Il Lupo
Evelyn
The last thing I felt like doing was going to see Dante’s infamous grandfather, but since I was stuck here until the annoying oaf that was Dante Marcelli decided to take me to a safehouse, I couldn’t find a reason to refuse.
Besides, I’d liked the old fox, and I’d sensed he’d liked, or at least approved of, me.
As far as I was concerned, he and I were finished. Finito.
And there was no way I was moving to a safehouse, I thought sourly as I made my way downstairs with an ever-alert Kyle by my side. I pictured an impersonal, nondescript property somewhere off the grid, and shuddered. The cabin had been bad enough.
I was a willing participant in his family’s diabolical take-down scheme now, and no longer a victim. I absolutely, one hundred percent refused to be treated like one.
“I’m sorry you had to give up your Saturday to drive me around,” I apologized to Kyle, as we climbed into the SUV. He was missing out on important family time.
“It’s not a problem,” he said, shutting the door after me.
I liked Kyle. For a former soldier turned mercenary, he was surprisingly well-adjusted. Apart from the minor issue of working for Dante Marcelli, of course. But that questionable life choice aside, he seemed like a genuinely decent man.
I’d learned over the last couple of weeks that his wife’s name was Lilian and that their baby boy, Astro, turned six months old next Tuesday. Apparently he’d been conceived while they lay stargazing in the back of Kyle’s pickup truck somewhere in rural Pennsylvania.
The huge ex-military tough guy had actually blushed when he told me that part.
It was so romantic, and I was so not imagining Dante doing something like that. The guy didn’t have a romantic bone in his irritatingly beautiful body. And definitely not in a stargazing kind of way.
No. Dante was more a “strip me naked and ease my tension on the kitchen counter” kind of guy. The thought made my insides tighten.
No. No. NO.
I was absolutely not going to think about the last time he’d made me come. Or the last time we’d slept together after the shooting. How tentative he’d been. How patient. As if he’d wanted to erase the horrors of the parking garage attack and replace them with something life-affirming.
I shook my head. I was giving the bastard too much credit. He’d probably just been thinking about sex. Using the opportunity to his advantage.
Ugh. There I was doing it again. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t get the gorgeous idiot out of my head.
I guessed, in a way, I understood why he was pulling away. His family was at war, and things were getting messy. He needed to focus on what was happening out there, not on me. Not on a woman he’d had a brief but passionate affair with and didn’t need anymore.
That part had been true. My role was over. I’d played my part and now he and his ruthless family had no more use for me. Apparently, that meant in his bed as well as to bring down Los Santos Rotos.
He’d told me I couldn’t leave because it was dangerous, but that was a lie. I knew the real reason was because I was a liability.
I knew things. Dangerous things.
If I took my “inside” information to Malakov or to the cops, I could make life extremely difficult for the Marcellis.
It was tempting, I had to admit. But I was all too aware of how swift their punishment would be. I doubted I’d survive a second time.
Besides, how could I betray Dante?
The man I loved.
I gasped as the realization smashed into me with the force of a wrecking ball. At some point during this wild, crazy journey, I’d fallen head over heels for my broody, emotionally stunted, yet impossibly gorgeous captor.
Being with Dante was unlike anything I’d ever experienced before.
It wasn’t just the orgasms, although he was extremely good at providing those, it was the intensity in his gaze when he looked at me.
The heat that spread over me when we kissed.
The utter joy I felt when he was buried deep inside me, like he belonged there.
A sob caught in my throat. Damn it. How could I have fallen for the one man I despised more than anything else in the world? The man who’d ruined my life, destroyed my career, wrecked everything I’d built up over the years. It was so… inconvenient.
When Kyle glanced in the rear-view mirror, I cleared my throat and tried to appear normal.
“You okay?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yeah, thanks. Just don’t want to be late.” I glanced at my watch. We had plenty of time.
The display blurred in front of my eyes.
Shit. The watch he’d given me.
The gold chain-link strap glinted in the early morning light that shone through the SUV’s window. The pale face glowed softly up at me. Mocking me.
It was beautiful. I hated it.
I regretted not hurling it at his head.
“I’ll get you there on time,” Kyle reassured me, breaking into a smile. I blinked, momentarily forgetting what we were talking about. “We won’t keep Il Lupo waiting.”
Leo lived in a restored limestone townhouse on the Upper East Side overlooking a quiet, tree-lined street. There were no wrought-iron gates or electric fences. No winding driveway or mansion, as I would have expected from a retired mafia don.
