Chapter 17
LOCHLAN
Neither of us says a word as we walk back to the penthouse. The kiss still burns between us… the way she grabbed my shirt, the way she pulled me back in after I tried to apologize, the way she gave up control and lost herself in me.
Like she'd been fighting this thing as hard as I have.
It’s good to finally know I wasn’t the only one losing my goddamn mind.
The elevator ride is torture. Her pulse jumps where my thumb grazes her wrist. She's close enough that I can smell her shampoo, some mix of flowers and citrus that's been driving me crazy for days.
I glare at the numbers as they light up above us.
Seconds stretch into hours before we hit the penthouse.
When the doors open and we walk inside, Reaper jumps up from his bed in the corner and darts over to us, jumping and barking. But I barely acknowledge him because all I can see is her.
Adriana bends down to pet him. His tail wags wildly, eyes popping open wide at his luck.
My eyes narrow slightly as she giggles and pulls away with a yelp after he slips her the tongue.
I grab her by the hand before she falls back into the wall.
“Oh my God, he’s so aggressive,” she says with a breathy laugh.
“He knows what he wants,” I say, pulling her to her feet.
When she straightens up, she's right there. Inches away. Close enough to touch.
“So,” she says, her cheeks flushed a deep pink. She bites down on her lower lip, her thumb absently toying with the ring on her finger.
“So.”
Her eyes drop to my mouth then slowly move back up. “We should probably talk about—”
Fuck talking.
I pull her close and press my lips to hers, swallowing whatever she was about to say.
It’s hot, hungry, and intense, nothing like the kiss on the bridge. That kiss was more of a question. This one's a statement of exactly what I want, what I’ve been craving.
And judging by the way she clings to me, her fingers digging into my back like she’s afraid I’ll disappear, she wants it, too.
I back her toward the couch. She falls back onto the massive cushion, pulling me down on top of her.
She gazes up at me through her dark lashes and trails her fingertips down the side of my face, staring at me for a long second before the lust wins out.
“Lochlan—” she breathes against my mouth.
Her back arches, her hips thrusting toward me. Her fingers find the hem of my shirt, and she yanks it up over my head then tosses it to the floor.
“I’ll stop if that’s what you want,” I say, leaning over her. My heart punches a hole in my chest as seconds tick past, my body about to spontaneously combust. But I’ll pack all that away if she says the word. I need her, but what I need more is for her to be in this with me.
Her eyes glitter as she gazes up at me. “No,” she whispers. “Don’t you dare stop. I want this.” She pauses. “I want you.”
I don’t need an engraved invitation to keep going.
My lips travel down the side of her jaw and throat, savoring her inch by inch.
Fuck, how does she smell so good even after a run in the summer heat?
When I tease the spot below her ear that makes her gasp, she doesn’t disappoint. Her moan goes straight to my cock, making it throb as it presses into her.
Her hands go for the waistband of my shorts. She loops her finger into the elastic and tugs them down when a sharp ringtone stops us cold.
“Ignore it,” I say, my mouth humming against her skin.
She hesitates, her hands still on my shorts. It rings again. And fucking again.
“It could be Luna or my mom. Or the hospital,” she murmurs. “I have to take it.”
Shit. She's right.
I pull back. She fumbles for the phone in the pocket of her leggings and checks the screen. Her whole body tenses. Her eyes find mine. My heart deflates. The glimmer of desire that glowed bright only seconds ago is gone.
Motherfucker.
“It’s Vincenzo.”
Talk about a total dick deflator. She lets me go and sits up on the couch, straightening her ponytail, tugging down her shirt. Taking a deep breath, she squares her shoulders, preparing herself for whatever he’s about to tell her.
She clicks to answer the call. “Hi, Zio. What's wrong?” she asks.
A pause follows.
“When?”
Another pause. Then her jaw tenses so hard, her teeth might crack. “I'll be there in twenty minutes.”
She hangs up and covers her face with her hands. “Those fucking bastards.”
“What happened?”
“Moretti's, the restaurant on Hanover Street, was attacked. They’re closed today but when Sonny Moretti went in to do some paperwork, he saw the damage.” She's already on her feet, moving toward the bedroom. “It was the Russians. They trashed the whole place and left a message on the wall."
“What kind of message?”
She looks at me, her lips twisting into a grimace.
“’New management coming soon.’”
Jesus Christ.
She gets off the couch and runs to her bedroom. When she comes back, she’s got a hoodie on, and her bag flung over her shoulder. She stops in the middle of the living room, scrolling through her phone.
