Caterina
The nerve of this guy. Seriously.
He angles my head toward his—his hot breath and rough stubble on my cheek—and licks his lips. “Kiss me.”
“I won’t.” My words leech out between the loose fingers still wrapped across my face.
“Just one, and then I’ll let you go. It’s as simple as that.”
I hate him, but I hate that my body’s tempted by the idea even more. We shared an incredible night in my suite that I’ve been thinking about ever since.
I tilt my head away. Dark thoughts dance in Connor’s eyes, and I refuse to fall prey to his bullshit again.
I’m already worked up from his hand, though, and those lush lips draw me in.
So I crush my mouth to his. If I just get this over with…
His tongue probes mine with expert precision, and I respond hungrily. This kiss is even better than our first one on New Year’s Eve.
Is it the danger? The risk of being caught?
I hope not. I never thought of myself as the kind of person that thrives on that sort of adrenaline. In the short time I’ve known him, he’s brought nothing but drama and trauma into my life.
But I can’t deny that I haven’t felt this alive in…ever.
This one kiss multiplies—into two then three then ten—and one of my hands wanders to his neck before burying itself in his silky hair. I grab a fistful and tug.
His tongue pushes deeper into my mouth, and the palm of his hand presses harder into my clit, rubbing and circling with just the right pace and pressure.
My spine memorizes the contours of his chest, which rises and falls with each breath. He’s so warm, even through my coat, and everything about him is lean strength and distinct angles.
My legs relax and fall to the outside of his as my body opens up to his stimulation.
I loathe how easily I melt under his caress, but I can’t stop myself. Overwhelming pleasure surges through my veins. I crave more, more, more.
He towers over me by a solid foot, and those long, muscular limbs could easily maneuver me into any position he wants. I know it, he knows it, and my pussy knows it as the tips of his fingers taunt my opening through my clothes. Meanwhile, his palm continues working my clit.
I’m physically at his mercy, and I hate that fact as much as I love it. I want to escape, but I also want more.
As my desire escalates, I nearly bite his lip while panting against his mouth. “You need to stop. We’re not safe here…” But, oh, if he does stop…
When he teases more, I think I might die.
Still circling my clit, he pushes me back into his erect cock. I imagine him sliding inside me, his thick member filling me perfectly. Arching, I tremble as an all-consuming ache pulses in my core.
I whimper. “Connor.” With hitching breath, I pull my mouth from his. “You’re going to make me come. Stop. Now.”
His quiet laugh vibrates through my torso. “That’s the plan.” He grinds expertly. This man knows my body better than I do.
With a lethal meeting taking place a few yards away and our lives on the line, Connor pushes my ass into his rigid dick.
“Connor.” Angry, aroused, and losing my damn mind, I whisper his name into the collar of his coat as euphoria rockets through me, the wave cresting. “I’m coming, you bastard. I’m…”
I push my face right into his neck to muffle the soundtrack of my orgasm, swallowing my moans while my body convulses. The tremors fade slowly, leaving every inch of my skin tingling.
I pant on top of him for a good minute or two before snapping back to reality.
Connor’s the enemy. More than that, he’s an absolute prick. And here I am, draped all over him like a fresh snowfall on an empty park bench.
Our coats are ruined, his especially. Our pants probably are too. The garments are wetter than I am, and the chill will reach my bones if we don’t get the hell out of here.
I roll off him, and once we’re both sitting up, he gives me a cocky smile.
Itching with the urge to slap him, my palm rises without my bidding.
He grabs my wrist and kisses my knuckles. “If you want to talk about an alliance, just give me a call.”
I rip my hand free, my cheeks hot, my body still pulsing. “No, thanks.”
He smirks. “Whatever you say, beautiful.”
I get low again and peer under the car. Nino and Belinski are still talking, but I think they’re nearly done. I hear the smack of a handshake and quickly sit back up.
“Let’s go.”
Caterina
Back home, I slip into my room without anyone noticing and hop right in the shower to wash away the evidence of my shame.
