Damiano’s plane lands at an FBO in JFK at midnight.
Gemma’s asleep on my shoulder, her dark-brown, nearly black locks splayed over my dress shirt, and her scent in my nose. It usually takes more than that to turn me on, but here I am, sporting a hard-on for the last hour.
What happened in the kitchen might have something to do with it too.
I prop my elbow on the armrest and press my fist to my lips as I recall the memory in excruciating detail.
Fuck me.
Seeing that hot little mouth sucking on my finger was enough to make me forget myself. If it wasn’t for Churro, I’m certain we would have ended up with her splayed on the counter, my mouth between her legs, and my tongue buried deep inside her pussy.
Which would have been really fucking stupid.
But unfortunately, I have a history of doing very stupid things.
Especially when those things look like Gemma Garzolo.
A part of me thought that taking care of her while she’s sick would work the attraction out of me, but if anything, it’s made it stronger.
Those two days with her shook something inside of me. Made me see her in yet another light.
Seeing her so scared and vulnerable made my chest ache. There was no pretense to uphold when she was puking in the toilet, or when she woke up gasping in fear from her dreams. She came to me so easily. All of her hardness melted away, and I wanted nothing more than to take away her pain.
I give my head a slight shake.
It may have been easy to forget she’s engaged when we were back in Ibiza, but there will be no escaping that fact in New York.
I can’t let whatever the fuck is going on between Gemma and I interfere with the task Damiano gave me, which is figuring out what Garzolo and Messero might be hiding from us. I need to play everything very carefully. Garzolo thinks I’m coming here to get a better sense of their operations. At least that’s what Dem told him. He also dangled a carrot by suggesting I’m looking for other opportunities to do business together.
It’s a diplomatic mission.
The pilot makes an announcement over the PA to let us know we’re taxiing to the customs area, and Gemma stirs.
“Shit,” she mutters. “Why didn’t you move me?”
Because I fucking like you there.
Instead, I say, “Don’t worry about it.”
We get off the plane to show our documents to a miserable-looking agent and then make our way to area where they’re scanning our baggage.
She looks around, her expression tense. I can’t decide if it’s because she regrets what happened back in Ibiza, or because of something else.
“Happy to be home?” I ask once we’ve collected our suitcases.
Her response is a non-committal shrug. Given what I’ve observed of her parents, I doubt they have a particularly happy home life.
It was pretty shitty of them to leave her back in Ibiza. It might have only been three days, but that girl went through hell and back. Something strangely protective stirs inside of me. That bruise on her face was hard to look at.
And by hard, I mean it made me homicidal.
Who the fuck would raise a hand to her? Vale said it couldn’t have been their dad, but who else? Even if Garzolo didn’t do it himself, someone may have done it on his orders.
Or maybe there’s a made man with a death wish roaming around.
Well, no matter. I’ll find out who it was, and I’ll make them pay. Now that I’m here, no one’s going to touch a hair on her head.
“So where are you going?” she asks me as we walk toward the exit.
Oh, right. She doesn’t know I’m staying with them.
I grin at her. “A few rooms over, I suppose.”
Her steps slow. “You’re staying…in our house?”
“Where else would I stay but with family?”
Her eyes turn wide and worried. “You’re not my family.”
“I’m Dem’s cousin. He’s your brother-in-law. We’re family, Peaches.”
Although what I want to do to her is decidedly not familial in nature.
Her hand shoots out and wraps around my bare wrist. “Papà is letting you stay with us?”
My gaze drops to where she’s touching me. She immediately lets go, and a blush spreads over her cheeks. “Sorry. I’m just shocked.”
You never have to apologize for touching me. The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I bite them back. “Don’t worry. He’s expecting me.”
Garzolo’s driver is waiting for us just outside in a black Suburban. He introduces himself to me as Armando Vitale. Gemma appears to know him, but not well, judging by their curt greeting and the guarded expression on her face. I look for any hint of fear and find none.
Still, I dislike him immediately. No particular reason. Just his vibe.
“Your father wanted me to let you know that I’ll be your security detail until your wedding,” Armando says. I guess the two guys they brought to Ibiza got sacked for spending more time drinking from Damiano’s wine collection than keeping an eye on the girls.
“You’ve been working for Garzolo for a while?” I ask.
“About a year,” he says, patting his pockets for a lighter.
A year? That’s nothing. There’s no way he’s made. If I had to guess, he’s someone’s useless cousin who’s spent the last few decades failing at whatever he was doing, and he’s begged to be brought in.
