Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Luca
T he wind had bite coming off the water, and at this height, it struck with force. It cooled the fiery rage burning my cheeks and whipped the loose strands of Siobhán’s hair into a frenzied halo. Her pointed fingernails dug into the skin beneath my jeans. She clung to as much of the fabric as she could, pinching it between her bony fingers. She pressed her back into my front, trying to get as far away from the edge as possible, and rested her head on my shoulder.
The gaping maw of the Charles River was pitch compared to the bright lights of the docks. I stared into the void, and a gust of wind delivered the sweet scent of Siobhán’s hair.
I sat on the bench behind the stripper pole at Vesuvio. Siobhán ground her ass into my lap. She leaned back and rested her head on my shoulder. I nosed her neck beneath her ear and drank in her luscious scent.
She shivered. I tightened my grip around her waist.
“Please, Luca,” she whispered. “Please believe me.”
A flicker of reflection off the docks pierced the blackness beneath us, and her pleas, barely audible above the wind, pierced the blackness of my heart. After everything the Shaughnessys had taken from me, after all Siobhán’s lies, part of me wanted to believe her.
I lowered my lips to her ear. “If it wasn’t for your family, I’d still have a father.”
She’s a Shaughnessy, Luca.
“If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have been tortured.”
She lied to you. She lied to Marco.
“If it wasn’t for you, Marco wouldn’t have disowned me.”
That’s all that matters.
My pounding pulse and the wind whipping across the bridge muted her soft sobs. She shook in my arms.
I’d killed before. Without remorse. I’d kill again. Especially now that I was part of Vinnie’s crew.
But doubt gnawed at my resolve, and sentiment stung my chest.
Another gust slammed into us. Her body jerked as if falling, and she wrapped her hands around the backs of my thighs, clinging to me—her captor, her killer—as if I’d save her from pitching over the edge.
Siobhán falling…
Her body disappearing into the void…
My arms tightened around her, shocking the hell out of me and making me furious.
I moved to release her, to avenge my father, but my body wouldn’t obey. Instead, I lowered my nose to her hair. Peaches and cream and Siobhán. The sting in my chest transformed into a deep ache that reached my deadened heart.
I inched forward, closer to her end and my revenge.
Bright lights flashed in my periphery. Over my shoulder, two pairs of headlights sped toward us.
“Cazzo,” I mumbled under my breath. I hadn’t expected the bridge to be completely empty, but I also hadn’t expected my plan would take this long.
I looked down. Siobhán’s pale face was wet with tears, her eyes and lips squeezed shut.
My gaze snapped back to the bridge. One of the cars slowed as it passed. I blinked hard and another set of headlights appeared in the distance.
“Goddammit,” I spat.
The headlights crept closer.
No good. Too many eyes.
“Cazzo!”
I lifted Siobhán by the waist and backed off the ledge and onto the shoulder. I set her down and moved to open the passenger-side door, but she fell to her hands and knees, collapsing under her own weight.
“Fucking hell.” I hoisted her to her feet. She sagged, limp and shaking, and sobbed in my arms. I maneuvered her into the car and her feet away from the splattered vomit. What a fucking mess.
I slammed the door and got in on the driver’s side. I reached across to fasten her seat belt. “You’re really going to make this as difficult as possible, aren’t you?”
She buried her face in her hands, and her shoulders shook through each pained sob.
For one unhinged moment, instinct grabbed me by the thread of empathy left in my heart and dragged me forward, urging me to wrap my arms around her and kiss her tears. Tell her I’d make everything okay.
No fucking way.
I forced myself back, pulled on my seat belt, and turned the key. The Ferrari roared to life. I revved the engine, threw it in gear, and peeled out onto the bridge. The tires shrieked with fury.
My foot pressed the accelerator. My hands strangled the wheel. What the fuck was I going to do now? I hadn’t considered a Plan B. My torment was supposed to end with Siobhán Connelly plummeting to her death from the bottom deck of the Tobin Bridge. Yet there we sat—me no closer to ending my vendetta, and her glassy-eyed and sniffling in my passenger seat.