I crossed a line with Connor today. Or he crossed a line with me. It’s difficult to gauge, and that makes figuring out what I’m supposed to believe so much harder.
Before we parted ways at the junkyard, he told me to call him anytime if I change my mind about partnering up.
He claims he wants to maintain a strictly professional and transactional relationship, but he can’t keep his hands off me. Is that supposed to convince me to take him more seriously as a business partner? Does he think he’s breaking me down? Is this his secret weapon? His big dick and expert hands?
It’s not enough. Even if my body aches for him, my mind doesn’t. I won’t let him get under my skin.
I shake my head as if thoughts of Connor Gallagher will magically fly out of my mind, never to return.
I truly loathe that man.
And while I have a right to hate him, nothing works to rid myself of his presence. Neither negative emotions nor a good old-fashioned head shaking do any good. Connor’s the water I can’t get out of my ear, and all the head tilting and foot kicking in the world won’t budge it.
Swimmer’s ear, that’s what he’s given me. No, swimmer’s brain.
Buckle up for the steady deterioration of your mind, your body, and life as you know it. Brought to you by Connor Gallagher.
Even if I can’t talk to my father about what’s happening between me and a certain Port King underboss, I’m hoping seeing him will soothe my heavy heart.
If our one-on-one time leads to progress where the Russians are concerned, who am I to complain?
He greenlit the ambush. Eduardo Ricci remains our boss, so there’s no way Nino acted without his blessing.
Still, I want to know why he’s siding with my brother.
Why we thought wiping out more Gallaghers would help us in the long run.
I know Nino’s stuck on his Roguilin thoughts, but I just don’t see the positives.
I’m also surprised they willingly risked Sal Padovesi’s life. I mean, I didn’t like the guy, but he spent a year in captivity and—as far as we know—never leaked a single Ricci secret.
Or maybe…Nino didn’t get Father’s permission. Not for all of it. The voicemail said “no alliance” but nothing specific about the trade.
I don’t want to believe my brother’s capable of risking the whole operation by undermining our father like that. For anyone except Nino, doing such a thing would be grounds for death…if the theory holds weight.
No.
Even in a situation like this, the possibility that my brother’s a traitor is too painful to bear. Instead, I do my best to scrub the thoughts from my mind.
Dry and dressed in a comfy lounge set, I intercept our house manager in the hallway on the main floor of our estate and grab my father’s dinner tray from her hands with a smile. “I’ve got this, Marlene.”
The tray contains two of his favorite dishes, polenta with red sauce and minestrone soup. I hope he has an appetite for once.
When I reach his bedroom, I push open his door with my hip. “I brought your dinner.”
I stop short at the threshold, the smile freezing on my lips. Nino sits at our dad’s bedside, talking shop.
Damn. I really thought he’d still be off plotting Connor’s demise. Make a whole night of it with the boys. Instead, he’s here with Father, discussing work. Without me.
“Hey, guys. I don’t mean to interrupt you, but can we take a break?” I step closer. “Father, it’s polenta and minestrone.”
“Thank you, Cat.” He smiles and waves the tray over.
I stride through the room, my eyes flitting to the back of Nino’s head. “I didn’t know you were in here, Nino, or I’d have had Marlene fix you a tray.”
He shrugs, not bothering to glance at me. “It’s fine. I ate.”
Nino ate, and our dad didn’t? I never eat before I’m sure Father has.
Stop judging. It’s not a good look on you.
I set the tray over my father’s lap. He picks up and dips the spoon into the soup, blowing on it before sipping. His satisfied expression tells me that Cook did a fine job, as always.
I sit opposite Nino on our father’s left.
It stings that they’re having yet another meeting without including me. Surely they both knew that I’ve been in the house for a couple of hours now.
Is my opinion on the Roguilin alliance too clear, too unmoving, too overbearing?
Has Nino…written me off? Is that it?
I realize the connection we shared started fraying a while ago, but I still don’t get why. As children, we shared some good times together. Then I wake up one day, those days are over, and I don’t understand what I did to cause the rift.
