13
Luna
His scent hits me first—that intoxicating aroma from his pillow last night, only stronger now. Then his heat follows, enveloping me like a cocoon.
For the third time in less than a day, I’m surrounded by Rocky. And each time, he ups the ante. Right now, he’s pretty much x-rated, hitting all my senses at once.
Angry green eyes lock onto mine, framed by spiky lashes. Two lines appear between his thick brows, as if forbidding further exploration. But that erratic pulse at the base of his neck calls to me, and from there, it’s a free fall into temptation.
My eyes widen as they trace the tight relief of his inked torso, and my tongue darts out to wet my suddenly parched lips. Heat creeps up my neck as I catch sight of the white towel hanging incongruously low around his hips and the large bulge beneath it.
“ My eyes are all the way up here, princess,” he snaps, voice tinged with irritation and a raw edge that makes my stomach flip.
I yank my gaze up, not quite meeting his, as stinging heat rushes to my cheeks.
Yep, I deserved that.
“How many goons did you bring with you?” He asks when he finally has my attention.
I shake my head. “I came here alone.”
His brows furrow in disbelief. “Sure you did.”
“I swear, Rocky. It’s just me.”
He moves back to the door with fluid grace, then jerks it open. Finding an empty corridor, he steps back into the room and his shoulders relax marginally.
“You want to tell me why you’ve come back?” He loosens the metal beads around his fist, slipping them over his neck as he returns to block my path. Everything about his bristling stance screams “fuck off.”
Too bad. I have nowhere to go.
“I . . .” My voice cracks and I clear my throat and try again. “I need to talk to you.”
His expression shifts into something bordering on belligerent. He turns away and brushes past me into the bedroom, and I follow him, my eyes helplessly drawn to the sprawling tattoo on his back. I was right, it takes up his entire back. Something about that black skull with flaming eyes both fascinates and terrifies me. And that emerald gem in the middle of its forehead seems symbolic of something.
I tear my gaze off him, looking around the bedroom. It’s back to its pristine condition, the mess I made earlier gone like it never happened.
The re’s an open leather backpack sitting in the middle of the bed and a black trash bag gapes nearby, into which he seems to be emptying the contents of the closet. He’s leaving.
The methodical way he moves suggests this isn’t his first quick exit.
My gaze follows him around the room as he packs, trying not to fixate on the play of muscles under his skin. “I’m trying to find some answers, Rocky.”
His lips curl up in a scathing smile. “And naturally, you came to me.”
“Well, yes! I’m running low on who to trust right now—not that I trust you,” I amend quickly, “But, I figured you’re not one to pretend. And save running to Don Vitelli and throwing myself at his feet—”
He looks up sharply, something dangerous flashing in his eyes. “You’re a Romano. Nico Vitelli wouldn’t spit on you if you were on fire.”
“I know that! But thanks for the reminder, jackass.” I glare at him, fear sharpening my voice. “Why do you think I’ve been working so hard to get my business aligned to Outfit standards? To the point that the Don will be forced to give me an audience?”
I take a breath, wondering why I’m spilling my guts to a guy who doesn’t appear to give a shit, but I can’t stop the torrent of words. Maybe it’s because he’s the only one who’s shown me any truth, even if it was wrapped in indifference and danger.
“Rocky, I’ve taken every handout, every crumb from anyone remotely interested in Guilty Pleasures and some who aren’t. I’ve sent dozens of Bliss Xtra to every influencer and porn star who agreed to promote them.”
I sigh as the weight of my desperation becomes obvious. “I’m trying. I’m just not at the point where I can approach the Don for he lp without risking being shot on sight . . . which leaves only . . .”
You.
I leave that part hanging, the unspoken word heavy between us.
Rocky says nothing, continuing his packing as if I’m not even there. But the tension in his shoulders tells me he’s listening to every word.
“Where are you going anyway?”
“Out,” he snaps, continuing to shove clothes into the bag with more force than necessary.
I roll my eyes. “No shit! I hadn’t realized that.”
I draw in a calming breath, trying to steady myself. “Look, I wouldn’t ever dream of subjecting myself to your . . . company, if I had another choice. It’s just that, the last few hours have ripped the bottom out of everything I’ve known—”
“Did you tell your father?” he cuts in.
I start to pace. “Not yet. He’s not . . . Okay, look, I don’t have the highest credibility with my dad. First, being a woman—”
Rocky throws me an unreadable look.
“Well, yeah. It also doesn’t help that I’ve made . . . I keep making choices he thinks are shameful and reckless—which for me makes perfect sense—”
“I haven’t got all semester, princess,” he growls. “Get to the point.”
His tone ignites my temper. “If you’d kindly stop interrupting me, I’ll get—”
“Get to it faster,” he barks.