We exited the bridge onto an empty stretch of toll road and headed north toward Saugus—Vinnie’s territory and my house—even though I had no fucking clue what I was going to do when we got there.
I needed to calm the fuck down. Getting pulled over by some crooked cop would make the night infinitely worse. I eased off the gas.
She crossed her legs away from me, wrapped her arms around her middle, and rested her forehead against the window. We passed beneath a streetlight, and her reflection in the glass showed a face glistening with tears and smudged makeup. Only a fraction of her hair remained bound in her short ponytail. The rest fell to her shoulders or stuck behind her ear. A rumpled, distraught version of a woman always so put together.
I should have pushed her over the edge and been done with it.
But those fucking cars.
And the way she clung to me. The sweet smell of her hair.
Cazzo!
Memories sped toward me, a bullet train with its horn blaring, and there was nothing I could do to get out of the way.
* * *
Vesuvio was busy for a Wednesday night. It was early enough that the downstairs bar was full. I figured I’d grab a drink and people watch before heading upstairs. Good decision on my part. I would’ve missed her had I come in the back. Would’ve missed our one night together before everything went to shit.
I spotted her as soon as I walked through the door. But I would’ve spotted her a mile away in a sea of people. That’s how it was with us. Like magnets.
Siobhán’s hair was pulled back into a tiny ponytail. She didn’t usually wear it that way. It exposed the full length of her creamy neck and made her stunning features even more arresting. She had an angular face, heart-shaped with a pointed chin and high cheekbones. A porcelain canvas for pale blue eyes, a button nose, and ruby lips. Not too plump and not too thin, she always painted them red, and when she tossed her head back in laughter, they parted to reveal a bright white smile with a front tooth just crooked enough to add character. Her eyes sparkled when she smiled, and the bar lights danced across the field of blue like moonlight over crystal water.
Her style was singular. I’d never seen her outside of Terme di Boston, and apparently her flair for retro fashion didn’t stop at the resort’s doors. She wore a pair of ’50s-era high-waisted jeans above vintage, kittens and a cropped long-sleeved sweater that accentuated her lithe frame. Christ, she was gorgeous. A modern-day Grace Kelly but with a devilish side that belied her angelic features. And with her tight little body and the exposed skin of her collarbone and neck, my fangs ached and my dick twitched, desperate to sink into every inch of Siobhán Connelly.
We were finally going on a date. The main event was scheduled for Saturday night. After a year of flirting and lunches, I was ready to make my move, and as luck would have it, I might not have to wait until Saturday.
She walked toward me, chatting with two other women I wouldn’t be able to pick out of a lineup if I tried. Siobhán consumed every ounce of my attention, and as if drawn to me by the uncanny connection tying us together, her focus shifted from her friends to me.
Our eyes met. Hers grew wide and sparkled with delight. I smiled, so broad and genuine it hurt my cheeks. She stuck the tip of her tongue between her teeth and scrunched her nose. God, I was one lucky fucker.
She grabbed her friend’s arm and mumbled something into her ear. Her friends glanced at me furtively, said their goodbyes, and walked past me to the door.
I met her where she waited with one hip cocked and a smirk on her red lips. “It must be my lucky day,” I said. “Buonasera, Siobhán.”
“Hello, Luca. Did you just get in?”
“This morning. I need a couple drinks if I’m going to power through the jet lag. Care to join me?”
She laughed, and the sound sparkled as brightly as her eyes. “The bartender just announced last call. Good luck finding a place that’s open on a weekday in this town.”
I placed my arm around her shoulders and spun her in the opposite direction. “This place doesn’t close as early as you think,” I whispered into her ear and ushered her toward the back of the club.
Her brows pinched in confusion, and I winked.
Matteo stood in front of the roped-off spiral staircase. The upstairs patrons knew to come in the back, but Marco kept a man inside to make sure no one wandered where they shouldn’t.
“Ciao, Luca! Come va?”
“Ciao, Matteo. Bene, bene.” I clasped his hand and kissed his cheeks. “Just here for a couple drinks.”
He eyed Siobhán.
“It’s okay. She works for Marco, and she’s with me.”
