Chapter 4
LORENZO
The rich-looking lady, the one who looks like some billionaire’s wife, has been eyeing me ever since I passed her in the hotel bar.
When I pass again, she follows me into the single-use powder room and turns the lock herself.
I watch her do it in the mirror. Black marble floor, gold faucets, lighting so warm it’s practically a bedroom suite.
“You’re Lorenzo Ricci,” she says, her voice husky.
“I am.”
I look her over. Chanel suit. Silk stockings. Long blonde hair, the kind that costs big money to maintain.
Bored suburban lady here in the city while hubby closes another multi-million-dollar deal.
“I’ve been watching you since the lobby,” she says, “and I love your dark looks. I can’t wait to get a taste of you.”
Then she goes down on her knees on that black marble without waiting to be asked.
That works for me.
She takes her time with my belt. Looks up once to check that I’m watching.
I’m watching.
“Yes. Like that,” I tell her a minute later, my hard dick enjoying the warmth of the rich lady’s hungry mouth.
Almost a 9-star rating. Impressive.
My hands run through her hair. She hums around me, pleased with herself.
She works her tongue in a slow circle.
Then her lips close around the tip of my cock with a soft pull that makes me tighten my grip on her hair.
“Yes,” I murmur. Her fancy jacket slips from her shoulder.
She doesn’t bother to fix it.
I rest my thumb along her firm jaw.
My balls tighten, yearning for release.
But the fancy Connecticut lady’s making me wait.
She knows exactly what she’s doing, and she’s enjoying every second of it.
I like the defiance.
Yet I’m expected in the ballroom shortly.
“I don’t have long,” I tell her.
She pulls back just enough to speak.
“Then stop being such a gentleman. Show me some real action.”
I take her hair in my fist and hold her where I want her.
She moans around me, both hands braced on my thighs, and she does not let go.
When I’m close, I tell her.
“On my face,” she says. “I want to watch you do it in the mirror.”
So that’s where it goes.
When it’s done, she laughs, breathless, and wipes her cheek with the back of her wrist.
“Fun. I enjoyed that.”
I tuck myself away and zip up, as my phone buzzes.
It’s my brother.
My bride is on her way.
Max is already standing in the receiving line when I walk into the ballroom.
He’s wearing his second-best black suit. He saves his best for funerals, like the one for my Uncle Silvio a few months back.
I remember how he stood at the graveside with his hands folded like an altar boy. At the same time the priest mumbled Latin words over a man we both knew deserved worse.
But today is a happy occasion. Or so they say.
Max shoots me a knowing smile as I join him in the receiving line.
Leave it to Max to know instinctively the naughtiness that’s just transpired.
It’s a small wedding as far as this city’s luxury hotel is concerned. Just fifty people.
But only the best of the best will do for me and my family.
Waiters in white gloves move through the room with flutes of Dom Pérignon, the kind that runs more than eight hundred a bottle.
A spread of Royal Osetra caviar sits on a bed of crushed ice at the center table. Mother-of-pearl spoons lie fanned out beside it like a hand of cards.
“Getting your last minute of freedom in?” Max teases.
“Last minute of freedom?” I take a flute from a passing tray and drain half of it.
“This is a marriage in name only, Max. I still don’t know why I agreed to Dante’s ridiculous command.”
“Because you’re his bitch, man,” Max says.
We both laugh.
It’s true. But since my brother is the Manhattan family’s don, I can’t refuse him. What the Don wants he gets.
“And I wouldn’t worry. Dante resisted his own arranged wife Gina at first,” Max says. “Maybe you’ll get along with this Boston bluestocking.”
“Wishful thinking, bro. It’s just temporary. So it doesn’t matter if I do or if I don’t. I just hope I can tolerate her.”
“You tolerate everybody. You’re Mr. Nice Guy.”
“Not certain the assholes I’ve whacked over the years would agree.”
As we speak, I look over the few single women milling about.
Slim pickings in our organization.
Close-knit Italian families like ours marry off their girls as young as possible.
I’m only thirty-two, and a respected consigliere for the organization.
For more than a decade, local families have been parading their daughters under my nose hoping I’d take one of them in marriage.
They consider me a good catch, partly because Dante’s so powerful.
There are others in the community who dismiss me as a rake. A playboy.
The stone-cold killer with that charming smile.
I’ll answer to any of those monikers because all these facets of me are true.
I hadn’t planned on marrying until I was in my forties or more. Not when gorgeous women throw themselves at me in the club every night.
“You ever think of tying the knot, Max?” I ask.
“Hell no,” he says. “Don’t you remember that pact we made when we were thirteen and discovered girls?”
Girls were fresh and seductive and mysterious back then. And nothing had changed since . I’ve never grown tired of the chase.
“Have you seen your bride’s picture yet? What’s she like?”
My lips tighten as I see that picture again in my mind’s eye.
The white Peter Pan collar, the girlish spray of freckles across her face.
Even in the photo, she boasted a sassy snarl of her lips that suggested a feisty attitude to match.
And red hair indicating she’s as ornery as hell.
All I can do is shake my head at Max and flash the thumbs-down sign.
“She can’t be that bad.”
My phone buzzes. “See for yourself. Dante texted me. She’ll be here in a few minutes.”