Mafia Bodyguards Obsession (Ruthless Chicago Mafia Kings #5)

Chapter 1

SARA

“Don’t look now, but I think one of those bodyguards is looking at you.”

Halle, my coworker, is about as discreet as a kid in a chocolate factory. Her whisper is the urgent kind that doesn’t quite do what it says on the tin, and I don’t need to glance up to know that she’s full-on staring at the bodyguard in question.

I keep my head down, focus on the hands of the woman sitting in front of me.

Long, slender fingers. Tiny, tapered nails.

Hands that don’t match the rest of the body, as if the owner decided a long while ago that her hands were her best feature, and she’d look after them no matter what.

She’s a regular customer at the nail salon where I work. She got Halle’s message too.

And she isn’t the only one.

He’s been staring at me since he walked through the door. Motionless. Hands behind his back. Feet planted squarely in his usual spot near the entrance, with a display of sparkly, pink and gold acrylics on the window directly behind his head, framing him like a halo.

Not that I’ve been staring right back at him.

More the occasional glance, head down, trying too hard not to make it look obvious.

But it’s hard, you know, when the guy is an actual giant with shoulders that you can imagine crying on, abs that would lift a truck, and hips that…

well… make me imagine things I have no business imagining.

Especially at work.

When my forehead might as well carry a sign that reads: SHE’S IMAGINING WHAT HE LOOKS LIKE NAKED, FOLKS.

He’s been coming here regularly, every third Friday, for the past six months.

With Gia Rossi. His boss. And every third Friday for the past six months, he’s been standing in the same position watching me like he’s afraid I’ll pull a gun out from underneath the rack of nail polishes and try to assassinate the woman in his protection.

Who am I kidding?

It’s more the kind of look I assume the lion would aim at his prey directly before he sinks his teeth into their throat.

I’m not quite sure how to feel about it.

I mean, the guy is a heavyweight hottie, straight out of the Dirty Dancing mold.

Patrick Swayze eat your heart out. Because this guy rocks the tight, black pants (nope, definitely not going there), black T-shirt (too late), and leather jacket bad boy look (kill me now) like he owns the rights to it.

But it’s the intensity of the stare that has me squirming in my seat whenever he’s here.

I wish he would tell me what’s on his mind and be done with it.

Then, I could get on with my nail art, make small talk with my customers, and act like the butterflies inside my chest are nonchalantly taking a raincheck.

Gia Rossi, the woman who brings the hulking bodyguards with her to get her nails done, laughs brightly.

I glance over at Mary’s station, where Gia admires her new, shiny silver talons with a black lace design like spider webs crawling across several of them and tiny diamantes on the pinkie nails.

I imagine her in a floor-length, slinky black gown, raking her talons across the shoulders of every other heavyweight hottie in town at a gala event because women like Gia Rossi can get away with that level of flirting.

Everyone knows that Gia Rossi, sister to Elio Rossi, is connected as well as drop-dead gorgeous.

And everyone knows that Elio Rossi is the head of an international mafia family, and he’s not only richer than God, but he’s extremely protective of his little sister.

Gia, Elio, and I went to high school together. Well, not exactly together. They’re a few years older than me, and Gia never even knew my name until I started working here, but from what I can remember, she doesn’t need bodyguards.

Despite the glossy hair that probably gets the salon treatment every three weeks too, the glossy scarlet lips, and the silver talons, she can take care of herself pretty damn well.

I guess it comes with the territory, you grow up with danger lurking in every corner, it must become second nature.

Like how I head straight to the bargain basket at the front of the grocery store when I run out of food.

I finish up on the easy mani I’m doing and collect my tip.

After, I grab my phone, using Insta as a distraction between clients from the bodyguard staring at me like I’m some important influencer with a million followers, instead of a nail technician with an entire reach of ooh, let’s see, seventy-five.

Halle slides her chair over so that our shoulders are almost touching. “Seriously, Sara, he hasn’t taken his eyes off you.”