He flashed a smile and gave me a nod. “è bello vederti, fratello.” He unclasped the rope and stepped to the side. “Prendiamo qualcosa da bere mentre sei in città? Okay?”
“Assolutamente,” I said and slapped him on the shoulder. I glanced at Siobhán. “After you.”
She eyed me warily but started up the metal stairs, giving me a view I did not mind.
She stopped when she reached the top and took in Vesuvio’s second floor with a mixture of surprise and apprehension. “What is this place?”
I stepped up the remaining stairs and stood next to her. Despite the action on the first floor, Marco’s illegal gaming club was unusually slow. Only one card table worked in earnest, and a couple of guys watched sports highlights at the bar. None of the girls were on the pole.
“It’s…” I rocked my head from side to side. “An after-hours club. Members only.”
She arched one of her perfectly sculpted eyebrows.
I shrugged a shoulder. “You’re the GM of my zio’s flagship resort.” I leveled her with a serious look. “He trusts you. I trust you.”
“Gotcha.” She made a zipping gesture across her lips. “The NDA I signed when I started working at Terme was epic.”
I laughed. “No doubt.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t say anything.” Her lips twitched around her declaration, and the wariness reached her eyes. They darted around the room as if she’d walked into a lion’s den and was looking for an escape. “Besides, Marco has been nothing but good to me.”
“Come on,” I said and pressed her forward. “Let’s get a drink.”
We sat at the bar, and her tension eased as we talked about Marco, Terme, and the resorts I operated in Italy. We drank. We laughed. Conversation came natural and easy, and after a year of thirty-minute lunches, coffee breaks, and quick how-are-yous, we didn’t stop until we’d drained two cocktails a piece and were the only ones left in the club. I was wide awake with jet lag, and Siobhán didn’t appear to be flagging at all.
“You want another one?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” she said with a sultry turn to her voice.
I gave her a once over. “I don’t know where you put it.”
She laughed and swatted my arm. “I’m Irish. I have a reputation to uphold.” She stuck the tip of her tongue between her front teeth, and fuck if I didn’t want to kiss that mischievous expression right off her face.
“Enzo.”
“Yeah, boss?”
“Grab us another round and then you can go for the night. I’ll lock up.”
His eyes darted to Siobhán and back to me. “You sure?”
“I’ve got it.”
“All right,” he said. He pulled the bar rag off his shoulder and pointed it at me. “Don’t fuck up my bar.”
I chuckled and held up my hands. “We’re going to play some pool, then we’re outta here.” I looked at Siobhán and raised an eyebrow.
“Yes!” She hopped off the barstool, made a beeline for the pool table, and started racking the balls. I stared after her in awe.
She’s perfect.
Enzo poured a dirty martini and raised an eyebrow, the slow movement full of judgment.
“Relax,” I said and sipped my scotch.
He washed out the shaker, put it in the drying rack, and grabbed his keys off the back counter. “Later, Luca.” He walked around the end of the bar toward the break room.
Siobhán started chalking a cue. I handed her the martini, and we clinked glasses. “Salute.”
“Sláinte,” she replied with a wicked grin and sipped her drink, never breaking eye contact.
I set my scotch on one of the high tops. “You want to break?” I rolled up my shirtsleeves.
She shrugged. “I’ll do my best.”
She placed the cue ball on the felt, lined up her shot, and without releasing me from her mischievous stare, broke.
The balls scattered across the table in a perfect break. Siobhán walked around the end of the table and lined up her next shot. “Stripes,” she declared and sank the number fourteen in the far corner pocket.
I laughed. Hard. “All right, all right. Consider me schooled!”
“Oh, the schooling’s just begun.”
Absolutely perfect.
She lined up her second shot, and with a lift of her hip to get the right angle, sank the number nine in the near-side corner pocket. She spun her head to look at me, tongue between her teeth and nose scrunched in that adorable expression of hers that drove me wild.
I shook my head and chuckled. “There has to be a story here.”
“Not a very thrilling one,” she said dryly. “I worked my way through college at a pub in Cork.” She stood across the table from me on a diagonal, holding the cue upright in front of her, and examined the felt playing field. “Number ten. Side pocket.” With swift efficiency, she sank the ball.
