ALESSIO #2
She goes still. The sleep fades from her face in pieces. "What happened?"
"They finished clearing the warehouse."
Her breathing changes.
"They found something."
She pushes herself up on one elbow. The sheet slips down her shoulder. For a moment I'm distracted by the sight of her ample breasts. My mouth waters.
"Rachel?" Her voice is like a bucket of ice. All lascivious thoughts leave in an instant, and the blood returns from my bottom head to the top one, which allows me to actually think.
"I don't know yet."
It's not a lie. Her eyes search mine. I force the next words out, even though every protective instinct in me fights them.
"I'm going to look." Her mouth tightens. I hold up a hand before she can explode. "And I'm asking if you want to come with me."
For a second, she just stares. Like she didn't hear me right. Like no one has ever handed her the choice instead of taking it from her. Then her expression shifts. Softens. Not much. Just enough to make my chest feel strange.
"You're asking?"
"I'm learning."
Her lips part. A faint, tired smile touches her mouth. "Careful, Vitali. That almost sounded emotionally mature."
"Take it back."
"Nope."
I stand and hold out my hand. "Get dressed, babe."
She puts her hand in mine. And this time, I don't lead her because I own her. I lead her because she chooses me.
By the time we leave the penthouse, Beccs has demolished half an omelet, two pieces of toast, and most of my coffee.
"You stole my coffee," I accuse on the ride down in the elevator.
"You offered."
"I set it down for three seconds."
"Sounds like a skill issue."
I shake my head and guide her toward the waiting Shelby in the Valet area. The morning air is cool against my skin. It must have rained last night after we went to sleep.
I glance at Beccs. To my surprise, she looks almost rested. Not happy. Not carefree. But lighter. I open the passenger door. She stops to look at me through narrowed eyes.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing."
That suspicious little smile appears. I narrow my eyes. "You're planning something."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
Liar. I help her into the seat anyway. Then I round the front of the car. My phone rings right before I can get in. Damiano.
He's not supposed to call. We're supposed to be on the outs. Even though there is no way for the collector to get through our scrambled lines, I'm immediately on edge that he's taking the chance.
"What?"
"You sound pleasant," he replies, cocky as always, but there is a hint of something else in his voice I can't quite place.
"You never call me at six in the morning."
A long silence greets me. That gets my attention. "Damiano?"
A rough laugh comes through the speaker. "Remember when I told you life was simpler if you never trusted anyone?"
"I remember you saying a lot of stupid shit."
I'm not prepared for his next words. "I have a son."
I blink. "What?"
"A son."
I stare across the roof of the Shelby. "What the fuck do you mean, a son?"
"Apparently exactly what the words mean."
Damiano fills me in. About him and Gabe chasing down a woman and a kid.
I remember Massimo mentioning something about Gabe getting a recording of his sister being tortured to death; apparently, the woman and the kid tie into it somehow.
It's an absolute clusterfuck detonating all our lives right now, and all of it is somehow linked to the Collector— it's too much of a coincidence otherwise.
I lean against the car, staring off down the street. "Huh."
"Huh?" Damiano repeats.
I rub a hand across my jaw. "Trying to picture you as a father.
" I chuckle despite everything, because it's Damiano.
Of all people. Massimo had a kid dumped into his lap, but Massimo is not Damiano.
Massimo is level-headed—mostly—Damiano is what happens when somebody gives anger management issues access to unlimited resources and a firearms collection. "It's not going well, I imagine."
"Fuck you."
I grin. "No, seriously. Damiano Ferranti. Father."
The words sound ridiculous out loud. Like somebody glued together two completely unrelated concepts. "I think that's one of the signs of the apocalypse."
"Glad you're taking this seriously."
"I'm taking it very seriously."
I look toward the sky. "Pretty sure I just heard thunder."
"It's six in the morning."
"Exactly. Unnatural."
Damiano mutters something colorful in Italian. I ignore him. Because honestly? Damiano having a kid might be the most shocking thing I've heard all year. The man drives like he's trying to outrun death. Starts fights for entertainment. And has the impulse control of a caffeinated raccoon.
A child. Jesus Christ. Poor bastard. The kid, not Damiano. "What about the mother?" I ask.
The line goes quiet.
A laugh escapes me. "Oh, this is good."
"Shut up."
"No, seriously." I straighten. "The fact that you're avoiding the question tells me this is really good."
He presses the words out, and I can almost see his teeth pressing together. "That's... a longer story."
