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The millisecond after the satisfaction ends, a kernel of fear grows in my belly.
This isn’t just some strange, secretive man I met by kismet and who has been slipping into my bed for two weeks like a phantom in the night.
This is the man whose family I am actively plotting to take down. This is the heir of that family.
In essence, he is my enemy.
This is Dante Carluccio. This is a man who was born and raised in one of the most notorious mob families in the state, possibly the country.
The man whose family offered and accepted numerous bribes from my own father, who encouraged him to bet until he was so deep, he essentially sold out his own daughter without care.
The man whose brother my mother was supposed to marry in another lifetime.
The man whose family is at constant odds with the family where I am an unwitting heir.
The man whose brother put a hit on my father, his henchman following it through.
The man whose father most likely planted the idea in his son’s head.
This is a man who has most definitely given orders for cinderblock swims and mysterious worksite injuries.
And my dumb ass just slapped him.
It was a surprisingly strong slap, I’ll give myself that, but it was still a slap from a 5’3” woman in heels given to a 6’0” man who could easily kill me in less than a minute.
His head is still pushed to the side as I process these thoughts, trying to understand what the fuck I did and what the fuck my fate will be when he starts to laugh.
The man starts to laugh.
Okay, he’s clearly unhinged and out of his fucking mind.
Dear god, I’m probably going to die here.
In a strip club waitress outfit.
What a fucking way to go.
His arms open as his head straightens, a red mark already growing on his cheek, and I think this is it. He’s going to kill me here and now.
Poor Marco will probably have to clean up the mess and explain to the girls that I ran off, unable to handle the pressure of the job.
He steps forward, wrapping his arms around me, and I know this is it. I’m going to die in this man’s arms while he laughs.
I am so far gone in the hoops I’ve convinced myself to jump through over the past two weeks that I think that it might not actually be the worst way to go.
But then his hand moves, tangling into the teased blonde curls (again, I’m going to die with stripper hair) and he presses my face into his chest gently as he continues to laugh. The sound vibrates through his chest into my cheek and has a strangely calming effect.
The calm eases my panic just enough for me to understand that he’s not killing me for the utter disrespect of slapping him.
He’s . . . hugging me. And laughing.
What in the fuck is going on here?
“Fucking made for me,” he murmurs once his laughing slows, his body rocking my own left to right. “Fucking made for me, baby.”
What the fuck is this man on?
I just slapped him across the face hard enough to leave a mark, and he’s laughing, telling me I was made for him. I push my hands to his chest and try to free myself, that moment of fear and second-guessing melting as the rage settles back in. “Let go of me, Dante.”