“You know, there’s such a thing called manners,” I retort, my fists curling at my sides. “You may want to look it up. It’s right under dickhe ad—”
And just when I think Rocky couldn’t possibly rile me up more, he does the unimaginable. He drops the towel.
Holy mother of fuck. I’m pretty sure that crash in my head was my jaw hitting the floor.
No tan lines, I notice absently. Which means he gets naked. A lot. But that’s not what sends a bolt of lust straight into my core.
I should look away, I know I should. Heck, I should probably fucking run, but my feet are suddenly rooted to the floor and my eyeballs seem to be glued to his cock.
He’s fucking huge. Cut. Veiny—like a shitload of veins. And an impossibly fat crown. My core tightens so hard I gasp.
I thought I’d seen enough models of penises before settling on Bliss Xtra, but I now know there’s room for improvement. A whole lot of room. If Bliss Xtra looked anything like that, I would have found a way to force it past that stubbornly tight channel and fucked my pain into screaming pleasure.
“You have two seconds to stop gawking and tell me what the hell you want,” he growls, and I realize he’s not putting on a show.
He’s getting dressed, fast. He pulls on a pair of thick leather riding pants with more pockets than I can count, the material clinging to his thighs like a second skin. A tight black T-shirt follows, and then he throws on some kind of tactical gear over it. The transformation from naked god to armed warrior happens in seconds.
Where was I? Oh yeah, not knowing who to trust. “You were right, Rocky. I’m in danger. Dels acted the part, but I saw right through her—”
He freezes. “You spoke to Delilah?”
“How else would I know you were telling the truth if I didn’t confront her?” I say defensively, crossing my arms over my chest.
“ Tell me something, did you also have a nice chat with Clemenza?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, I did.” I lift my chin in defiance.
He mutters, shaking his head. “Great. I blow weeks of work for you. And do you show some gratitude and do exactly as you’re told? Of course not.”
His high-handedness sends a flare of irritation through me. “Well, Clark fucking Kent, I’m sorry if I’m not your ideal damsel-in-distress! Some of us like to engage our brain even while being rescued.”
At his glower, I take a calming breath. I shouldn’t irritate the guy seeing as l need his help. “In any case. You were right. Thank you for what you did last night.”
He stills for a few moments, as if debating his response, then simply grunts.
So much for the olive branch. Undaunted by his grouchiness, I continue. “It’s just that you might only have delayed the inevitable. They’re still after me. Can you help me?”
He freezes and his eyes narrow. “Help you what?”
“Rocky, I’m begging here.” Something like heat flashes in his eyes but it’s gone in an instant. “Clemenza looked into my eyes and practically told me I was toast. And my Papa won’t listen to me. And somehow I just don’t think I’ll make a very good sex slave.”
My attempt at humor sounds hollow, overshadowed by the sob I’m desperately trying to hold back.
For the first time, there’s a softness in his green eyes as he smirks. “I’ll have to agree with you on that last point.” Then he shoulders his backpack, grabs the trash bag, and catches my hand. “Let’s go, princess.”
The warmth of his hand seeps into mine, sending an involuntary shiver up my arm before I regain my senses and try to wrench free of his iron grip.
“Hey, hold up! Go where?” I demand as he pulls me toward the door.
“If you want my help,” he retorts, not slowing down, “you’ll have to trust me.”
If Rocky wasn’t pulling me I might have doubled up with laughter. Trust him? Like I trusted Reese. Like I trusted Delilah. And Clemenza. And Papa.
As we reach the hallway, I dig in my heels. “Well, Tarzan, if you want to earn that trust, you might want to start by doing more explaining and less dragging.”
He instantly drops my hand like it’s on fire. “Fine. You can stay here and roll around in the mud you’ve tracked in.”
The man seems to have a thing for riddles. “What are you talking about?”
“You’ve brought your friends along, genius. You’re being followed.”
“How do you know that?”
“Call it a hunch.” He jerks his head toward the stairwell. “Let’s go.”
“Go where?”
“Moscow.”
“Moscow!” Panic clogs my throat like bile. “Are you insane?”
“Paris then. It’s on my way. I could drop you off with Jacques Devereaux if you prefer.”
I feel the ground shift under my feet again as red flags wave frantically in my mind. My uncle’s name in his mouth feels like a violation. Rocky knows far more about me than he should.
Does he know about Maman , too ?
Impossible. Papa sealed her records. No one except Uncle Jacques, Clemenza, Papa, and me knows about her diagnosis.
I shake my head, suddenly hyper-aware of the space between us. “Listen, Rocky—”
“Cade,” he interrupts, his green eyes pinning me in place.
“What?”
“It’s Cade. Cade Quinn.”
