily, I do it as needed and have no problem with it.” I’m not going to hide what I’ve done. The better for her to be aware of who she’s dealing with.
The brat rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, you’re a big, mean, scary mafia guy. I get it.”
Brat. I bite my cheek not to laugh. “When I was younger, my dad wanted to get into cooking meth. He wanted to present it to Luca already done, so he could give timeframes and costs. I was fascinated by it, so I learned how to make it for him. As you know, Luca said no to meth. My dad did come up with cutting our coke with aspirin over the crap we used to use. His idea increased purchases. I suggested using caffeine pills to increase the buzz almost a decade ago, so now the stuff that goes to our less important clients gets aspirin, and our best clients get caffeine pills. While I oversee our cocaine shipments at times, it’s not my main business. I clean our money.”
“How do you do that?” Chocolate eyes go wide.
The last thing I want to do is talk, to look into her eyes and get lost in them, but as I speak, she’s eating without thought. So, I give in. “Mainly, real estate and art. My father-in-law was into property buying and selling, and he had a few multi-family properties. When he died, I took over his business and found that it was a better way of cleaning money than restaurants, clubs, and the usual cash business. I have a real estate management company. It comes out of the real estate company clean.”
Stiffening, those eyes go to my left hand. “Father-in-law? You’re married?”