Now I'm genuinely interested. "What did you do?"
"Nothing."
"That's a lie."
"I'll tell you later."
I grin. That confirms it. Whatever happened, it's bad. Or complicated. Probably both. "Fine."
"Just figured I'd give you a heads-up before the rest of the assholes find out."
"Appreciated."
The truth is, beneath all the sarcasm, I'm glad he called. Because if Damiano sounds rattled, this matters. And because for all his faults, he's family. One of the few people I'd trust to watch my back. Even if the idea of him being responsible for a small human being is deeply concerning.
"If you screw this up," I tell him, "I'm buying that kid a motorcycle for his fifth birthday."
Damiano groans. I smile. Yep. Fatherhood is definitely punishment for something.
He changes the subject. "You heading out?"
"I have to check something at a warehouse. We stopped a human trafficking deal last night."
His turn to be curious. "You're playing cop now?"
"Something like that. I'll fill you in when we talk about the mother of your child."
"Deal," he laughs, and the line disconnects.
For a moment I stare at the phone. Damiano. A father. Jesus Christ. Then I open the driver's door. And freeze. My eyes land on a tiny scrap of black lace strapped over my steering wheel.
I stare. Slowly turn my head. Beccs is looking out the windshield. Far too innocently.
"What is this?" I ask, sliding into the seat.
She shrugs. "A reward."
"A reward?" Jesus, this morning is full of surprises. Another chuckle escapes me.
"For learning your lesson."
I look back at the panties. Then at her. Then back at the panties. My blood pressure immediately becomes a problem.
"You took them off in my car?"
Another shrug. "You seemed stressed."
A strangled sound escapes me. The woman is trying to kill me. I hook one finger through the lace and lift them from the steering wheel up to my nose. I inhale her sweet scent deeply, rubbing the silky lace between my fingers. Beccs groans.
Actually groans.
I let the fabric slide slowly through my fingers.
Her eyes narrow. "Don't."
A grin pulls at my mouth. "Oh?"
"Alessio."
I study the black lace. Then glance at her legs. Then at the lace. Then back at her. Her cheeks immediately turn pink. Victory.
"You're sitting there with absolutely no underwear on," I state.
She crosses her arms. "Maybe."
"Maybe?"
Her grin widens. "Maybe."
Jesus Christ. My imagination immediately betrays me. Beccs. My passenger seat. No panties. The things we could do right now. The thought alone is enough to make the drive significantly more uncomfortable than it needs to be.
I lick the lace all the way from front to back while she watches, wide-eyed, her pupils blown with desire. I can't help but feel satisfaction.
Beccs looks genuinely flustered. I like it. A lot.
"Turns out, I have leverage too, babe."
Her glare promises violence. The smile she's trying—and failing—not to hide promises something else entirely. Slowly I fold the lace once. Then tuck it into the inside pocket of my jacket. For safekeeping. Obviously.
Beccs groans again. I grin and start the engine.
The Shelby rumbles to life beneath us. For a few minutes neither of us speaks as Vegas slips past the windows.
It's not a pretty sight in the morning. Drunk tourists are stumbling back to their hotels, trash litters the ground, and a homeless woman is digging through the pockets of a man passed out on a bench.
Yeah, Vegas' illusion only works at night, I muse.
Traffic thickens as the office commute begins in earnest. Any other day I would have enjoyed the drive in the Shelby, even more with my Grease Monkey next to me, but today my thoughts keep circling back to Rossi's call.
Beside me, Beccs gradually grows quieter too. The teasing has all but disappeared, replaced by a hum of nervous energy. I notice her twisting her fingers together in her lap, a habit she's picked up whenever she's worried.
I reach over and squeeze her knee. She glances at me. Neither of us says anything. There's nothing to say. Not until we know what we're walking into.
The warehouse comes into view twenty minutes later.
And suddenly, the drive feels entirely too short.
The massive industrial building sits beneath the morning sun.
Parked out front are a dozen of my SUVs.
My men stand silent guard, smoking, talking, but always vigilant.
They recognize the Shelby and wave us forward.
The doors to the warehouse are wide open. No reason to hide anything; nobody is getting by my men close enough to catch a glimpse. Beside me, Beccs goes rigid.
She notices it too. The warehouse looks different in daylight.
Somehow worse. The darkness last night had hidden things.
The sun doesn't. The Vegas sun never does.
It exposes all the sins that happened at night.
You know that saying What happens in Vegas?
It's true. But that doesn't mean it won't catch up with you in the morning.