We reach Manhattan, where despite the late hour, throngs of cars are stuck in slow-moving traffic. Everyone’s honking at each other as if it’ll make things go faster.
I drag my palm over my beard. It’s overdue for a trim. “This place is a zoo.”
“Have you spent a lot of time here?” Gemma asks.
“No. Just a few short trips.”
“So you don’t know anyone?”
“I have a few acquaintances.” Just one, actually.
I already have a meeting set up with him, courtesy of Kal Parasyris, a Greek that runs his own version of the Cosa Nostra up in a tiny village in Crete. Zoriana? Zoniana? I always get the name of that place wrong. Kal’s been one of our weapons suppliers for years, and he’s got a cousin, Orrin Petraki, out here in Brooklyn, running what they call “the Greek Crew.” Kal made him sound like small fish in a big pond, but if I know anything about the Greeks, it’s that they’re hustlers. I’m going to try and get Orrin to help me figure out what the fuck is really going on with Garzolo.
That’s as far as I’ve gotten in terms of having a plan to accomplish the mission Dem gave me. It’s not much, but it’s better than winging it.
Gemma doesn’t ask any more questions. She stares out the window for the rest of the long drive, her skin pale.
“You okay?” I ask when the car stops. We’re in New Jersey now, in a neighborhood right on the Hudson River. The streets are lined with dense rows of bare-branched trees and thick pines. Must look nice in the summer.
“Just tired,” she says, but it rings false. Her whole demeanor changed when we stepped off the plane. She’s smaller somehow, anxiety practically emanating off her.
It gives me pause.
We get out of the car, and holy fucking shit. It’s freezing cold out.
I pull my jacket tighter around me. Fucking February. This has got to be the worst possible month to be here.
My breaths come out in misty puffs as I take in the red-brick house in front of me. It’s enormous—three sprawling stories with an array of arched windows. It’s kind of traditional looking. There’s a separate garage to the right, big enough for at least six cars, and on the left is a tennis court.
The wind picks up, sending a shiver through me. “Jesus Christ.”
“Not used to this?”
I glance at Gemma, who’s come to stand by my side. The lamps on the front of the house send light scattering across her rosy cheeks. She seems to be dealing with this temperature far better than me despite only wearing a hoodie.
“Can we go inside?” I ask through chattering teeth.
Amusement flickers in her eyes. “Such a baby.”
“More like I want to have babies one day, but I won’t if my balls freeze off out here.”
This earns me a laugh. “Come on. I’ve got the key.”
As soon as we get inside, I sigh with relief. Much better. I’ve never been this grateful for central heat.
We’re standing in a grand foyer that opens up to a large living room with a crackling fireplace. To the right is a staircase leading to the second floor, and to the left is the kitchen.
Armando comes in behind us and opens a shallow cabinet attached to the wall. Inside is a row of hooks with keys hanging off them. He hooks his car keys on an empty one and closes the cabinet.
We get about four steps in when Gemma’s mother emerges from the shadows. She’s wrapped in a long house robe and her hair is tied back in a braid. You’d think she’d rush over to give her recently ill daughter a hug, but instead, all she gives Gemma is a critical look.
I hear Gemma’s intake of breath. “Mamma.”
Pietra examines Gemma for a moment before pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek. “You look terrible.”
“It was a long journey.”
“Your father wants to speak with you.”
Gemma’s shoulders tense up. “I’m really tired. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
Pietra shakes her head. “Go, Gemma. He stayed up waiting for you.”
I grind my teeth. Gemma’s legs are barely holding her weight, and she’s still weak from her illness.
“Mamma, please.”
Any normal mother would back off, but I’m starting to realize that Pietra is far from normal. When she opens her fucking mouth to argue, I step in.
“Mrs. Garzolo, the doctor instructed Gemma to take it easy for the next few days. It’s past one am. She needs to lie down and get some rest.”
Both of the women look at me, one cautiously grateful and the other annoyed.
It doesn’t take a mind reader to know what Pietra is thinking. I’m in her house, and I don’t make the rules here. But I hold her gaze, challenging her to voice that thought.
I don’t give a fuck where we are. Gemma’s wellbeing is my priority, and I’m not going to let her mom get away with being a cunt.
There’s a long pause before Pietra finally says, “First thing tomorrow. Go to your room Gemma.” Her eyes narrow on me. “He’ll speak with you right now.”
