I was up till the early hours of the morning, tracking down info about Matthew Schultz, so I end up sleeping in much longer than usual. It’s past noon when I’m finally woken by a knock on my door.
“What?” I groan, not bothering to lift my head out of the pillow.
“There’s someone at the door for you,” Greta says.
“Who?”
“Come see for yourself,” she says impatiently.
I roll out of bed—literally roll out of it, onto the floor. I’m only wearing boxer shorts and I can feel my hair sticking up in all directions, but I don’t particularly care. If it was somebody important, Greta would have given me a heads up. It’s probably just Aida—though god knows she wouldn’t wait on the doorstep. She’d march right into my room if she felt like it.
Maybe it’s Cal.
Greta has already stomped off without waiting for me. She hates when we sleep in. It’s the Puritan in her. She likes to bang the pots and pans around in the kitchen when she thinks we’re being lazy. Luckily, I was exhausted enough to sleep through it this morning.
I stumble down the rickety staircase, so narrow that Dante has to turn sideways every time he comes up. That’s probably why he has his room on the main level. I can’t stand having people creaking around over my head. I like to be as high up as possible, someplace with a view. Sort of like Camille’s room.
Well . . . speak of the devil.
Camille Rivera is standing on my doorstep.
She looks somber and pale, wearing a black dress that doesn’t really fit the last days of August. She flushes when she sees me, dropping her eyes down to her shoes. I remember that I’m practically naked. I lean up against the doorframe, standing close to her, because she’s cute when she’s nervous.
“You’re up early,” I say.
“It’s two o’clock in the afternoon,” Camille says, goaded into looking at me by her need to correct me. As her eyes run over my bare chest, she blushes harder than ever.
“Still,” I growl, my voice husky with sleep. “I thought you’d be tired after the night you had.”
Camille darts another look at me, then covers her face with her hands to hide the color.
“Could you put a shirt on, please?” she says.
“Why would I want to do that?”
“So I can talk to you without—”
“Without what?” I say, leaning even closer.
“I’m not looking ‘till you’re dressed,” she says, hand over her eyes.
Her lips look very tempting, beneath the blindfold of her hand. I could lean over and kiss her right now, without warning.
But I don’t want to tease Camille too much. I know she came here for a reason.
“Alright, come on in,” I tell her.
“In there?” she squeaks. “In your house?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Why not?”
“Who’s home?” she asks nervously.
“Just Greta. You already met her.”
Hesitantly, Camille follows me inside. I see her looking around at the ancient dark woodwork, the hand-blown lamps, the leaded windows with their panes of colored glass.
It’s still a grand mansion, though it is extremely old. Most of the main features are just the same as when it was built—a complicated, asymmetrical shape. Steeply gabled roofs with gingerbread trim. Odd textures on the interior walls.
Some things we’ve added, like the huge underground garage, the gym, and the sauna.
The Gallos belong to this house, in a way you rarely see in America anymore. We were raised in it. Shaped by it. Old Town is our home and always will be. While other mafia families moved to the trendy Gold Coast, or farther north, we stayed right here, in the heart of our own people.
Camille can see that. She sees the photographs of the generations that came before. The furniture older than I am.
“How long have you lived here?” she asks me, eyes wide.
“Well, my great-grandfather built it in 1901, so . . . a pretty long fucking time,” I say.
Camille shakes her head in amazement. She’s forgotten about making me get dressed. She seems shocked by this house that’s got to be ten times the size of her little apartment. Maybe even bigger, if you count the basement levels.
“I forgot how rich you are,” she says dully.
“I thought girls like that,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.
Camille shoots me a pained look, and I immediately regret my stupid comment. Why can I never think of the right thing to say to her? I always knew how to get what I wanted from women before. It was easy to manipulate them.
But I don’t want to manipulate Camille.
I want us to be in that space we sometimes stumble into by accident, where we understand each other. Where everything is clear between us.
I can never seem to get there intentionally. The harder I try, the more I fuck it up.
“You look really nice,” I say, desperately. “But you know, I like the other way too . . .”
“The coveralls?” Camille says, the ghost of a smile on her face.
“Yeah. I like those. Actually . . . you want to see something?”
“I guess . . .” Camille says.
She looks scared that I might be about to show her my gun collection, or a room full of dead bodies.
“Come on,” I say, grabbing her hand.
Her fingers link in mine. Her hands are small, but strong. I like the little bits of grease in her knuckles. I have the same thing on my hands. If I were to lift her hand up to my face and inhale, I know exactly how her skin would smell. Like diesel, soap, and vanilla.
I lead her through the kitchen, past Greta, who seems startled to see Camille actually inside the house.
“Hello again,” Greta says.
“This is Camille,” I tell her.
“I know,” Greta says, pointing a spoon at me. “We met at the door.”
“Greta’s the one who raised me,” I tell Camille.
“Don’t you dare try to put that on me,” Greta says, scowling at me. “You’ve never listened to one thing I said.”
