Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Fiero
I listen to the sound of her bare feet running down the corridor, the ding of the elevator, the hiss of the doors. And I don’t breathe until I hear the rumble of the shaft as it carries her down the eighteen floors.
Rage is swelling in every muscle faster than a black eye. I must be out of my damn fucking mind. Why did I kiss her?
Because it’s all I thought about every day in class and as much as I hate to admit it, that desire has never gone away.
I pace the suite. Okay, so it’s done. It’s out of my system now. I can’t undo it so I’ll just move on.
Determination fogs my brain. There are other things I can have her do to get my kicks. Things that don’t involve me sucking her damn face. My chest burns with tightness, my ears ringing. I’m so pissed at myself.
I’ve kissed plenty of women since I left school. Hundreds. None of them have come close to that. I nearly levitated off the fucking floor.
Fuck!
Her lips felt like satin, tasted like honey. They let me nip at her with complete eagerness, parting for my tongue. I swept inside her mouth mindlessly. I didn’t think about it. And that’s the problem. I didn’t think about any of it. My dick and my teenage ego did all the thinking.
Her little breaths stroked my lips and delicate moans dripped from hers. The chemistry was insane.
I thought I was going to explode from the need to hold her face in my hands, wrap her ponytail around my fist.
I took out my frustration on that kiss, deepening it, getting as close as I possibly could.
Red heat floods my vision and I drive a closed fist into the wall.
I’ve half a mind to take the gun I’d left in the safe and blow my own fucking head off. How could I be so weak?
I’ve fantasized about ruining this girl for the last decade and a half and what do I do the first moment I get her alone? I suck on her tits, then I tongue fuck her mouth. That’s next-level crush shit, not revenge.
Jesus.
I punch the wall again for good measure. I need to feel this. I need jarring pain to ground me, to bring me back down to earth.
She can’t get under my skin this time. I won’t let her. I haven’t risen to the top of this crime family by letting the likes of Pfeiffer McAllister dictate my weaknesses.
It takes me a good thirty minutes for my pulse to return to normal, then I take the elevator down to the basement floor. The doors slide open and Remo is standing there, hands firmly in his pockets and one brow already arched.
“Don’t talk to me,” I say, striding past him.
“Didn’t say a word,” he mumbles behind me.
I bark a brief order into my cell phone then throw it across the table.
Remo watches, amused. “Why do we need maintenance on the eighteenth floor?”
I fall into a chair with a huff. “I did some damage to the wall, alright? The Liberty Suite is out of use for now.”
“Noted.”
I change the subject. “How are the guests?”
Remo slides into a chair opposite. “All very happy.”
“And Hallie?”
“I imagine so.”
“How much?”
“Fifty.”
I wait until he flicks his gaze up to mine. “You can be a good guy when you want to be.”
“It’s the least she deserves,” he mutters quietly, then scrubs a hand over his face. “Yeah. Don’t go circulating that.”
“Oh I won’t,” I assure him. “Bad for business.”
I reach for the carafe of whisky and pour out four glasses. Cassio and Brando will be here shortly. The Fallen Angels de-brief is becoming a bit of a tradition.
“So?” Remo tips his head. “Did it work?”
Fumes from the whiskey are already softening my bones. “Did what work?”
“Ruining McAllister’s night?”
I don’t know how to respond without admitting that aside from me ordering her out of the suite half-dressed, I hardly ruined it. Quite the opposite in fact. Her orgasm shook the wall.
“Not yet,” I reply. “But I have a month to destroy her.”
“A month? Why so long?”
It was the first period of time to enter my head and thirty-ish fucks should get her out of my system for good.
“So I can ruin her several times over.”
“Are you going to sleep with her?” He sounds surprised.
I grind my back teeth. I need to at least demonstrate I’ve put some thought into it and I’m not just thinking with my dick. “No. I’m going to fuck her.”
Remo’s smile falls. “Against her wishes?”
I wipe away a chuckle. “Oh, she won’t be against it.”
“Have you fucked her already?”
I wish.
“No. We were simply establishing… boundaries.”