“Shh,” I hiss. “What if he can read lips or something?”

“Then he should read this. Ask. Her. Out. Dumbass!” She enunciates every word clearly, exaggerating her lip movements and making me giggle.

Halle is the same age as me, and she has literally been dating her boyfriend since ninth grade.

In Halle’s world, boy meets girl, boy kisses girl and tells her that she’s the only one for him, and they live happily ever after in a neat house with a wide porch, an apple tree in the front yard, and enough rooms to accommodate all the babies they’ll have together.

She has no clue about the real world. Not that I’m an expert.

I rarely make it past first date because I like men with clean nails, decent dental hygiene, and respect for women, and guys round here seem to lose the memo the instant they reach adolescence.

Or perhaps their mommies convince them they’re perfect just the way they are.

I poke Halle in the side, and she squeaks. “What was that for?”

“I don’t need to go out with guys in the mob!” My lips barely move, but I hide my face anyway. The last thing I want to do is get on the wrong side of a guy who could crush me with one huge, meaty fist.

She dismisses the comment with a wave of her perfectly manicured hand as if she knows what’s best for me. “But they’re like the fancy mob. They’re actually Italian. Not like the De Lucas.”

“Hey. The De Lucas are nice.”

“You’re biased because Caterina was your only friend in math club.”

It’s true; Caterina De Luca and I were the only girl Mathletes at our high school.

I only escaped being teased through every meeting because she took me under her beautiful, designer-clad wing and acted like I was her equal.

The boys in math club might’ve been geeks whose best friends were numbers, but they understood what would happen to them if they crossed a De Luca.

There were times when I would’ve liked to see it happen, but I was content to have Caterina on my side instead.

They left us alone, and our unlikely friendship blossomed between math quizzes and fangirling over Zac Efron and Tom Holland.

Unlikely, because girls like Caterina De Luca are usually cheerleader and Mean Girls material, while girls like me…

Are not. For starters, my favorite fashion trend is whatever I can find in the thrift store, and my mom never waited outside high school for me in her Range Rover with limited edition interior and wheels that reach my waist.

Then, as predicted by every high school teacher who knew us, Caterina got to take her math knowledge to college, and I work in a nail salon in town. Last I heard, she was about to graduate with an accounting degree, with half of her CPA exams already passed.

I could’ve gotten into college if I wanted to pay for it myself.

But existing seemed more important at the time, and I quite enjoy going to sleep at night with some food in my belly, and a roof over my head.

Even if the neighbors upstairs practice their satanic rituals after midnight by stomping around the bedroom until four a.m., and my go-to meal is grilled cheese with pickles.

So, I stayed here in Staten Island. Living in my mom’s basement apartment.

Saving tips in a washed-out mayonnaise jar, hoping that someday I’ll be able to do something with the money that doesn’t involve paying bills and maintaining a beaten-up old Ford with a handbrake that moves around like a game controller.

Someday.

“Oh my god, Sara, he’s coming over here!”

I peek at the man through my eyelashes, and it takes everything in me not to gasp.

He is coming over here. The butterflies in my chest are checking him out too, and oh boy, do they like what they see.

This guy is tall, taller than he looks from across the salon. Like, so tall that if I was standing up to my full height, even in heels, the top of my head would barely reach his collarbone.

He’s got dark hair that’s buzzed close against his skull, and tattoos that climb up his neck, weaving into his short hair in a way that gives me absolutely no doubt that his head is covered in ink too.

Not that I’ll ever know for sure. Since, you know.

The height and all.

Halle squeaks again and then, like the traitor she is, zooms away on her rolling chair.

For a second, I have no idea what to do. I keep my eyes down, staring at the guy’s shoes.

They’re combat boots. Like the kind that soldiers wear. But there’s a whole lot of dirt and a stain that looks suspiciously like blood on one of them, and I gulp.

“Hey.”