“I’m still your favorite,” I say, grinning.
As I lead Camille down to the garage, she asks me, “Is that true?”
“What?”
“Are you Greta’s favorite?”
“No,” I snort. “Not even close. It’s Sebastian for sure.”
“Who’s your father’s favorite?” Camille says.
“Aida. Or Dante.”
We’ve come to the bottom of the stairs. Camille looks up at me, her dark eyes searching my face.
“Does that bother you?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “Why would it?”
I don’t let myself actually think about the question before answering.
Instead I pull her onward, flicking on the overhead lights.
Camille gasps. It’s a sprawling space, low-ceilinged, supported by pillars. The cement floor is freshly painted, and each of the cars has its own berth. There are eight cars and two bikes. Two of the cars belong to Papa, and one to Dante. The rest are all mine.
Camille runs around touching each of them in turn—the Scout, the ‘Vette, the Jag, the Shelby. But she lingers longest by my absolute favorite: the Talbot Lago Grand Sport. Still a work in progress, totally unable to drive. It’s going to be fucking beautiful, though. My magnum opus.
“Where did you get it?” she whispers.
“I bought it at an auction in Germany. It only ever had one driver. This old man, who bought it in ‘54. It sat in his barn for years. I had to get it shipped here by freight.”
“Have you done all the work on it yourself?”
“Every last bit of it.”
“God . . .” Camille moans. “Look at that body . . .”
The Grand Sport is all sleek, smooth lines—long like an American classic car, but with a posh European vibe. It’s a bit like a Rolls Royce and a Porsche mixed together.
“I know,” I say. “It’s the only one like it—they sold the basic chassis, then the bespoke bodywork was done by a custom coachbuilder.”
“What color are you painting it?”
“It was black, originally.”
“That’s good . . .” she says. “But imagine it in oxblood red . . .”
“They never made it in that color,” I laugh.
“I know. But they should have.”
I never bring anybody down here. Even Dante barely ever comes in. Camille is the one person I know loves old cars the way I do—like they’re a living thing. I can tell she’s dying to look under the hood, to get her hands on every bit of the engine. Usually that would make me antsy and territorial, but I can’t help enjoying it, watching her run around as eager as a kid.
“Ohhh!” Camille groans, looking at all my tools. “You have everything in here. You did it, Nero. You finally made me jealous.”
Her eyes are bright as jet, and her cheeks are full of color. Her lips and cheeks look very red next to the black dress.
“I thought I made you jealous once before,” I say, in a low voice. “When you saw me with Bella.”
“I know you don’t like her,” Camille says, getting very still.
“But you were jealous anyway.”
I take a step toward her, and she takes one back, so she’s backed up against the hood of the Grand Sport. Her eyes flit down to my bare chest once more, remembering that I never did put on any clothes.
I run my hand through my hair, pushing it back from my face. I watch her eyes follow my hand, then run down my arm, down my bare torso, all the way to my boxer shorts. I know she can see the bulge of my cock through the thin material. Especially now that I’m starting to get aroused.
Camille licks her lips nervously.
I’m close enough that I can almost feel the warmth of her breath. The scent of gasoline is heavy in the air. It spikes my heart rate, though not as much as the scent of Camille herself.
In one motion, I wrap my hands around her waist and lift her up, so she’s sitting on the hood of the car. I’m standing between her thighs, her face exactly on level with mine. We’re eye to eye, nose to nose.
“I don’t ever want you to be jealous,” I tell her. “There’s nobody else, Camille. Nobody who ever made me feel like this.”
She looks into my eyes, lips trembling.
I don’t know if she believes me.
I’m a lot of things, but never a liar . . .
“We started something last night,” I say. “Are you ready to finish it?”
In answer, Camille grabs my face between her hands and kisses me.
It’s like she injected straight nitrous in my engine. My arousal cranks up a thousand percent in an instant. I shove her down on the hood, attacking her with my lips and hands. I’m licking her, kissing her, sucking her, all over her mouth and down her throat. I yank up the skirt of her dress and thrust my hand down the front of her panties, finding that hot, soaking wet pussy. I sink my fingers inside of her, making her moan into my mouth.
I hate that she has clothes on. I’m sick to death of getting bits and pieces of Camille, never all of her at once. The feel of her breasts in the dark, the taste of her pussy . . . it’s not even close to enough.
I grab her panties and I tear them apart, the fabric ripping like candy floss under my fevered fingers.
My cock has already escaped from my boxer shorts. It’s raging hard, demanding to be put inside of her. All I have to do is grip the base of it and point it in the right direction.
I know I should get a condom. I’ve always used one before. I don’t want kids, or any other nasty surprises.
But I want to be with Camille fully and intimately. I don’t want to fuck her with a barrier between us.
I want my first time to be with her. So I thrust inside of her, into that warmth and wetness that grips every millimeter of my bare cock. The sensation is ten times stronger than I expect. My knees almost give way beneath me, just from that single thrust.
