8. Gio
Gio
My jeans are too tight, the denim chafing against the rigid, throbbing ache between my legs.
I sit in the dark of my kitchen, a glass of neat bourbon untouched on the counter, staring at the blue glow of my surveillance monitors.
I can still taste her. The sweet, electric heat of her mouth, the soft, desperate whimpers she let out when I pinned her against that emerald velvet, and the tight, burning friction of her hands clutching my bare shoulders.
I am completely, violently hard, my cock pulsing with a raw, unspent frustration that hasn't let up since I walked out of her shop three hours ago.
I should have taken her, the dark, possessive beast in my head growls. I should have slid inside her and marked her right there on the floor.
Instead, I am sitting here, physically aching, my hand hovering over my fly before I drop it.
I won't touch myself. I don't want a quick release. I want her fingers, her wet heat, her complete surrender. The desire claws at my chest, thick and suffocating, overriding every sensible decision I’ve made.
My eyes flick to the third monitor.
The gray mist outside is shifting, swirling around the rusted metal hull of an old trawler parked at the dry docks down the street. A shadow moves. It is a brief, unnatural hitch in the fog, a tiny flash of wet gray fabric.
He’s back.
The watcher.
He didn't run back to Boston. The bastard is still here, lurking on the edge of her perimeter, waiting for another chance to sniff around her windows.
"You really don’t know when you’re courting death," I whisper.
I stand up, my muscles locking into a rigid, lethal focus.
The sexual frustration in my blood morphs instantly into a cold, mechanical rage.
I don't grab my SIG Sauer this time. A gunshot in this quiet harbor town will bring the police, and I need this clean.
I reach into my drawer and pull out a thick, five-inch steel combat knife, sliding it into the sleeve of my coat.
I slip out of my apartment, silent as a ghost, and descend the rear fire escape.
The freezing rain hits my face, but I barely feel it. My spatial awareness is hyper-alert, mapping the narrow alleyways, the dripping gutters, and the heavy smell of low tide. I circle the block, keeping to the shadows of the brick warehouses, cutting off his exit route toward the pier.
I spot him. He is crouching behind a stack of rotted lobster crates, his eyes glued to the dark windows of Lina's third-floor apartment.
"Looking for something?" I purr with a grin, adrenaline rushing through my veins.
The watcher snaps around, his eyes widening in pure terror as he lunges backward, his hand scrambling toward his pocket.
"Don't," I command, stepping out of the fog.
He doesn't listen. He pulls a short, rusted iron crowbar from his belt and swings it at my head with a desperate, whistling speed.
I don't flinch. I step inside the arc of his swing, my left forearm blocking his wrist, the impact rattling my bones but not stopping my momentum. With my right hand, I drive the heavy hilt of my combat knife straight into his nose.
Crunch.
The cartilage shatters instantly, a thick geyser of dark, hot blood spraying across my face and coat. He lets out a wet, choked gurgle, stumbling backward, but I don't let him fall. I grab the front of his gray jacket, yank him forward, and drive my knee directly into his groin.
His breath is knocked clean out of him, his body folding in half.
I grab his right arm, twisting it behind his back until the shoulder joint pops out of its socket with a sickening, wet tear. He screams, a high-pitched, agonizing sound that is instantly swallowed by the howling wind and the drumming rain.
"Shut the fuck up," I hiss, slamming his face hard against the brick wall of the warehouse.
His jaw hits the rough stone, the impact splitting his lips and knocking three of his teeth onto the wet gravel.
Blood pools in his mouth, thick and bright red, spilling down his chin in dark ribbons.
I shove him down into the mud, my boot pinning his neck to the ground, crushing his windpipe just enough to keep him from screaming but leaving him enough air to choke.
"Who else is in the state?" I demand, my blade hovering an inch from his left eye. "Give me a name, stronzo."
"No... please..." he wheezes, his eye darting frantically to the wet steel. "Matteo... he’ll kill my family..."
Matteo…. Of course.
