12. Gio
Gio
The chandeliers in the Boston hotel ballroom are entirely too bright, casting a blinding, crystal fracture over two hundred wealthy sharks.
"Your hand is very warm," Lina whispers.
She is standing beside me, her small hand looped through my forearm.
The five-thousand-dollar emerald silk gown Vivienne chose fits her like a second skin, clinging to the curves of her hips and draping elegantly down her legs.
Her dark hair is down, cascading over her bare shoulders in loose, soft waves that look entirely too tempting.
Every man who has walked past us in the last twenty minutes has let his eyes linger on the column of her neck.
Every time it happens, the territorial beast in my head claws at my ribs. I want to pull my SIG from my holster and shoot them all in the throat.
"You are doing fine, piccola," I say, my voice a quiet, flat vibration. "Relax your shoulders. You look like you are preparing for a trial."
"I am," she says, her fingers tightening on my sleeve through the expensive wool. "You told me these people are sharks. I don't particularly want to get eaten."
"They won't touch you," I say, my grip on her waist tightening just enough to draw her flush against my side. "I am the only predator in this room they should be worried about."
"Very reassuring," she mutters, though I feel the sudden, rapid flutter of her pulse against my arm.
"Don Giovanni," a raspy, gravelly voice calls out from the crowd.
Marcello Russo steps out of the shadows of the VIP lounge.
He is a senior capo in the Boston syndicate, his face a map of old scars, his expensive gray suit struggling to cover his massive, rotting gut.
He is a man who respects nothing but blood and money, and he has been sitting on the fence of our Palermo conflict for six months, waiting to see if my uncle Matteo will bury me.
"Russo," I say, offering a short, stiff nod.
"I heard a rumor you were in New York, negotiating with Salvatore," Russo says, his small, dark eyes darting immediately to Lina. He analyzes her face, her jewelry, the way she holds her head. "But I see you brought a distraction. I don't believe we’ve met."
"This is Lina," I say, my voice steady, my arm sliding possessively around her waist. "My partner."
"Lina," Russo repeats, taking her hand and kissing the back of her knuckles. His eyes stay locked on mine as he does it, a testing, calculated gesture. "An elegant name. You have excellent taste, Giovanni. Though I admit, I did not expect you to settle down while your docks are burning."
"The docks are fine, Marcello," I say. "Matteo’s men are merely playing in the dirt. The shipping lines are secure."
"The Commission doesn't think so," Russo says, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Matteo is offering them a thirty percent cut of the Rome trade if they ratify his seat permanently next month. What are you offering?"
"I am offering them a clean port that doesn't attract the federal authorities," I say, my jaw clenching slightly.
"Matteo is sloppy. He uses mercenaries who leave bodies in the streets.
The Commission wants stability, Russo. If they back him, they will have a war on their hands that Rome cannot hide. "
Lina steps slightly forward, her natural stubbornness cutting through her anxiety.
She looks Russo straight in the eye. "My partner is being polite, Mr. Russo.
But the reality is quite simple. A man who relies on chaos to hold his throne is a man who has already lost it.
Our businesses operate on predictability.
If you back a storm, you shouldn't be surprised when your house gets blown away. "
Russo blinks, completely taken aback. Then, a sudden, booming laugh escapes his chest. "A woman with a mind for logistics. I like her, Giovanni. She has more spine than half your captains in Palermo."
"She does," I say, my chest swelling with a sudden, ridiculous pride that has nothing to do with the strategy.
"We will talk about the shipping lines tomorrow," Russo says, giving us a final, respectful nod. "Enjoy the evening."
As he walks away, Lina lets out a long, shuddering breath, her shoulders sagging. "Did I say the right thing?"
"You were perfect," I murmur, my lips brushing the edge of her ear as I lean down.
“Of course I was," she whispers back, her cheeks flushing pink.
"Come," I grin, taking her hand and leading her toward the center of the ballroom where the orchestra is playing a slow, sweeping waltz. "Our audience is watching."
"We're going to dance?" she asks, her eyes widening. "John, I don't know how to do this."
"I have you," I say.
I pull her onto the polished hardwood floor, my right hand sliding down to the small of her back, the silk of her dress thin beneath my palm.
Her left hand goes to my shoulder, her fingers warm and trembling.
I pull her close, our bodies aligning perfectly, the scent of her lavender perfume instantly crowding out the smell of expensive champagne and heavy colognes.
We move.
The slow, rhythmic sweep of the waltz pulls us into a tight, circular glide. Lina is stiff at first, her eyes fixed on her feet, but as I guide her with a steady, firm pressure against her spine, she slowly relaxes, her gaze rising to meet mine.
The physical tension between us is absolute, a thick, suffocating heat that has been building since I held her in the bathroom.
Every brush of her chest against my jacket, every slide of her thigh against mine through the silk, is a violent torture.
Her eyes are dark, the pupils blown out, her lips parted slightly as she breathes.
"You are staring," she whispers, her voice breathier than before.
"I am looking at what is mine," I say.
"For show," she reminds me, her fingers curling tighter into my shoulder. "Only when they are watching."
"They are all watching, Lina," I say, my voice dropping to a gravelly rasp. "But I would look at you even if we were alone in the dark."
She lets out a soft, sharp breath, her head tilting back, her neck exposed.
I can feel the rapid, frantic beat of her heart against my chest. For a second, the performance vanishes completely.
There is no Russo, no Commission, no secret betrothal rot in my chest. There is only her.