I’m sunk eight inches deep into this woman who has invaded every fiber of my body, who is driving me absolutely fucking insane. I almost blow right then and there. It takes every last shred of control to hold back.
Once I regain control, I start fucking her hard and fast, desperately and wildly. I can’t seem to slow down. It’s like street racing—I’ve got pure adrenaline pounding through my veins. All I want is more, more, more.
I’ve never experienced anything like this. I’m used to giving in to wild emotion. Lust, violence, rage . . . this tops them all, and it’s not even close. The feeling of Camille’s burning hot pussy clamped around my cock, her fingernails clawing at my back, her teeth nipping at my lips, her tongue thrust deep in my mouth . . .
We’re trying to tear each other apart. But not out of hatred. Out of a desire to find that raw, vulnerable center again. Camille’s got more walls around her than a medieval castle. And I’m equally determined to keep people out—with a barrier of anger, carelessness, cruelty.
Yet we scaled each other’s walls. Because we recognized in each other what we know about ourselves. That we’re both hurting. Both alone. Both wanting someone who could understand.
I want Camille like I’ve never wanted anything in my life.
I want her to love me.
She’s the only one who knows me, so she’s the only one who can.
And I want to love her.
I’m fucking awful at it—I’ve never had any practice.
But I want to take all that passion and jealousy and obsession inside of me, and I want to give it all to her. I want to give her the best of me, whatever that might be.
I only hope it’s enough.
Camille is clinging to me with her whole body. She’s got her arms wrapped tightly around me and she’s whispering in my ear, “Nero . . . oh my god, Nero . . .”
Her thighs clamp around me. I feel her pussy squeezing me tight, clenching over and over as she starts to cum. I kiss her swollen lips, tasting the difference in her breath as her body dumps all the pleasure chemicals of a climax: serotonin, oxytocin, dopamine.
Camille’s mouth tastes better than any food I’ve ever eaten. It satisfies me and makes me ravenous, all at once.
I feel a rush of wetness around my cock from her climax. Her pussy relaxes just a little, so I can fuck her even deeper than before. I don’t want to stop. I want this to go on forever.
It’s impossible, though. I can’t believe I even lasted this long.
Camille is looking at me with those huge, dark eyes. Looking right into my eyes like she did the first time we kissed.
It’s her expression as much as her body that makes me cum. The way she looks at me, and the way she makes me feel. I explode. Absolutely fucking explode. The orgasm wrenches through me. It makes me cry out with a sound like a sob.
I collapse on top of her, pinning her down to the hood of the car, both my hands holding onto hers, our fingers interlocked on either side of her head. I bury my face in her neck, my body still shaking and twitching with the last of the orgasm.
Her legs are locked around my waist. I haven’t pulled out of her.
I can feel her heart beating on one side of her chest, and mine on the other. They’re just a couple of inches apart, separated by flesh and nothing else.
When I finally stand up, my cock is still so hard that it pulls out of her with a popping sound. Hot cum runs down the inside of her thigh.
“Is that okay? I should have asked,” I say.
“It’s fine,” Camille blushes. “We can be more careful next time.”
“I’ve never done that before,” I tell her. “Bare like that.”
“Me either,” she says.
I help her stand up and pull down the skirt of the dress. The underwear’s ruined.
Camille looks as dazed as I do. It’s not an unpleasant feeling. Actually, it’s peaceful. It’s completely silent in the garage, without any noise from the house above, or the city streets beyond.
There’s no awkwardness between us. We’ve separated physically, but I still feel connected to Camille.
She looks up at me, tucking one wild, dark curl back behind her ear.
“I have to ask you something, Nero,” she says.
“Anything,” I reply.
“Are you going to rob the vault at the Alliance Bank?”
“Yes,” I say, without hesitation.
“When?”
“In two weeks.”
She takes a deep breath. “I want in on it.”
“You want . . . what?”
“I want to help you rob the bank. I need the money. And also, FUCK Raymond Page.”
My heart rate, finally starting to slow down, begins to pick up again.
This isn’t a good idea. First of all, Camille has zero experience in criminal activity. Second, we’re both being tracked by a very nosy cop at the moment. And third, this is no Sunday picnic. This is grand larceny on the highest scale, stealing from a ruthless and well-connected grade-A asshole.
“What?” Camille says, her eyes searching my face. “You don’t think I can do it?”
I sigh. “I think you can do pretty much anything, Camille. But nobody can rob a bank without some chance of getting caught. Or shot. Or worse.”
“I could be a lookout?” Camille says. “I don’t need a full share. Just enough to help my brother and my dad.”
“I could give you money,” I tell her.
“No!” she cries. “I’m not looking for a handout. I just want a job.”
God, I can’t even look at her. Those big, dark eyes can make me do anything.
I’m dragging this out, because I don’t want to say yes.
Yet I already know I can’t refuse her.
“Alright,” I sigh. “But you have to do what I say for once.”