“You’re not Rocky Savage?”
He shakes his head from side to side, a non-answer that answers everything and nothing.
“Alright . . . Cade?” His name feels foreign on my tongue, but somehow more real than ‘Rocky’ ever did.
He grunts in response and then reaches for my hand again. “Come on, we don’t have much time.”
“Wait!” I sputter, my mind whirling. “I-I can’t just leave. I have work. And business school. And Papa. Um, No, thanks. I’ll . . . I’ll figure something out.”
Relief flashes across his face, quickly replaced by a wince of regret. Without another word, he turns to leave, his long strides eating up the space.
I follow, pulled by an invisible thread of intrigue and desperation. He wants to help but also doesn’t. The contradiction makes my head spin.
At first, I think he doesn’t realize that I’m behind him, but then Rocky—Cade pushes the door to the stairwell and holds it open for me. The hinges squeak loudly, the sound echoing in the empty hallway.
I eye the endless flights of steps below us. “You plan to go twenty-three floors down by stairs? Why not take the elevator?”
He grabs the wide banister, his large hand wrapping around the brushed rolled steel. “Let’s just say, there are a few faces I’m not ready to run into. As for you, princess . . .” A sad smile pulls across his lips as he tests the banister’s strength, “. . . I hope you learned to do this as a child. Or at least you can watch me and learn fast. Otherwise, you’re fucked. In which case, have fun in the Middle East. I hear it’s lovely this time of the year.”
I blink, taken aback. That might be the longest string of words he’s ever said to me. Apt, considering it’s a farewell speech. Before I can fully process what he could mean, he perches on the banister.
In a heartbeat, he’s off, sliding down at breakneck speed. My breath catches as he reaches the landing, expecting him to crash. But with fluid grace, he breaks his momentum, only to repeat the same sliding motion down the next flight of stairs.
The whoosh of his descent grows fainter with each passing second. I lean over the railing, trying to catch a final glimpse, but he’s already out of sight.
And then . . . nothing.
He’s gone.
“Thanks for nothing,” I mutter, trying to ignore the twisting in my gut and the sinister voice telling me that I just let my final hope of surviving this nightmare slide away.
As I turn to leave, I recall his cryptic words and an icy finger creeps up my spine. My hand hovers over the door.
. . . roll around in the mud you’ve tracked in.
. . . have fun in the Middle East.
Is that where Clemenza and Hector were planning to ship me?
Somehow, having a destination makes the whole thing more real.
Shaking off the gloom, I’m about to return to the hallway but find myself hesitating. Cade took the stairs for a reason.
With a frustrated sigh, I force myself to wait, peering through the small square window in the stairwell door. I wait until my breath fogs the glass, but the hallway remains empty. Minutes tick by, each one making me feel more foolish.
Just as I’m about to give up my pathetic attempt at espionage, the elevator chimes. The doors slide open, and what I see turns my blood into ice.
There, stepping out with purposeful strides, is the man Cade was talking to last night. Hector. His hair is tousled now, unlike the slicked-back look from the club, and he’s traded his crisp suit for casual attire. But it’s unmistakably him.
He’s not alone. Four other men flank him, their ill-fitting jackets doing little to hide the bulges of concealed weapons. A woman in staff uniform trails behind them, pushing a room service cart.
I shrink back into the shadows and press myself against the wall. My heart hammers so loudly that I’m afraid they’ll hear it. I watch as they approach Cade’s suite. Hector’s companions take up positions on either side of the door, hands hovering near their jackets. The woman steps forward and reaches for the doorbell.
“Room Service,” she calls, and a wave of nausea rolls through me.
I’ve seen enough. More than enough. Terror claws at my throat as I spin toward the stairs.
“I hope to God you learned to do this as a child. Or at least you can watch me and learn fast.”
Well, here goes nothing.
I grab the wide banister, feeling its smooth surface beneath my sweating palms. For a split second, I hesitate. Twenty-three floors is a long way down. But the alternative . . . I shake my head, banishing the thought.
Cursing my tight skirt, I slip the strap of my purse over my head, letting it dangle around my neck like a noose. Then I hoist myself onto the railing. The drop below makes my stomach lurch.
What if I lose my grip? What if I fly off at the wrong angle?
There’s no time for second thoughts. How long will it take for those goons to see that the suite is empty?
Either I do this, or I get caught. With that thought, I shut my eyes and push off. Suddenly, I’m flying.
“Oof!” Misjudging the first landing, I slam painfully into the opposite wall. The impact sends shockwaves through my shoulder, but adrenaline dulls the pain.
Gritting my teeth, I push through the burning in my palms and keep going. With each floor, I get better at timing my dismounts, but fatigue sets in quickly. The banister starts to feel like it’s made of sandpaper against my hands.