“What are you doing?” I ask, pulling my shirt back on.
“I’m calling a car. I have to go. If I don't show up, it's a signal.
It tells every capo that I'm hiding. That I'm scared.” She slips her feet into her sneakers.
“And fuck that. Riccardo's already looking for a reason to call me weak and get everyone to revolt against me. I'm not giving him the chance.”
“I'm coming with you.”
“Lochlan, you don’t have to. This is my battle to fight.”
“This is not up for debate,” I say. “Give me a second.” I run into my room, unlock my safe, and grab my Glock 19. It’s fully loaded. Then I pull on a pair of sweatpants and stick it in the waistband.
I expect her to fight me, to tell me she can handle herself, that she's been handling herself for forty years and doesn't need a babysitter.
But she shocks the hell out of me and nods.
“Stay close,” she says, squeezing my arm.
“That's the plan.”
And if I need to take out any Russians to keep her safe, so fucking be it. We’ll battle together.
Moretti's is a family restaurant in the North End. It’s been there for three generations, under DiMicheli protection. It’s one of those old school Italian places with red-checkered tablecloths and pictures of the owner with half the city council on the walls.
I pull up to the curb and turn off the ignition, letting out a low whistle. “Fuck, they really did a number on this place.”
The front window is shattered. We sidestep jagged pieces of glass scattered all over the sidewalk.
Inside is worse.
Tables are flipped. Chairs lie on the tile floor in broken pieces. The kitchen is in shambles, shelves cracked in half, pots and pans all over the floor, jars of tomato sauce shot up, splaying the walls with chunks of red. It’s like a fucking bomb detonated right in the middle of it.
And on the back wall, sprayed in red paint just like Zio told me, is a sign that says, NEW MANAGEMENT COMING SOON.
Adriana’s mouth drops open as she takes in the wreckage, her face draining of color. But the shock only lasts a few seconds. She must realize her reaction because she pulls herself together, eyes hardening, lips stretched into a tight line.
Sonny Moretti stands in the middle of the wreckage, fear etched into his expression. He's a stocky guy in his mid-sixties, kind of a local celebrity famous for his cooking. His wife cries quietly in the corner, comforted by their daughter.
“Ms. DiMicheli.” His voice is grave and laced with panic. “Thank you for coming.”
“I'm sorry this happened, Sonny.” Adriana's voice is steady and calm. All business again. The same woman who was moaning my name twenty minutes ago is now pure ice. “We're going to handle the people who did this.”
Sonny nods. “It was the Russians. My surveillance cameras picked up three of them.
They didn't even bother to cover their faces.” He gestures at the destruction around him.
“Thirty-two years I've been here. Thirty-two years under your father's protection. And now this. What is he going to do? How is he going to protect us?”
“My father is recovering. I'm handling things until he's back on his feet,” she says.
He furrows his brows then sighs. “With respect...” He trails off before he finishes the sentence.
He doesn't have to say another word. I can see exactly what he's thinking. What they're all thinking.
She's a woman. She can't protect us. Maybe it's time to cut a deal with the new guys before things get worse.
Adriana sees it, too. I watch her spine straighten and her hands ball into tight fists at her sides.
“Sonny, I know that you’re scared.” She motions to his wife and daughter. “And I am so sorry that they came after your livelihood to bully you into working with them. But I have dealt with them before, and I will handle this as well. I give you my word—”
The front door slams open before she can finish.
I pull out my gun. “Stay here,” I say to them before I rush out of the kitchen. Three men in leather jackets and pock-marked faces sneer at me. The one in front has a shaved head and dead eyes. He steps forward.
“Well, well,” he says in a thick Russian accent. “The little boss herself. We were hoping you'd show up.”
I whip around to find Adriana standing behind me. “I told you to stay back,” I hiss.
“I’m not letting you handle this yourself,” she whispers back. “This is my responsibility.”
“How sweet,” Shaved Head says, grinning with half a mouthful of yellowing teeth. “And lucky for us that we can take out the DiMicheli boss and her useless bodyguard husband.”
I shove Adriana behind me, gun in my outstretched hand. The other two guys fan out behind Shaved Head.
“You need to leave,” I say. “Now.”
“The Molloy dog.” Shaved Head tilts his head, a menacing grin on his face. “We've heard about you. Playing house with the DiMicheli princess.” He steps closer. “Is this all your daddy trusts you with now? Being the trophy husband?”
“Last warning,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Or what? You'll shoot us?” His laughter booms. “There are three of us, and one of you. The woman doesn't count.”