4. Gio
Gio
Her dark hair is a wild, fragrant silk across my bare chest, carrying the scents of lavender, rain, and the rich, bitter aroma of roasted coffee beans.
In the dim, golden light of the dream, Lina lies beneath me on a tangle of white sheets.
Her skin is hot, flushed a deep, breathless pink, her chest heaving as my hand glides slowly along the bare, smooth curve of her inner thigh.
She isn't running from me. She isn't glaring at me with that sharp, defensive fire in her eyes.
Her fingers are buried deep in my hair, pulling me down to her, her lips parted as she lets out a soft, broken whimper that goes straight to my groin.
"Gio," she whispers.
The sound of my real name on her tongue hits me hard.
I crush my mouth to hers, tasting her, tasting her sweetness, the heat of her throat as she arches into my touch.
My hands grip her hips, pulling her body flush against me.
She is incredibly soft, yet she wraps her legs around my waist with a desperate, crushing strength that leaves me breathless.
I slide my hand down, my fingers finding the wet, slick heat of her core. She gasps into my mouth, her body shuddering as I touch her, her hips rolling instinctively against my hand.
Piccola. I can't wait. I line myself up against her and drive deep inside her in one heavy, solid thrust.
She screams my name, her head flinging back into the pillow, her throat exposed and beautiful.
The friction is tight, and suffocating. I pull back and drive into her again, establishing a hard, rhythmic pace that makes the bed creak and the walls blur into a gold haze.
Every slide of my skin against hers is torture and mercy at the same time.
She moves with me, her hands clawing at my back, her breaths coming in ragged, high-friction gasps right against my ear.
I feel the tight coil of her climax beginning to squeeze around me, pulling me under, dragging me closer to the edge than I’ve ever been. My own blood is roaring, my jaw clenched so hard my teeth ache as I prepare to let go—
Then the lavender smell curdles.
A metallic stench of iron and wet copper floods my throat. I look down, and the pale skin of her chest is suddenly wet, stained with a blooming, violent red. Her eyes go dull, the life evaporating from them like mist.
"Gio," she gasps, but this time it isn't a whisper of want. It is a wet, choking rattle.
A gunshot cracks through the silence, deafening and cold.
The gold light shatters. Suddenly, I am seven years old again, standing in the dark, smoke-filled study in Palermo.
My father is coughing blood onto the polished mahogany desk, his hand reaching out to me, his fingers staining my sleeve red.
Behind him, my uncle Matteo stands in the shadows, his face twisted into a slow, mocking grin as he raises a silver pistol.
“You can't save her, Giovanni,” his voice echoes, booming through the dark. “You'll lose her just like you lost him.”
I lunge forward, screaming, but my feet are frozen to the floorboards.
I gasp, my eyes snapping open as I sit straight up in the dark.
My heart is slamming against my ribs like a trapped beast, my breath coming in short, ragged clawings. The mattress is damp beneath my back, my skin slick with cold sweat that makes the freezing air of the bedroom bite like needles.
I look down. I am naked, my body rigid, my cock fully hard and throbbing with an intense, unspent ache that actually hurts. My hands are clenched into fists, my knuckles white in the dark room.
I let my head fall back against the headboard, closing my eyes as I drag a hand down my face.
Cazzo. This is a complication. A massive, dangerous complication.
When I agreed to Enzo's plan, I told myself she was just a checkmate piece on the board.
A necessary asset to be secured, handled, and placed on a throne to validate a crown.
I expected an ordinary girl I could easily manage.
I didn't expect this. My body and my mind are completely blindsided by the raw, kinetic pull of her.
My reaction to her on that sidewalk—the lightning-fast shock of catching her, the feel of her soft, curved frame flushing flat against my chest, and the sheer, intoxicating heat of her skin under my touch—has completely rewired my senses.
I am entirely out of my depth with how beautiful she is, and how badly I want to unravel that stubborn, defensive fire in her eyes.
I am craving her with a visceral attraction that has absolutely nothing to do with the strategy or the family contract.