A few floors down, I’m wheezing and my arms are shaking. I consider running the rest of the way, but I know sliding is faster. Then I hear it—the echo of a slamming door and footsteps above.
Shit! They’re coming.
A fresh wave of panic claws at me as I hop back on the banister. This time I don’t stop. The rest of the floors fly past in a dizzying whirl as I ride on too much adrenaline to worry about breaking my neck.
The final dismount comes as a surprise. I hit the ground floor harder than I anticipated, but it’s the vertigo that buckles my knees. For a moment, I just lie there, the world spinning around me like a demented carousel as I gulp air into my burning lungs. Then reality crashes back.
I’m not safe yet.
The footsteps are getting closer.
Pul ling myself to my knees, I stand just as a shadow looms from the stairwell. Terror fists my heart and my voice comes out in a pathetic squeak. “Don’t hurt me, please!”
“Miss? Miss, are you okay?”
I crack open an eye to see it’s just a young guy in uniform, concern etched on his face. He’s holding a garbage sack—the same one Cade was packing. He looks about as threatening as a puppy. But after what I’ve just seen upstairs, I’m not taking any chances.
I bolt past him, stumbling into the underground parking lot. The crisp air does little to calm my frayed nerves as my eyes dart toward the taxi rank to find it empty.
Where the hell are those cabs when you need them?
I fish out my phone to find an Uber, praying for a strong enough signal. Barely two bars, but it’s enough to try.
I open the app with shaky hands. I can’t go home. Campus maybe?
But then it’s only a matter of time before my father’s people find me and drag me back home to Clemenza.
I swipe to my keypad and the numbers 9-1-1 swim before my eyes.
I may be scared but I’m not that stupid. Calling the cops would be like ringing the dinner bell for every shark in Chicago.
Cade’s words echo in my head: Tell your father.
It feels futile, but what choice do I have left? I dial Papa’s number.
It rings off.
“Pick up your phone Papa, please,” I whisper, my voice breaking.
It rings off again. And again. That’s when the tears come, hot and fast, blurring my vision. Regret burns through me, bitter as bile, as I realize I’m truly fucked. The guys upstairs will show up any second now.
I should have trusted Cade. I should have followed him. And now he’s gone.
Another sob escapes, and I don’t bother wiping away the tears.
Just then, the roar of an engine, amplified by the enclosure of the underground parking lot, makes me jump out of my skin.
My phone clatters to the ground as a huge motorbike pulls up beside me, the engine’s growl reverberating through my bones.
The rider flips up his visor, and familiar green eyes meet mine. Cade’s drawl is scathing. “Oh, look who’s decided to join the party.”
I’m too terrified, too relieved to rise to his bait. I point frantically upstairs. “Th-they were at your door. Men with guns. A-And a woman. Pretending to be room service. They’re coming!”
Cade’s expression hardens. Without a word, he snatches up my fallen phone and tosses it into a nearby trash bin with unerring accuracy. “It’s too late to call anyone now.” He holds out a helmet to me. “Let’s go.”
I eye the bike with skepticism, my heart racing. It’s a sleek black beast, all gleaming metal and power. It looks like it’s been forged from shadows and steel. The tires are thick—like they could grip the earth itself, the whole thing radiating a wild energy.
“You have two seconds before I zoom off, princess,” Cade snaps.
His words jolt me into action, but my tight skirt restricts me. Short of pulling it over my ass and bunching it at my waist, there’s no way I’m going to be able to straddle this huge monste r. So I perch myself sideways on the seat and brace both arms at my sides.
“Hey, hey!” Cade barks. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“What?”
“Throw a leg over,” he orders.
My temper, already frayed by terror and adrenaline, snaps. “Fucking make me,” I spit out, staying put.
Before I can finish my tirade, Cade swings off the bike in one fluid motion. His hand finds the hem of my skirt, and with a single sharp tug, he rips it all the way to the waistband. The sound of tearing fabric is shockingly loud in the underground parking lot.
“Are you crazy—” I shriek, but my words die in my throat as Cade grabs my leg and swings it over the bike, positioning me properly. His gloved hands are rough against my skin, and I try to ignore the jolt that runs through me at his touch.
He plonks the spare helmet onto my head, the padding pressing against my cheeks, muffling the world around me.
I’m still sputtering indignantly when Cade climbs back on the bike. He takes my hand, guiding it around his stomach. I snatch it away, but not before registering the hard planes of his abs beneath the tight-fitting jacket.
The bike roars to life beneath us, taking off like a rocket. The sudden acceleration nearly throws me off, making me throw my arms around Cade’s torso and plaster myself against his back, burying my head between his shoulder blades as we tear out of the parking lot.