Oh Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

His voice is deep. It rumbles through me in a wave that lights up every nerve ending in my body, and I don’t know how I stop myself from crossing my chest and saying a few Hail Marys at the same time.

Not that I ever attend church. Or pray. Or even believe in Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

This guy is the kind of hot giant that would make a gal forget her own name.

I look up. It’s like dragging my eyes up the Empire State Building, all 102 levels.

Christ.

He’s got green eyes. Green eyes like those pictures you see in brochures of the ocean in Thailand, and Bali, and the Maldives.

In a face that looks like heaven and hell got together and decided, hey, you know what, why don’t we make someone who is built like a tank and give him the eyes of an angel.

Just to confuse the poor little nail technician a little more.

His lips quirk into a smile, and my stomach practically leaps into his arms. “I’m Romeo.”

Oh, fuck me. His name is sexy too. Or at least it is the way he says it like it’s dripping off the end of his tongue.

I wonder if he lives up to the name. I mean, it happens, doesn’t it?

Names become part of a person’s persona.

For instance, if my mom had named me Angelina, I too might have grown up with perfect cheekbones and a pout that would launch a thousand ships.

He stares at me until I realize he’s waiting for me to give him my name too. “Sara.” The way my voice squeaks is a dead giveaway that he’s doing things to my insides that no one should be able to do fully clothed.

“Sara,” he repeats.

He should be arrested for saying my name like that. Or, if I get arrested for public indecency because I’m throwing off my clothes right here and now, I should at least record it to be used later in my defense.

“I’ve seen you here before,” he rumbles.

“Well. I mean. I do work here,” I stutter before I can stop myself.

God, I’m totally screwing this up. I have no idea how to talk to a man this attractive.

I’m not on his level, not by a long shot.

I don’t look like Gia, or Caterina, who are both glossy and stylish and amazing.

My shoes don’t have shiny red soles. And I don’t know anyone who would threaten him with a horse’s head in his bed should he disappoint me in any way.

Not that he could ever disappoint anyone.

But I’m just… Sara. My hair is in a messy bun, I haven’t worn lip gloss since I experimented with nude colors when I was like thirteen, and I’m wearing a tracksuit. It matches (I’m not a total wreck) but my own nails aren’t even done, and I work in a freaking nail salon.

For a moment, I convince myself that he must have the wrong person.

Then, he says, “Do you like ice cream?”

I look over my shoulder, but there’s no one there of course, because I work at the rear of the salon with my back to the wall. I blink. “No.”

His face falls like I just informed him that I’m not allowed to talk to giants.

“I’m lactose intolerant,” I blurt out. “I eat sorbet instead.”

Oh. My. God. Did I just tell him I’m lactose intolerant? I want to mentally slap myself. Good work, Sara. There’s nothing sexier than telling a man you get an upset stomach around dairy.

I’m already preparing myself for another night alone in my basement apartment with a family-sized packet of potato chips and a Netflix serial killer documentary when he says, “I know a place. They do shaved ice. Let’s go.”

I gape at him. I must’ve misheard because of the blood gushing in my ears. But he’s studying me with what can only be described as eagerness in his bright green eyes, and I couldn’t turn him down, even if I wanted to. Which I don’t.

“Like right now?”

His eyes flicker. “When are you done?”

I glance at the clock. “An hour?” My voice tilts like he knows the answer.

“I’ll be back then.”

He drifts back over to the other bodyguards. Gia’s talons are duly sharpened, she pays Mary, and they leave.

But on the way out she turns around and winks at me. In slow motion. Like this is a movie scene slowed down for dramatic effect.

After the door shuts, Halle squeals, “Did he just ask you out?”

“We’re getting shaved ice.” I think.

I can’t remember the last time a man asked me to go on a date. Perhaps the rules have changed while I’ve been holed up in my apartment waiting for Zac Efron to discover my existence.

It’s all a bit of a blur, and I’m starting to wonder if I imagined the whole conversation.