I’m tempted to make a comment about their shitty hospitality—we’ve been traveling for nearly fifteen hours—but I swallow it down. I knew that I wasn’t exactly going to be welcomed with open arms. Garzolo is only hosting me due to obligation.
Gemma locks eyes with me for a brief moment, looking almost apologetic.
I shrug. She has nothing to apologize for.
I don’t get a chance to say goodnight before Pietra’s gestures for me to follow her and I’m led away.
My eyes fly open, and I don’t need to check the clock to know that definitely wasn’t the recommended eight hours of sleep.
Fuck jet lag. Why haven’t they developed pills for it by now?
I groan as I sit up. The clock on the wall tells me my bed and I have been acquainted with each other for a grand total of three hours.
It’s five am.
I thought I was going to fall asleep in Garzolo’s office when he kept me there for an hour after we arrived. The conversation was essentially him attempting to figure out why I was really here. I repeated three times the same thing Dem had already told him. That we were just taking a look at his operations and seeing if there’s an opportunity to collaborate on more things. He finally accepted that was all he was getting from me and let me leave.
I hop out of bed and take a quick shower before slipping on my warmest clothes, which is a gray Italian wool suit I somehow had the foresight to pack with me. Actually, it’s probably the warmest thing I own, period. Living in Ibiza and Southern Italy, I don’t exactly need a robust winter wardrobe.
There’s no way around it, I’ll need to do some shopping soon, or I’ll slowly succumb to hypothermia.
Garzolo would probably like that.
I despise shopping, but I’m willing to do it if it’ll keep a smile off that fucker’s face.
First, I have a more pressing problem to address. I need to figure out how I’m going to keep an eye on Gemma when she’s out of the house. I need to be around her. After all, I promised Vale I’d find out the real story behind that bruise.
The most straightforward option would be to somehow convince Garzolo to let me be her bodyguard and driver while I’m here.
Problem is, she already has one of those.
Armando Vitale.
So step one is to get rid of that prick. Step two is to figure out how to convince Garzolo I’m the right man for the job.
I leave my bedroom and wander around the house for a bit, getting familiar with the layout. I do this every time I stay in a new place. The last thing you want is for a bit of trouble to come up and not know where all the exits are.
Once I’ve cataloged it all away, I pop into the kitchen for an espresso.
While I wait for the coffee machine to grind the beans, I grab a newspaper from the counter. A headline catches my eye. “US Attorney General Vows to Continue Fight Against Organized Crime.”
A smile pulls at my lips. Whether in Italy or the United States, they always vow this kind of thing. Back home, it rarely amounts to anything. How can it, when we have most of the elected officials in our pocket? We budget each year for that shit.
I grab one of the small cups lined up by the coffee machine and get the espresso going. When it’s ready, I take it up to my room to drink.
There’s a big arched window in my bedroom. On the other side, it’s still so dark, you can see the stars above. I’m hovering by the windowsill, trying to make out the cars Garzolo has parked out front, when the glare of a phone screen catches my eye.
I squint. Did someone just walk out the side door of the house?
It’s hard to see who it is, but the shape and height implies it’s a man. He’s too tall to be Garzolo so…
Shit, that’s Vitale.
What’s he wearing? No winter coat, that’s for sure. Hold on. He’s dressed like he’s about to go for a run. A subtle rush creeps up my spine. The kind that comes with a good idea.
I wait until I see what direction he goes in, and then I leave my bedroom once more and quietly slip through the house until I get to the foyer.
I open the cabinet I saw Vitale put his keys in last night and take out the one for the Suburban.
Freezing cold air slams into me as soon as I step outside. My jaw snaps shut, and I hurry to the damn car. This weather is a fucking nightmare. How do people survive here?
It doesn’t take me long to find Vitale. I grin. He’s not even wearing any reflective clothing. Doesn’t he know that’s the smart thing to do when running while it’s dark out?
My foot presses on the gas. I’m worried he’ll hear me approach, but the man’s oblivious. Listening to music probably.
It all comes together like a symphony.
The car rams into him. He yelps, flies over the windshield, and then his body crashes to the ground with a dull thud.
I get out of the car and go to check on him. He’s knocked out, but there’s a steady pulse. He might not be able to walk for a while, but he’ll be okay. It’s not the worst thing I’ve done by a long shot. I pat his shoulder and then get back inside the car.
A grin plays on my lips.
This trip is off to a good start.
I make it back to Garzolo’s a whole hour before the rest of the house wakes up,