“This is where he lives?” I stared out of the window. It was luxurious, but elegant. Though there were definitely security cameras. They were placed discreetly, but not out of sight. A deterrent to prospective invaders, maybe?
Two armed guards stood outside the front of the house, and I imagined that with what was going on right now, there would be more at the back. They stared wordlessly at the street, their muscular frames tense and alert.
Kyle exchanged a nod with one of the guards outside before leading me up the front steps.
“I’ll wait in the vehicle,” he told me. “Take your time.”
“Thanks, Kyle.”
A dark-haired woman in her mid-forties, wearing a neat pantsuit with stylish court shoes, her hair tied back in a chic bun, opened the door before I’d even knocked. I froze, my hand suspended in midair.
“Miss Cruz,” she said matter-of-factly, her gaze darting to the security guards and then Kyle, who had gotten back into the SUV and was watching me through the window before finally settling back on me. “I’m Giselle, the house manager. Mr. Marcelli is expecting you.”
She didn’t look like any housekeeper I’d ever seen. More like a corporate bodyguard, and I was sure that was a gun-shaped bulge under her blazer, but I nodded politely and followed her in.
The interior was breathtaking. Unlike Dante’s hotel-like suite with its sleek masculinity and modern edges, Leo’s home felt lived in. It was warm, with rich walnut paneling lining the walls and enormous oil paintings hanging beneath antique brass sconces.
I stopped and stared up at them. “Wow. These are amazing.”
Giselle just smiled benignly and waited for me to catch up.
I recognized some high-value pieces but kept my questions to myself. Giselle didn’t seem like the chatty type, but hopefully there would be an opportunity to ask Leo about them later.
We entered the sitting room, and I spotted Dante’s grandfather sitting in an armchair reading a book. He got awkwardly to his feet as we entered. I noticed his cane beside his armchair, but he didn’t use it.
“Mr. Marcelli, I have Miss Cruz here to see you.”
“Thank you, Giselle,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “I think we’ll have some tea.”
She gave a curt nod and disappeared back to wherever she’d come from.
“You must excuse Giselle,” he said, gesturing for me to sit in the vacant chair opposite him. “She was a Sergeant Major in the army and takes her job very seriously.”
I could see that. Taking a seat, I glanced at the bookcases filled with all kinds of books, the matching leather armchairs with footstools, and a beautiful red and gold rug that I was pretty sure was authentic Persian.
On the walls were even more exquisite artworks. It smelled faintly of espresso, cigar smoke, and oil paint.
“You have a lovely home,” I said, turning back to him.
“Thank you. This is my private sitting room. I have a more formal area for guests, but this is much cozier.”
“I’m flattered,” I said, my gaze drifting upward to a majestic early Hockney hanging above the marble.
It depicted the sun rising, or maybe setting, over the French Riviera.
The pastel pinks, mauves, and turquoise seemed to contain an inner glow that I loved.
It made me think of faraway places and summer vacations.
The weight of my predicament crashed down on me. I swallowed hard and tried not to show how devastated I felt.
“I got it at an auction in London,” he told me.
“Excuse me?” I blinked at him.
“The David Hockney.”
I nodded, my sluggish brain catching up. “It’s a stunning piece.”
“But you also have some very lovely pieces in your gallery,” he said.
“I do, but I’m sure you didn’t invite me here to talk about art.”
He chuckled. “I like your directness, Evelyn. May I call you that?”
“Of course. May I call you Leo?”
“I’d be offended if you didn’t. Now, how about some tea? Or would you prefer something stronger? I won’t judge.”
Il Lupo was good at reading people, just like Valentina. Maybe she’d learned from him. “Tea is fine, thank you.”
“Shame. I was hoping for an excuse. Never mind. Maybe later.”
I managed a small smile, but I doubt it reached my eyes.
“How is Dante?” he asked, leaning back in his chair.
I frowned. Dante? Is that who he wanted to talk about?
“He’s fine,” I said through gritted teeth. Dante was the last person I wanted to discuss. In fact, if I never saw him again it would be too soon.
“It’s a trying time for all of us, but Dante takes it harder than most.”
“Really? Why?” I asked reflexively, then cringed. Not that I cared. What Dante did or thought was no longer a concern of mine.
“He was always a sensitive kid, but he had this spark. Like he wanted to be more than the family, you know?”
“Is that why you call him Fuochino?” I asked.