The soft, beautiful girl who runs a bookshop, wrapped in five thousand dollars of silk, looking at me like she wants to drown in my eyes.
The music fades, the final note lingering in the high rafters of the ballroom.
We stop, but I don't let go of her waist immediately. I keep her pinned against my chest for another long, suffocating second before I slowly step back, my hand sliding off her skin with a deliberate, dragging touch.
"We should leave," I say, my voice rough. "The business is done. The cars are waiting."
"Okay," she says, her eyes still glassy, her voice quiet.
We make our way through the crowded ballroom, down the private elevators to the VIP parking garage beneath the hotel. The garage is cold, concrete, and lit by a few flickering fluorescent tubes that cast long, gray shadows across the rows of expensive sports cars and black SUVs.
I scan the area immediately. My spatial awareness is hyper-alert.
Something is wrong.
The silence is too thick. The private security guard who was stationed at the exit ramp is gone. There is a small, dark puddle of fluid near the pillar twenty feet ahead—not engine oil. It has a thick, crimson sheen in the fluorescent light.
Blood.
"Lina," I say, my hand instantly going to her arm, pulling her behind my shoulder. "Stay close."
"John? What's wrong?" she whispers, her voice instantly rising in panic.
Before she can finish the sentence, the passenger door of a black Mercedes fifty feet ahead of us swings open. Two men step out, their faces covered by dark ski masks, their hands holding silenced submachine guns.
"Down!" I roar, lunging forward.
I grab Lina by the waist and throw her behind the concrete column to our left. At the same instant, a quiet, metallic pfut-pfut-pfut echoes through the garage. Concrete chips and dust explode from the pillar above our heads, raining down on my shoulders.
I pull my SIG from my holster in a single, fluid motion.
A third shooter emerges from behind a silver SUV, aiming a pistol at our position. I don't hesitate. I step out from the cover of the column, align my sights, and pull the trigger twice.
Bang. Bang.
The un-silenced reports of my weapon are deafening in the enclosed concrete space, a thunderous crack that rattles my eardrums. The third shooter takes both rounds directly in the chest, his body flinging backward against the silver hood before sliding into a limp, bloody heap on the floor.
"John!" Lina screams, her hands over her ears.
I roll to the side, my boots sliding on the slick concrete as the other two shooters unleash another volley. The bullets chew through the drywall of the utility closet behind me. I count their rounds by the rhythm of their fire. One of them stops to reload.
That is his mistake.
I lean out, target the man on the left, and fire once. The bullet hits him directly in the forehead, a neat, dark hole appearing in his ski mask before the back of his head explodes against the windshield of the Mercedes.
The last shooter panics. He drops his weapon, turns, and tries to scramble toward the exit ramp.
I stand up, my face a cold, mechanical mask of absolute focus. I don't let enemies run. I raise my arm, follow his movement through my sights, and pull the trigger.
The round hits him in the back of the knee. He screams, a high-pitched, agonizing sound as his leg buckles and he hits the concrete, rolling over and clutching his shattered joint.
I stride over to him, my boots silent on the stone, my gun still pointed at his head. I don't feel rattled. I don't feel scared. I feel nothing but a cold, clinical rage. I press my boot heavily onto his chest, pinning him to the concrete, and rip the ski mask off his face.
He is young. Not Sicilian. He has a Boston accent, his teeth covered in bright red blood as he groans.
"Who sent you?" I demand, my voice a quiet, terrifying growl. "Who paid you to come here tonight?"
"I don't... I don't know!" he gasps, his eyes wide with a pure, primal terror as he looks at the barrel of my gun. "A guy... in a hotel... near the harbor. He had a scarred face. He just... he gave us fifty grand to take you both out!"
A scarred face. Not Matteo. This is a local Boston crew—one of Russo's rivals trying to disrupt our alliance before it can start. Or maybe someone else entirely. In my world, the list of people who want me dead is very long.
I raise the gun.
"No! Please!" he begs, tears of pain and panic spilling over his cheeks. "I have a family!"
I don't flinch. I pull the trigger.
Bang.
The body goes limp beneath my boot, his eyes staring blankly up at the concrete ceiling.
I slide my SIG back into my holster, my chest rising and falling slowly. I turn back to look at the column where I left Lina.
She is standing there. She didn't run. She didn't faint.
She is staring at me, her hands clutched tightly around the emerald silk of her dress, her chest heaving as she breathes in the smell of gunpowder and hot blood. Her face is pale, but her eyes—which were so soft and warm on the dance floor—are wide, dark, and completely focused on me.
She looks at the dead men on the floor, then down at my hands, and finally up to my face.
The enforcer and the man who fixed her wobbly shelf are the same person. The neighbor who brought her a vintage book and the mafia prince who just killed three men in a garage are standing in front of her.
And as I walk back to her, my hands stained with dark, hot blood, she doesn't shrink away from me. She takes a half-step forward, her lips parted, a raw, terrifying hunger in her eyes that matches my own.
She is beginning to want both.
"Are you hurt?" I ask, my voice rough as I stop a foot from her.
"No," she whispers, her voice shaking, but her gaze never leaving my eyes. "I'm not hurt."
I reach out, my bloody hand pausing an inch from her cheek before I drop it back to my side, the guilt and the secrets in my chest rotting a little deeper.
"We need to go," I say, taking her uninjured hand. "The police will be here in three minutes."
"Okay," she says softly.
She doesn't look back at the bodies. She just holds my hand tightly, her fingers warm and entirely too close to escape, as we walk out into the dark, rainy night.