Chapter 4
Romeo Yovanni
Despite my predatory urge to chase mia bambolina, I let my prey disappear into the crowd. It doesn’t matter where she goes; I’ll see her again tomorrow at Mario’s wedding.
My cock still throbs in my trousers from her startled little squeak as I lifted her into my arms and dragged her across my body.
Although slim, she’s no doubt a woman with delicious feminine curves.
Her breasts pillowed against my arm and her ass nestled perfectly in my lap for the briefest of moments as I shifted us around.
I tell myself picking her up and moving her away from the asshole’s groping was fueled by revenge—I’m the only one allowed to terrorize her—and cold calculation—she’ll no doubt let her guard down faster if I play the savior—but I can’t erase the feel of her in my arms.
When I bypass my driver and car instead of dropping into the back seat, he opens his door and rises to watch me over the roof of the vehicle, but I wave him away.
It isn’t until several minutes later when I glimpse my prey turning the corner that I realize my instincts kept me tethered to her.
Instead of fighting or questioning my basal self, I follow her onto the free sky train—ducking into the back of the car behind her—and wait a few moments after she exits to trail behind her.
I keep her in my sights as she transfers to the subway. She keeps her head down and steps off a few stops later, following the crowd around her through the concrete tunnel and up the stairs to the streets.
Even thrust into the bustle of New York City, she doesn’t lift her head. Her feet hit the pavement in rhythmic determination.
After turning a few corners, she begins looking over her shoulder as though she senses me trailing her.
I shorten my stride and put more distance between us. When she slows and takes a few questionable streets, I realize she has no set destination in mind.
She stops and uses a traffic light post as coverage from the foot traffic as she studies her surroundings for the first time. I find an awning to hide under and lean against the building.
An odd emotion stirs behind my sternum as wonder fills her eyes. For a few minutes, she just stands and stares.
Like most New Yorkers, a tourist’s gaping would normally annoy and frustrate me, but the only frustration I feel now is the lust throbbing in my balls and the ache in my half-hard cock.
After several minutes of gawking, she rubs her face and rolls her shoulders back before choosing a direction.
With her posture stiff and awareness on high alert, she steps into the shadiest clothing thrift store on the block.
I sigh and watch her through the dirty windows.
When I realize she’s shopping for a dress, probably to wear to tomorrow’s wedding, an idea forms. I smirk, shake my head, and pull my phone out of my pocket.
Several messages wait for me. I send an update to my closest friend and consigliere, Alan Everett.
He responds in seconds, confirming business continues as normal and no one knows of my travel or my movements.
I send him instructions, turn off my screen, then slip my phone into my pocket, trusting him to take care of it.
He’s proven himself more than capable over the years.
Even though we were violent, ego-driven street rats who butted heads when we first met in our preteen years, our gran—an old lady more stubborn than the both of us combined—stopped us from killing each other in front of her tiny, rundown corner store.
When everyone else, from family to CPS and even society as a whole, had already given up on us, she dragged us both into her shop and gave us our first official jobs.
She made sure we were both too tired at the end of the day to fight, and after several months of good food and beds of our own, we were both whipped.
Neither of us could stand to see her struggle, so we made a pact; we’d become so successful our gran would never have to lift a finger ever again. She now lives in a luxury most people can’t even fathom exists.
We may not be on the straight-and-narrow, but our business dealings are more or less clean.
You can take the rat off the streets, but you can’t take the street out of the rat.
Alan and I both agreed some things, especially our reputation and power, are worth getting your hands dirty over, so we do. Often.
The violence inside us needs an outlet.
Mia bambolina will feel mine soon enough.
Sienna turns her back to the windows.
I duck into the thrift store and saunter toward my prey. She stands holding a dress up to her body in front of the chipped mirror on the back wall. I stalk toward her and enjoy the terror in her eyes as my reflection appears behind hers.
She spins around with the dress clutched in both hands.
“Who are you, and why are you following me?” she demands.
Her eyes scan the shop, but no one dares look our way.
“Your uncle and I are close,” I hedge.
Nothing binds two men like betrayal and revenge. He and I are forever entwined. The moment he stole my bride from the altar was the moment he twisted our futures together.
“Did he send you?” she asks.