"I don't give a fuck about your family," I say, my voice completely devoid of humanity. "But if you don't talk, I will peel the skin off your fingers one by one before I let you bleed out in this mud."
"Boston..." he gurgles, blood bubbling from his ruined nose. "The... the hotel... by the harbor... three of them..."
"Good," I murmur.
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I reverse my grip on the knife.
"Matteo sends his regards," he spits, a bloody, desperate grin stretching across his broken teeth. "She’s a dead girl, Marchetti. You can't... you can't keep her safe from him."
"Watch me," I whisper.
I drive the five-inch blade straight through the soft flesh under his jaw, pushing it upward until the steel bites into the roof of his mouth.
His body instantly goes rigid, his eyes bulging as a thick, dark crimson flood pours from his mouth, staining his gray hood and my hands.
He thrashes beneath my boot, his fingers clawing uselessly at the wet gravel, his legs kicking in violent, involuntary spasms. I twist the blade, cold and slow, feeling the crunch of cartilage and bone as his life drains into the mud.
He gurgles once, a wet, rattling sound, and then his eyes go dull, staring blankly up at the dark Maine sky.
He is dead.
I pull the knife out, wiping the thick, dark blood off the steel onto his jacket before sliding it back into my sleeve. My hands are stained red, the copper smell hot and heavy in the freezing air. I look down at his corpse, my chest rising and falling slowly.
You try to harm her, you die. It’s that simple.
I drag his body toward the edge of the wharf, slipping him into the deep, black water between the wooden pylons. The Atlantic swallows him without a sound, the dark waves washing the blood off the dock.
I walk back to my building, entering through the basement to wash my hands in the industrial sink. The water runs pink, then clear, but the smell of copper lingers on my skin, mixing with the lavender scent I can still feel in my head.
I pull out my encrypted phone and dial Dante.
"It’s done," I say, my voice flat. "The watcher is in the harbor."
"Did he talk?" Dante asks, his tone alert.
"They have three men in a Boston harbor hotel," I say, my jaw tightening. "I want them gone. Tonight, Dante. No survivors. Make it look like a robbery."
"Consider it done," Dante says. "What about the girl?"
"I’m tightening the perimeter," I say, looking up at the ceiling, toward her bedroom. "Send Marco. And bring four of our best shooters from New York. I want them stationed at the harbor, the entry road, and the alley. If anyone looks at her shop wrong, I want them in the dirt."
"Gio," Enzo’s gravelly voice cuts onto the line. "If you bring that many shooters into a quiet town, the locals will notice. She will notice."
"She won't see them," I snap, my possessive protective instinct flaring. "They stay in the shadows. But if Matteo’s men get past the state line, I don't care about the cover anymore. I will protect what is mine."
"What is ours, Gio," Enzo corrects gently. "The syndicate's asset."
"She is mine, Enzo," I growl, my voice dropping to a low, warning vibration. "Do not confuse the merger with my possession of her. If anyone, including Salvatore, tries to touch her without my permission, I will put a bullet in them too."
Silence hangs on the line for a long, heavy second.
"Understood, Don Giovanni," Enzo says quietly, using my title for the first time. "We are moving the men now."
I hang up the phone, sliding it into my pocket.
I walk back up the stairs, my boots silent on the wood, and stop on the third-floor landing. I stand outside her green door, my hand hovering over the wood.
My body is still tight, my cock still rigid and aching against my zipper.
The adrenaline of the kill has only made the sexual hunger worse, a dark, pulsing need that makes my teeth grind.
I want to unlock this door, walk into her bedroom, pull the covers off her soft, sleeping body, and bury myself so deep inside her she forgets her own name.
I need her.
I can't have her yet. The deception is a thin wire, and if I push too hard, she will run. I have to wait. I have to play the neighbor, the protector, the quiet ice while the wolves circle her shop.
But as I press my forehead against her cold wooden door, listening to the faint, steady sound of her breathing on the other side, I know the enforcer’s teeth are already bare.
I will kill every man who looks at her. I will burn this town to the ground to keep her breathing.
And when the time comes, I will make her mine. Completely.