And that makes me weak. A distracted enforcer is a dead enforcer.
I glance at the digital clock on the nightstand.
03:14 AM.
I slide my legs out from under the heavy wool blanket, my bare feet hitting the cold, hardwood floor.
I don't turn on the lights. I don't need them.
I know this apartment down to the millimeter.
I mapped every floorboard before I moved a single piece of furniture in, noting which ones creak and which ones are silent.
I walk into the dark living room, where three sleek computer monitors glow with a soft, blue light on my desk.
I sit down, my fingers tapping the keyboard.
The screens flicker, displaying high-definition live feeds of the street below.
One camera is tucked into the wooden awning of The Mug & Page across the street.
Another is hidden in the rusty fire escape of the boutique next door.
The third is aimed directly at the front entrance of our apartment building.
I pull up the saved footage from five hours ago, the moment she locked up her shop.
I zoom in, my eyes locking onto her face.
On the screen, Lina is pulling her bright yellow raincoat over her green sweater.
Her movements are quick, efficient, but there is a soft, graceful rhythm to them.
She sweeps the floor, aligning the wooden chairs with the edges of the tables.
Then she walks to the back door. She jiggles the lock twice, waiting a second, then jiggles it again.
A habit, I note, my chest tightening. She does it to reassure herself. She’s checking for safety.
She steps out into the rain, tucking a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear, her shoulders hunched against the wind.
She looks so small. So fragile. In Palermo, a girl like her wouldn't last a week without three guards shadowing her every step.
But here, she walks alone in the dark, carrying a small cardboard box of pastries like they are the most important thing in the world.
I lean closer to the monitor, my thumb brushing the glass right over her cheek on the screen. A dark, possessive warmth pools in my stomach.
I reach into my desk drawer and pull out my encrypted satellite phone. I press the speed dial for the secure Palermo bridge and hold the receiver to my ear.
It rings once before a gravelly, tired voice answers.
"Speak," Dante says.
"It's me," I say, my voice low and flat. "I'm secure."
"Hold," Dante mutters. A second later, a loud, metallic clanking sounds on the line, followed by the dry chuckle of Marco.
"Gio," Marco speaks up, his voice echoing. "How is the land of bad weather and lobsters? Did you find the little princess, or did she run you over with a bicycle?"
"We made contact," I say, my eyes still fixed on the screen. On the monitor, I watch Lina turn the corner by our building, her head down, her boots slipping slightly on the wet cobblestones. "She’s here. Directly next door."
"And?" Enzo’s heavy, gravelly voice enters the bridge. I can hear him exhaling cigar smoke on the other end.
"She runs a bookstore, and is completely unmarked by our world."
"A librarian," Marco snorts. "Jesus, Gio. Did you use the Palermo charm on her? Did you do the brooding-enforcer thing?"
"I ran into her on the sidewalk," I say, watching the playback of our collision.
On screen, my dark figure strides out of the alleyway.
I watch myself plow into her shoulder, sending her spinning.
I watch my hand shoot out, catching her arm, hoisting her up against my chest. "Literally.
Smashed her pastries and muddied her books. "
"Smooth," Marco laughs. "Very romantic. I'm sure she’s writing your name in little hearts in her diary right now."
"She hates me," I say, a small, dark twitch of amusement touching my lips as I watch her expression on the monitor, the fierce, defensive glare she gave me, the way her chin tilted up in defiance. "She told me I was arrogant and rude. She snapped at me for calling her piccola."
"She snapped at you?" Dante’s voice is suddenly sharp, interested. "A civilian girl snapped at the family enforcer?"
"She doesn't know who I am, Dante," I say, my voice going cold. "To her, I am just 'John.' An asshole who bought the apartment next door. And that is exactly how it is going to stay."
"For now," Enzo cuts in, his voice carrying the heavy weight of forty years in the syndicate. "But the clock is ticking, ragazzo. Matteo’s scouts are sniffing around the Northeast. We intercepted a packet from his Rome connection yesterday. He’s moving money. He’s hiring mercenaries, men who don't care about the Commission. "
My grip tightens on the phone, my eyes locking on the screen where Lina is now walking up the stairs of our building.