She walked over to where she’d left her martini waiting on the high top next to my scotch, leaned against one of the stools, and sipped it delicately. “Depending on the shift, I had a lot of time on my hands.” She shrugged. “Started playing with some of the regulars. They gave me tips.” She placed her drink back on the table. “I got better”—her wicked smile returned—“and then I was the one giving tips.”
I snorted. “I have no doubt.”
She stepped up to the pool table and frowned. “Hmm.” She shifted her weight and tilted her head. “Thirteen. Near corner.”
She bent over the table, and my body reacted on impulse. I stepped behind her on the opposite side of her cue, placed a hand on the side rail, and leaned in.
She sucked in a quick breath and looked over her shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to learn from a master. I want to see how you line up a shot.”
“You wouldn’t be trying to distract me, would you?”
I wiped the smile from my face and covered my heart with my free hand. “Never. That would be cheating.”
The corner of her mouth lifted in a wry smirk, and she turned back to her shot. I lowered my hand from my heart to her hip and gave it a gentle squeeze. The ball ricocheted off the far rail and rolled toward the near-corner pocket. It tapped the edge and bounced slightly to the left before coming to a stop along the rail on the short end of the table.
She spun around and glared at me even as her lips twisted, fighting a smile.
“My turn,” I said.
She threw her head back, and her throaty laugh filled the club.
I scoped out my shot and tried to focus on sinking the ball. Not easy with a semi-hard from standing behind Siobhán with her ass in the air.
“Why don’t we make this interesting,” she said and brought the martini glass to her lips. Her eyes glinted over the rim.
“Yeah?” I refocused my attention and sank the number two. I walked around to the far side of the table and lined up my next shot.
“Loser has to give the winner a lap dance.”
I scratched; the cue slipped out from between my fingers and brushed the side of the cue ball.
She chuckled, and a wicked smile danced across her sinfully red lips. She looked past me. “I felt inspired.”
I followed her gaze to the stripper pole on the far side of the room. I turned back to face her, grinning at the challenge. “Oh, you’re on.”
“I’ve never seen a man your size give a lap dance. You sure you want to take this bet?”
I strode back to her side of the table, and she eyed me like a rival predator tracking an alpha it knows it can’t defeat. I’d seen the way she looked at me over the past year. The heat in her blue eyes when I smiled. The hope that sparked in them when I finally asked her to dinner. The way her lips parted whenever we touched. We’d teetered on the precipice of inevitable since the moment our eyes first locked across the Terme di Boston lobby. Anticipation had built into a frenzy, and with only a couple days until our date, any motion was bound to send us tumbling over the edge.
I closed the distance, not stopping until I hovered over her. A few strands of hair fell out of place and caught in her lashes. I swept them away, more slowly than necessary, and her lips parted at the brush of my fingertips across her forehead. “I’m feeling lucky tonight,” I said and lowered my head enough for her to feel every degree my blood heated from our closeness. “I have my little shamrock, don’t I?”
She sucked in a breath. Pink tinted her porcelain cheeks, and her heart sped up, its beat thumping over the sudden rush of her blood. Her chest rose and fell more swiftly. So did mine.
“Want another drink?” I asked and backed away, needing to douse the flames with another round of scotch.
“Please,” she croaked and cleared her throat. “Yes, please.”
“It won’t be as good as Enzo’s.”
I mixed a quick dirty martini while Siobhán examined the table, then made my way back to our felt-topped battlefield.
The game slowed, each of us taking our time to consider options, line up shots, and stand too close to the other. Or right in their line of sight.
Siobhán sank the thirteen; only the eight ball remained. An easy shot for someone with her skill. She’d have to bank it off the rail, but after what I’d seen, there was no way she’d miss.
“You better pick out some music,” she teased. “It’s hard giving a lap dance without a good beat.”
I groaned and downed the rest of my scotch, swallowing my pride in preparation for… Fuck, I didn’t even want to think about how ridiculous I’d feel, much less look.
