Chapter 1 Present #2
I picked the wrong damn apartment tonight, that much is clear.
Whether I’ll be able to talk my way out of getting my head blown off is less clear.
He grabs a fistful of my jacket right between my shoulder blades and turns me around, staying behind me so I can’t get a look at him in the dark.
He shoves me forward with his free hand and I decide not to fight him, even if it does make every part of me bristle and seethe.
I take a step, then another, letting him push me through the dark.
My heart races and so does my mind, the wheels frantically spinning, looking for the best way out of this in one piece.
He walks me out of the hallway and into a room where there are windows again and enough light to see the shape of furniture. A table, chairs, an island… It’s his kitchen.
“Sit,” he says forcefully, pushing me towards the table.
That’s promising. If he was going to blow my brains out, he could have done it by now.
If he wants me to take a seat, I’ll have a chance to explain myself.
You’d think I wouldn’t care all that much whether I live or die after everything, and until this moment, I wasn’t sure I did.
But some primal instinct inside of me seems to have decided.
I’m not ready to die. Not yet. Not while a single Sleepless Reaper still haunts this city.
I grab the nearest chair and spin it around, then hold my hands up where he can see them as I take a seat facing him. He’s shrouded in the same darkness I am, but I can see the shape of his gun in the shadows and the broad expanse of his shoulders.
“Don’t move a muscle,” he demands, and I nod.
I watch his silhouette move across the kitchen, and then light floods the room.
I blink against the sudden brightness with a grunt.
When my eyes finally adjust, he’s standing in front of me again with dark, disheveled hair and hazel eyes trained on me.
There’s a snarl on his lips, but his eyes are full of wariness more than danger or rage.
I would know. I’m all too familiar with looking into the mirror and seeing the hollow look of menace staring back.
There’s something familiar about his face that I can’t quite place.
Have I met him before? Maybe in my previous life, although I can’t imagine why someone with a penthouse would have had anything to do with one of the Reapers’ junkie fuck toys.
He was clearly asleep when he heard me break in.
I drag my eyes over his nearly naked body, taking in the dark chest hair and olive skin covering his lean, toned muscles.
Just because I can’t stand feeling anyone’s hands on my skin doesn’t mean I don’t still feel stirrings of lust and the primal urge to fuck.
And maybe right now isn’t the opportune moment, with a gun still pointed at my head and my life on the line, but that doesn’t change the fact that the man who might kill me is objectively hot as fuck.
And then I notice something else… a tattoo on his left shoulder, a single word in a fancy script. Famiglia.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
I swallow hard and drag my eyes up to meet his again. I didn’t just break into the wrong apartment tonight; I broke into a Moretti’s apartment. I don’t think “fucked” even begins to cover it.
ALESSIO
I see the moment recognition lights in the depths of his eyes, and a smirk twists on my lips.
Except… if he’s only just realizing where he is, that means he didn’t break in here on purpose.
That means he’s not a Fitzpatrick or any of the other half dozen enemies of the Moretti Family. So, who the hell is he?
I tug the mask off his head and toss it aside, but seeing his face doesn’t answer any questions.
I don’t recognize him, and if I’d seen him before, I would definitely remember it.
I wouldn’t forget high cheekbones and rage-filled eyes like that.
The pink hair is pretty damn memorable too.
He stares at me with a seething kind of defiance that stirs the heat in my gut to spread south into my cock.
His backpack, leather gloves, and mask all say “professional,” but a professional couldn’t have made a mistake like this, could he?
“You know who I am?” I ask, unzipping his backpack to look inside. It’s empty except for a length of rope and a screwdriver. And it looks like the only weapon he had on him is the pistol currently sitting on my kitchen island.
He hesitates for a second, a crease forming between his eyebrows and his lips twitching like he’s fighting the urge to bare his teeth at me.
“Not exactly,” he says. His voice is at odds with his slight build, deeper and raspier than I expected. I thought the growl for me not to touch him was intentionally menacing, but apparently not. His eyes flick to my tattoo again and then back to my face. “I’m pretty sure you’re a Moretti though.”
“Smart man.” I smirk again, tucking my gun under his chin and using it to tilt his face up a little more. “Well, maybe not all that smart since you broke in here in the middle of the night.”
“I guess they’ll have to take away my World’s Best Cat Burglar award.” He lets out a huff that sounds like a laugh that forgot what amusement actually is.
I chuckle though, and he narrows his eyes with a look of pure disdain.
It shouldn’t make me hot, but it does anyway.
I guess if I got off on being loved instead of hated, I’d have died of blue balls years ago.
There isn’t much love for the Morettis in this city, but there’s money and fear, and that’s just as good.
I lick my bottom lip and let every ounce of venom in his stare work its way through my bloodstream straight to my cock, feeling it thicken in my black silk boxer briefs.
“You really expect me to believe that you broke in here by accident? That you weren’t sent by the Fitzpatricks or the Sleepless Reapers or anyone else?” He flinches a little at the mention of the Reapers. Interesting.
His jaw ticks and then some of his fury melts away, replaced with a dark look of rebellious humor. He shrugs and relaxes in his seat, letting his thighs spread and hitching one arm casually over the back of the chair.
“Believe what you want, but I don’t even know who the fuck the Fitzpatricks are. I needed to get my hands on some shit to sell, and a penthouse apartment on King Street is always a good bet. I guess it’s just my unlucky night.”
“You a junkie?” He doesn’t look like he’s tweaking, and junkies don’t usually bother with things like gloves and masks, but you never know.
He makes that huffing sound again and shakes his head. “Not anymore.”
Interesting. You’d think as one of the top-ranking members of a crime family, I would have plenty of excitement in my life, but mostly it’s the same day-to-day drudgery.
Organize a tax fraud scheme, shake down a local business owner, pay off the cops to leave us the hell alone…
Yawn. But this, a mysterious intruder in my apartment in the middle of the night, is exciting.
“What’s your name?” I ask, and he’s right back to glaring at me.
“What does it matter?”
I laugh again. “I’m asking, that’s what it matters.” I press the gun under his chin again as a reminder of which one of us is holding all the cards right now.
“Either you’re going to shoot me or you’re going to let me walk out of here.
Either way, my name isn’t going to change a damn thing.
” He leans forward, tilting his head back and pressing the fleshy part of his chin into the barrel himself.
“And if you’re going to shoot me, I’d rather you go ahead and get it over with. ”
The ice in his voice is just as potent as the venom was, and my heart beats faster. Not to get sappy or anything, but where has this stone-cold psychopath been all my life?