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Standing there, looking at the man, he wasn’t exactly what you’d picture when you imagined the Black Hand. His shirt was nothing more than an old black shirt that had been worn so much its cotton had faded to gray. His jeans, though I couldn’t see them from where I stood, had fraying. And that big, gold chain around his neck, the same chain he always wore, was not something any other Black Hand member would be caught dead wearing. Combine all that with his tattoos, and he was the opposite of a mafia king.
But then again, so was I, and I think that’s what made it perfect.
Some of his men might not be the honorable type, but those that followed him—the ones that truly followed him—were loyal until death. Granted, they didn’t know Damian was Atlas, but they had to know Damian himself, and no one ever gave up Damian’s name to Miguel. Damian treated his crew like family, and that’s something this city needed.
New blood. A fresh perspective.
“I’m offering you a spot on the Black Hand,” I told him.
“What? Your boy Luca didn’t want it?”
Damian wasn’t a jealous type; it was a serious question, and I answered him by turning around, leaning my ass on the edge of the desk, and saying, “He didn’t, no. I got the others to let me offer it to someone of my choosing. Shay trusts me, and Atticus trusts her. The only one you’ll have to win over is Randy Palmer.”
The sounds of Damian standing and walking around the desk filled the room, and suddenly Damian stood before me, holding the ring between his fingertips. Less than six inches away, the only thing between us his hand and that ring.
“You want me on the Black Hand with you?” he asked, his voice light like a whisper. “Why? Far as I can see, you got damn near half a dozen others who’d make a better fit than me.”
I ignored that exaggeration. “I don’t think so. I think you’d be a perfect fit, Damian.”
“I’m not Black Hand material. Look at me, baby girl, and look at them. We ain’t exactly the same.”
“I know, and that’s why you’d be perfect. The Black Hand has always been about men with power—old men, white men. It’s a new dawn for the Hand. Shay was the first girl on it, and now me. I think the Black Hand could use someone like you.” I reached for the ring he held onto. “Someone who actually cares about the men under his wing, someone who’s real, who knows the streets.”
Meeting his stare, I added, “Someone who started an urban legend and became one himself. You’re smart, loyal, and a good man when it counts. I want you on the Hand with me, Damian. Please don’t make me beg.”
That got a smile out of him like I knew it would. His chest thrummed. “You begging me might be a nice sight.”
I couldn’t fight the way my body reacted to his words, and I struggled to sound calm. “Just accept the ring. Put it on and say yes.”
He didn’t say a word after that… but he did position his hand so that I could easily slide the ring on myself. Damian never once broke eye contact with me, not as I slid the ring on, and not even after it was firmly on his finger. The look he was giving me, on the other hand, said it all.
With the ring on his finger, I moved to set a hand on his chest, and he responded by inching closer to me, his body now against mine, pinning me to the desk behind me. “I guess that’s it, then,” I whispered.
“I guess so,” he murmured. “I guess Atlas is the newest member of the Black Hand.”
“Mmhmm. What’s Atlas going to do to celebrate?”
The hand without the ring went to my hip, resting there like it was always meant to be there. “Atlas can think of a few things,” Damian whispered. “But first, I think Atlas should give something in return, don’t you?”
I was just about to ask how much longer we were going to talk about him in the third-person, but Damian surprised me by letting go of my hip. He bowed his head and slipped off the thick golden chain from his neck. He lifted it over his head and then… then he lowered it around mine.
His nose grazed mine once the chain was safely around my neck, resting with my true father’s golden cross. “It looks better on you anyway, baby girl,” he murmured.
“I can’t keep this—”
“Sure you can,” he said. “Keep it warm for me. Never take it off. Not even when the others are fucking you. This way—” His head dipped, his lips brushing against the tender skin just below my earlobe. “—a part of me is always with you.”
Now his hands found my hips again, and this time his fingers dug in so hard I gasped. It didn’t hurt. It was more that I was ready… so fucking ready. All I could say was, “Damian…”
“What do you think? Are you ready for me? Shall we break in this office—you want me to fuck you right here, hmm?” His low, scratchy voice gave me goosebumps, and the way he said it, so confidently, told me he knew there would be only one outcome here.
I was ready for him. I’d been ready for him for a long time.
“I think that’s a great idea,” I whispered back.
Damian wasted no time. He swept an arm behind me to push everything on the desk away in one smooth motion, uncaring about the mess he made as a result. He hoisted me up, my entire ass on the desk now, my knees spread on either side of him. He took me by the neck and crashed his lips upon mine, kissing me with fire that had burned inside of him for so long.
Heat. Passion. Desire. It was all there in the kiss, plain as day. You didn’t kiss someone like that you didn’t crave more than the air itself. Damian, Atlas, leader of the Greenback Serpents, had fallen for me, and I’d fallen for him.