She pulled back her cue and took the shot. The ball kissed the rail, rolled to a stop just short of the pocket, and hovered at the lip. Time froze waiting for the ball to drop over the edge but slammed back to full speed when it didn’t.
“Nooo!” Siobhán squealed.
“No fucking way,” I whispered.
“Goddammit!”
“Ha ha! Yes!”
She slammed her pool cue into the rack. “Winning on an eight-ball scratch isn’t something to be proud of.”
“A win is a win, baby.” I waggled my eyebrows above my best smarmy smile.
She rolled her eyes.
“And a bet is a bet.” I crossed the club to the bar and turned on the satellite radio, selecting the station the girls used on slow gambling nights. “There.” The sultry beat of a deep bassline filled the club. “Oh!” I dimmed the lights. “Perfetto.”
She glared at me.
I laid the self-satisfaction on thick with an easy stride to the leather bench behind the raised platform with the stripper pole. I eased myself onto the plush seat, leaned back, and threw an ankle over my knee. I reached into my left breast pocket and pulled out my cigar case.
Siobhán walked across the club, lips pressed together, martini glass dangling from red-tipped fingers. I cut, lit, and puffed a cigar to life. She stopped next to one of the booths to the right of the platform and cocked a hip.
“Whenever you’re ready.” I sipped my scotch and raised my eyebrows over the rim.
She plucked the olive out of the glass, shot back the rest of her drink, and set the empty glass on the table. As if easing into a hot bath, she took slow, steady steps in time with the music until she stood on the platform in front of me. She leaned back against the pole and brought the toothpick to her parted lips, wrapping them around the olive. Her eyes danced with mischief as she eased it off the toothpick and into her mouth.
My dick throbbed with a sudden influx of blood. I pulled hard on my cigar, hoping the sting would temper my raging desire. I refused to let myself get hard from being teased with a fucking olive.
She tossed the toothpick and swayed her hips like a pendulum, each movement a mesmerizing arc of seduction. She dragged her hands up her body to her hair and pulled out her ponytail. Her short blonde tresses fell around her face in a golden halo. She gripped the pole behind her and slid down its length, never stopping the hypnotic rhythm of her hips.
I wanted to claim Siobhán like a goddamn animal—grab her by the hair, thrust my dick between those swaying hips, and sink my fangs into her neck. Unsettled, I shot back the rest of my scotch and hoped it would stop my fangs from descending.
She slinked back up the pole and moved toward me, lips parted beneath hooded eyes. I removed my ankle from my knee and spread my legs. She stepped between them.
I brought the cigar to my lips, an anchor in the storm of Siobhán. Smoke swirled between us. It danced in the low light of the club and did nothing to calm my desire and everything to make the scene more sexy.
She shoved her fingers into her hair, tilted her face to the side, and bit her bottom lip while performing the same move she’d performed against the pole—swinging her hips and slowly sinking between my legs before rising back up to standing.
“Lap dance rules apply, Mr. Moretti,” she said, low and husky. “Hands to yourself.”
I lifted both hands in surrender, cigar between my teeth.
She smirked and placed her hands at the top of her hips, circling them. She turned with each little arc until her ass was in front of my face.
I braced myself, palms flat on either side of me, wishing I had something to hold onto.
She glanced over her shoulder. Her red lips parted, and her hands twisted in her hair as though in the throes of ecstasy.
My dick strained against my slacks, fully erect and aching for release. Temptation plagued me, the urge to impale her with every rock-hard inch of my desire testing my restraint. But I held on, determined to let her continue her game of seduction, let her know who was in control.
The beat picked up, and the mood shifted with it. The air crackled with urgency like we’d transitioned from foreplay to the main event. Siobhán moved faster, and her hands slid down her legs to rest on her thighs. She braced herself there and, with a flip of her hair, thrust her ass back and down until it hovered above my lap.
With each circle of her hips, her ass brushed my erection. And just when I thought I couldn’t take anymore, she braced herself on my thighs, dug her fingertips into my quads, and lowered herself down.
I grunted, a stilted sound from trying to cage the animalistic growl percolating in my lungs.