I slip my hands into my pockets and shrug.
“You could say that,” I lie, except in a warped way, he did. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Mario stealing my bride.
“Why?” she asks.
I quirk a brow and consider leaning against the nearest rack but don’t want to sully my suit on the dusty clothes.
“Why what?” I prod.
“Why did he send you?” she asks.
I cock my head and lean down until our faces are mere inches apart.
“To make sure his precious niece makes it to his wedding. We wouldn’t want the bride-to-be to go without her maid of honor, would we?”
Her pupils shrink. I lean back to read her posture, expecting her to relax, but she doesn’t. Her reaction makes no sense.
Mario invited her to his wedding. She’s his only beloved niece.
Did I fuck up somehow? Has she realized I’m not her uncle’s friend?
According to my research, my moles spread throughout New York, and the private investigator I hired, there’s no ill will between Sienna and Mario Luciano even though her father betrayed him.
The two may not have had direct contact in years, but that’s her father’s fault, not hers, and the invitation to his wedding—for her and only her—made it clear Mario still cherishes her.
Her fear makes no sense, but she squares her shoulders and lifts her chin in resolution.
“You never told me your name,” she challenges.
I smirk. She rolls her eyes—literally rolls her eyes—and changes tactics, “Please tell me your name.”
I reward her with a hungry once-over before responding.
“You can call me Romeo. I’ll call you bambolina.”
The exasperation in her second eye roll tugs my mouth into a full smile. After a double take at my face, her eyes glaze in desire. My cock leaps and heart lurches. She shakes her head and scowls but can’t hide her blush.
“C’mon, bambolina. We’re not going to find what you’re looking for here,” I purr.
She scrunches her brows in confusion. I take the dress from her, toss it over the nearest rack, grab her wrist, and tug her along behind me. After dragging her feet a few steps, she gives in and trails after me.
I shorten my stride when she struggles to keep up. No one dares to interfere as I lead my docile little doll down the sidewalk. She’s where she belongs: in my grasp and under my control.
Her pulse pounds against my fingers and her steps flag, but she doesn’t complain as I continue another block.
When I stride onto the crosswalk, she trips stepping off the curb, but I spin and wrap an arm around her as she crashes into me.
Her squeak arrows straight to my balls. Liquid fire sears the inside of my shaft, but I grit my teeth and hold back my release by sheer force of will.
She makes another startled noise as I hoist her higher against my side instead of setting her down. I continue across the road before she catches her breath to argue.
Her breasts shift against my ribs, and the juncture of her thighs rubs against my hip with every step, threatening my control, but I step onto the opposite curb and stride to the nearest building for coverage against the crowd before I set her on her feet.
Her body sliding down mine wrecks my senses and scrambles my brain.
When she wobbles, I hold her upper arms until she regains her balance.
She shrugs my hands off and pushes her hair back.
“Sorry and thanks,” she breathes.
I reach out and tuck her hair behind her ear.
“You’re welcome, bambolina.”
“Don’t call me that. I’m not a doll,” she says in a breathy voice.
I chuckle and take her wrist. Her expression sours, but I start down the block before she opens her mouth.
She digs in her heels when I reach for the door to one of New York City’s most popular high-end clothing stores.
“I can’t go in there,” she states.
“You can,” I reply.
She sighs and tugs at her wrist.
“Okay, sure, physically I can. What I mean is I won’t go in there,” she hisses.
“Why?”
“I don’t have any money,” she says through gritted teeth.
“I do,” I say.
She huffs and twists hard enough I let go for fear of bruising her wrist. There’s nothing I can do about the scrapes and bruises already marring her skin, but the healthier she appears when she attends Mario’s wedding, the better.
The more drastic her transformation after I whisk her away from his wedding, the more fulfilling my revenge.
“So? It’s not my money,” she gripes. “Even if Zio—”
“Do you really think your uncle would allow me to bring you to his wedding in a dress from a secondhand store? He’d never forgive me if I didn’t buy you the very best,” I quip.
She hesitates.
Part of me longs to toss her over my shoulder and haul her straight to a hotel room, but playing with her this way has its own appeal too, so I wait for her to decide whether we head into the boutique or to the nearest hotel.
She gives the cutest little growl and rubs her face before speaking.