If they touch her, I’ll paint this entire coast red.
"Tell Dante to keep our scouts on the state border.
If anyone with a Sicilian accent asks for directions in Maine, I want to know about it before they hit the turnpike. "
"We're holding the line here, Gio," Dante says, his tone completely flat, devoid of any fear. "But we can't do it forever. The capos are getting restless. They think you're in hiding. They don't understand why the heir to the Ferrante throne is sitting in America."
"They don't need to understand," I say. "They just need to stay loyal. If I go back to Palermo without the Ferrante-Salvatore merger, I am just an enforcer with a claim. If I go back with Salvatore’s daughter on my arm, I am the rightful don of both houses.
The commission won't dare support Matteo then. "
"So make her sign the paper and bring her back," Marco says, his usual humor vanishing into cold pragmatism. "Why are you playing house next door? Just tell her who she is, put her in a car, and let’s finish this fucking war."
"No," I say, my voice dropping an octave, heavy with warning.
"I’ve told you this before, Marco. Salvatore is an old-world traditionalist, but his capos in New York are modern.
They won't follow a union built on handcuffs. If they see her as a hostage, they’ll split the house.
I need her to walk to that altar on her own feet.
I need her to look the New York men in the eye and tell them she chose this. "
"And how do you propose to do that?" Enzo asks quietly.
"She thinks her mother was an angel. She thinks her life is ordinary.
You are going to shatter her entire world, Gio.
The moment she finds out her mother lied to her, her father is a crime lord, and her hot new neighbor is the prince of the underworld, she will hate you. "
On the monitor, Lina is standing on our landing. She’s looking at my door, her white knuckles clutched around her keys, her chest heaving with a mixture of anger and a residual, electric panic. She looks terrified, but she’s still holding her ground. Stubborn. Fierce.
Let her hate me, I think, a dark, possessive hunger tightening in my throat. As long as she is mine. As long as she is breathing.
"She won't find out until she has already chosen me," I say aloud. "I will ease her into it. I’ll make myself her only option. Her neighbor, her protector, the only solid thing in her world when everything else starts to shake. By the time the truth comes out, she won't be able to run."
"Just know that you are playing a very dangerous game, ragazzo," Enzo sighs, the sound of his match striking clicking through the receiver. "A woman who feels betrayed is more dangerous than a syndicate soldier. Especially a girl with Salvatore blood."
"I can handle her," I say.
"Just don't fall in love with the librarian, Gio," Marco teases, though his voice has a sharp edge to it. "Possession is fine. The merger is necessary. But a soft heart in this business will get you a bullet in the neck."
"I don't have a soft heart, Marco," I say, my voice flat and final. "You know exactly what I am."
"Yeah," Marco mutters. "An enforcer."
"Keep Matteo's men busy," I order. "Feed them false coordinates. Tell them I'm in New York negotiating with Salvatore directly. Let them focus their scouts on Manhattan while I finish the setup here."
"Understood," Dante says. "Be careful, Gio."
"Always," I say.
I end the call, sliding the phone back into the desk drawer.
The silence of the apartment returns, thick and heavy. I stand up and walk over to the window, looking down at the street below. The freezing rain has turned the cobblestones into a dark, glittering mirror, reflecting the amber glow of the streetlamp outside her shop.
The Mug & Page. It is a beautiful, fragile little place. A sanctuary built on lies and running. Her mother thought she could hide her here. She thought she could erase the blood on Lina's hands, the contract signed over her cradle, and the boy who promised to never let her fall.
But our world doesn't let you go just because you crossed an ocean.
I look up at her bedroom window on the third floor.
I am going to take her coffee shop, her books, her safe little town, and her ordinary life, and I am going to reduce them to ashes.
I am going to drag her straight into the dark world she was stolen from, and I am going to make her sit on a throne beside me.
But first, I am going to make her fall in love with me.