I just know I’m on the outside looking in. I’m standing on the road’s edge, watching Nino drive off as I get smaller and smaller in his rearview mirror.
While I’ll fight to retain my ever-shrinking place in this family, my heart’s been breaking for years. Now that I think about it, it’s not unlike what Connor said about the werewolf amoebae. Does my own family plan to exterminate me in the same stealthy fashion the Russians like to use?
The thought chills me to the bone.
I won’t let this family die. I can’t.
I’ll save my father and the Riccis, no matter the cost.
Nino crosses his legs and his arms, his fingers flicking over his rings. He’s irritated with me. For interrupting? I didn’t catch a word they said, if that’s his concern.
Considering what I overheard between him and Belinski at the salvage yard, though, I can guess the broad strokes.
I only pray my father talked him out of allowing the Bratva to use the Blue Hook Port to slaughter a handful of Irish Kings.
Father’s basically asleep now. He didn’t touch the polenta but finished his soup, so I’ll take it.
As soon as Nino realizes no more conversation will happen tonight, he rises, practically fleeing from the room. To escape me, I guess.
I move the tray, kiss Father on the cheek, and lower his bed.
Relaxed and pain-free, he appears at least a decade younger. As I study his face, vivid images from my childhood materializes in my mind’s eye.
We’re in Midtown on our way to buy a birthday gift for my mother. I’m eight, and Father’s just going along with me. He’s acting like it’s not midweek, he doesn’t have an enterprise to run, and I’m not dragging him into a toy store.
I plan to buy a giraffe I saw there around the holidays. Mother always says she wants to go on a safari. Father loves the idea. So, we purchase this stuffed giraffe, one that can stand up on its own. After that, we detour to La Maison du Chocolat for her favorite dark chocolate sea salted caramels.
I can’t recall Mother’s reaction. I’m sure she adored it. But I’ll never forget that day with Father, because every year on the week of her birthday, he’d pick me up from school so we could spend the afternoon together shopping for her. Our special day.
When a parent’s healthy, you rarely get to examine them like this. You’re not putting them to bed, not tucking them in. You certainly don’t take the time to reminisce about the past.
Nighttime comes with its fair share of stressors, such as, Will he survive the night? It brings more memories, too, and I relish them all at his bedside, grateful for what we shared.
I love him so much. He’s my everything and always will be.
I catch myself smiling as I switch off his bedside lamp, draw his curtains, and slip from his room.
Back in my own bedroom, I run the water and climb in the spa-like bath. The delicate blue walls reflect off the white tile floor, calming me.
Tonight, despite my little jaunt down memory lane and the rose-scented bath bomb I tossed in the water, I do everything but relax.
The disaster heading for my family haunts me, and I have exactly zero people I can confide in.
Nino’s out. And my father can’t handle any more stress. The last thing he needs is an in-house war between his two children.
Even though Connor insists repeatedly that I’m the only Ricci he wants to do business with, I can’t trust him.
I wish I could. Physical attraction aside, the man is cunning and astute, and as much as I hate to admit the truth, he’s correct when he says that neither Father nor Nino are currently capable of wise decisions.
This might not be the sort of problem I can solve from the background or one I can tackle on my own.
So where does that leave me?
Do I talk to Connor and attempt to strike some kind of deal? Our viewpoints on the alliance align—at least when it comes to the Russians—and he seems like the lesser of two evils. The only person who sees things my way.
Maybe…he’s all I’ve got?
Is his untrustworthy self worth the risk, though?
I rise from the tub and grab my robe. As I step past the pile of wet clothes ruined in the junkyard, my toe kicks a little black object that skitters across the cream tile.
I kneel and pick it up, thinking I must’ve popped a button, though my mind immediately insists it’s too small to be anything like that.
I roll the little circle in my palm, its smooth metal edges digging into my skin.
A tracker.
Connor Gallagher.
A scream bubbles up my throat, and I roar into a fistful of bathrobe.
The action provides the release—however temporary—that I need.
So, I am on my own.
And there’s no time for fear.
I have to move before the Riccis end up in too deep with the wrong people.