Her head snapped around, eyes wide and smile knowing, and ground her ass into my hard-on. The friction was everything I needed and nowhere near enough.
“Fucking tease,” I growled.
My fingers twitched around the cigar. I brought it to my lips, not wanting her to know how close I was to losing control.
She laughed and pressed herself into me, wiggling her ass as she did it. “A bet is a bet,” she purred and leaned back until her head rested on my shoulder. She tilted her face enough to see me, putting her lips dangerously close to mine. “Just holding up my end of the bargain.”
Siobhán filled my senses. The weight of her body. The movement of her hips. Her smell. I buried my face in her hair and nuzzled her neck beneath her ear. The sweet, fruity scent of her shampoo cut through the cigar smoke and enveloped my world.
“You missed on purpose, didn’t you?” The question came out hoarse, barely above a whisper.
She replied with a husky chuckle that reverberated through her back and into my chest. “You did call me your little shamrock.” She slid down my front until her biceps rested on my thighs, then twisted around and knelt between my knees. “Looks like your good luck charm worked.”
Holy fuck.
She unbuckled my belt with slow, methodical movements.
I sucked down my cigar, needing to do something with my hands and calm the heat racing through my blood.
She unbuttoned my slacks.
I set the cigar in the ashtray and pressed my palms into the bench on either side of my thighs.
She pulled on the zipper, achingly slow, and raised her eyes. They burned with seduction and desire. With a final tug, the minx lifted the corner of her mouth in a devious smile.
She reached into my boxers and pulled out my dick. It jerked at her touch and became impossibly harder. She wrapped her delicate fingers around its base and took in my size. Her pupils dilated with genuine surprise, and she licked her lips. She met my eyes and held them—held me—and ran her tongue up my hard length from its base to where pre-cum leaked from the tip.
My hands fisted in a desperate attempt to maintain control, but when she wrapped those ruby red lips around the head of my dick, I groaned, deep and guttural. My body tensed and relaxed with the sweet release of having Siobhán Connelly worshiping my body as surely as I worshipped her.
* * *
I cracked the window, blinked my eyes, and rolled my shoulders, pissed at myself for letting the image of that Shaughnessy rat get the better of me. That had happened a lifetime ago before I knew the truth—before I knew about her lies.
I exited the highway and stopped at the light at the end of the off-ramp. Siobhán sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve. She sat up straight, but her puffy eyes and smudged mascara destroyed the perfect picture she painted for the world.
My anger resurfaced at what might have been had she not turned out to be a two-faced rat. I strangled the steering wheel, not sure what was pissing me off more—Siobhán’s bullshit or the memories that had tormented me for over a year.
The light turned green. I stepped on the gas.
Wide lawns, white picket fences, Cape Cod houses—the suburban sprawl north of Boston all looked the same. The only differences between neighborhoods were the upkeep of the lots, the size of the houses, and the kinds of cars parked in the driveways. Most of Saugus housed working-class families—a lot of Italians—who’d escaped the city to find safe, affordable housing. But there were pockets of affluence, and that’s where we were headed.
I knew better than to speed on Walnut at that time of night, but it made the short drive off the highway slower than I wanted. I turned onto the narrow, wooded road on the outskirts of the Lynn Woods just south of Walden, and the ache of nostalgia crept up my throat. The familiar pang of loss that hit every time my mind wandered to my father reared its unwelcome head between the highway and my house. His house.
The two-story colonial at the end of a cul-de-sac overlooked Birch Pond. It was set back from the others, providing an unobstructed view of the water from every south-facing bedroom. I’d grown up in that house, at least for the first six years of my life. My father purchased it for my mother after he found out she was pregnant. He’d wanted to make it our family home. “Your mother always wanted a quiet house on the water,” he used to say, his eyes distant and expression pained.
Fate had other plans for us Morettis.
I eased the Ferrari up the driveway and into my garage, the door open and waiting for what was supposed to have been my victorious homecoming. Instead, I turned off the car and stared out the windshield in silence, an unwelcome silence interrupted by the pops and clicks of a settling engine and Siobhán’s fingernail tapping against her teeth.
What the fuck was I going to do now?