Remo lifts his glass and swirls the liquid, watching it with a furrowed brow. “Don’t forget what she did to you, brother.”
“Never,” I grunt. “I will never forget.”
His lids lift and there’s a different kind of concern on his face now. “She broke you, Fiero. She took you away from us for fifteen years and we needed each other. I won’t ever forgive her for that.”
My gaze locks on his and a dark understanding passes between us. I know what he’s saying. We lost fifteen years of connection. Fifteen years we’ll never get back.
“Neither will I, brother. Neither will I.”
We each lift our glasses and tip the measures down our throats just as the elevator doors open and Cass and Brando step out.
Brando is our youngest brother but he’s the largest of us all.
He’s also the moodiest, deadliest Bellucci that ever lived.
He moves wordlessly into the room and sits beside me, instantly pulling out his knife.
He’s done this for as long as I can remember. Turned that goddamn knife over and over in his fingers like it’s some kind of soothing device. It’s worse when it catches a source of light. The flashing drives me insane. But I don’t tell him to stop anymore. Did that once. Almost lost a finger.
Cass brings up the rear, his swagger evidence he got lucky in the time between the Fallen Angels announcements and now. If the cocky way he moves isn’t proof enough, then the lipstick on his collar and burgeoning hickie on his neck is.
I swear he treats this club like his own personal playground. I dart him a pissed look, to which he grins, shrugs and fist-bumps Remo.
“Don’t encourage him,” I warn our second eldest.
Remo smirks. “He doesn’t need encouragement.”
“If you’re gonna make me host at the last minute, you gotta allow me some privileges.” Cass leans back casually and runs a hand through his hair. “Why did you ask me to host anyway? Why couldn’t you do it, like usual?”
Because I wanted to watch her reaction. Because I wanted to get upstairs to the suite before she did so I could watch her face fall when she realized who was waiting for her.
“Thought it would be good to mix things up a little.”
Remo’s gaze cuts to me as he reaches for more whisky.
He knows the truth. They all do, but none of them comment.
The heavy silence, filled only with the sound of pouring whisky, gets to me. I take out a cigarette and light it, watching smoke curl toward the ceiling.
“Is everything set for the Ring?” I ask Cass.
He raps a hand against his thigh, the way he always does when the adrenaline hits. “Yeah. It’s now sealed until the game. No more players.”
Remo drums his fingers on the table. “Who’s in?”
Cass holds a hand up and ticks titles off his fingers. “Cartel liaison, dirty cop, an art collector, an intelligence officer and a rookie.”
“A rookie?” I don’t like the sound of that.
“He’s good for the money and one of the best poker players I’ve ever seen.”
“Does he have anything to move? Any interests?”
Cass lifts a shoulder. “Nope. Just wants to play high stakes. And these are the highest stakes in town.”
I breathe in deeply. I’ve always struggled to relinquish control of our various family businesses, but even though Cass comes off all nonchalant, he’s really fucking good at this. He has the rare ability to threaten someone’s life with just a look, and keep peace in the room all in the same breath.
“What about you?” I turn to Brando.
He doesn’t look up straight away. The knife keeps turning between his fingers, slow and steady, catching the light with every rotation.
“He’s been busy,” Remo says.
“The casinos?” I prompt.
Remo sighs. “Yeah. There’s a syndicate doing the rounds. Calculated losses, big wins. There’s a clear pattern and we’re onto them. Brando had a few words. I don’t think they’ll be trying to play our shops any time soon.”
Cass snorts. “Had a few words? What kinda words?”
The knife stops turning and Brando looks up.
“Barrel. Mouth. Brains. Wall. Those kinda words.”
Brando doesn’t speak very often, but when he does, it’s generally to the point.
I stroke my chin, late night stubble scratching my palm. “Excellent.”
Conversation turns to the Angels—specifically the guests who’ve handed over large piles of money in return for a sordid night or two—and my mind drifts.
We made more tonight than any other night since we opened. Some very expensive sex is about to take place in and out of these premises as a result of my orchestration.
But that’s not the only reason I’ll remember this night long after the linens have been laundered—it’s that kiss.
And the fact that several hours after it happened, I can still fucking taste her.