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His palm slid from my waist to my hip before he pulled away, leaving a trail of fire down my side. He pushed off the wall, and I took a step back and out of his way. Walking away, he stopped and turned to me. His voice was cool, indifferent, and laced with that commanding tone he’d mastered.
“The list? I want it tomorrow, Elena.”
“What do you mean, like do I carry a membership card that says ‘Mafia’ on it?”
—Willie Moretti
TEMPTATION IS HALF
-NAKED, INNOCENT, AND dripping wet.
And I am my idiot cousins.
Those were the two conclusions I’d come to this week with an irritating sense of acquiescence. I was practically up to my neck in work, and yet I could only focus on one goddamn thing.
Elena Abelli, of course. So fucking wet.
The way she’d stood there, dripping water to the concrete while staring at me with those soft brown eyes and that sweet expression. Her long, wet hair and a body you’d see on a porn star. Jesus, it couldn’t be real. That’s what I’d convinced myself, but then it followed me, got in my way even, and told me what I couldn’t do.
It was regrettably real. Every perfect square inch of it.
For an unknown reason, the idea of her greeting guests looking like that dug under my skin. Was her papà letting her run around half-naked while men were over? And as her soon-to-be brother-in-law, could I tell her to go put on some fucking clothes?
I hadn’t ever wished a girl would get dressed, especially one with an ass like Elena Abelli’s. Frustration clawed at my chest, because I knew when irrational responses went through my head it meant one thing, and it usually wasn’t good for either party involved.
The night was lit by tiki torches and the sparkling orange lights above the Abelli’s patio table. The atmosphere seemed to be easy enough, though that was probably because all the Abellis stayed on one side of the yard and all the Russos on the other.
A servant poured Adriana her sixth glass of wine, and I reached out and took it from her, setting it on the other side of my dessert plate.
Her gaze burned a hole into my cheek.
“You’re not fucking old enough to drink,” I told her.
She sighed, mumbling something about having to drink to forget the videos—whatever that meant.
We were supposed to be “getting to know one another,” as her mamma suggested, but we’d hardly said a word to each other and I couldn’t find it in me to care. Mostly because I knew where her sister stood and was concentrating on not letting myself look in that direction. The girl had the entire male population of New York kissing her ass, and I didn’t care to be included in that circle jerk.
Nevertheless, a flash of pink in a corner of the yard caught my attention, and I couldn’t stop myself from flicking an unwilling glance to her. She was playing croquet with her girl cousins and Benito. And just like a prima donna, she still had her heels on. I’d thought my perception of her personality would be a big enough repellent, like a thick cloud of bug spray or maybe a little mace. Unfortunately, it didn’t do anything to turn me off. Not when I looked at her, and especially not when she spoke with that soft, warm voice that soaked through my skin and ran straight to my groin.
I now understood my cousins’ fascination.
The fact that I could be lumped into the same group as those idiots . . . ridiculous.
I knew what this was. I was a Russo. We wanted what we couldn’t have, and what I couldn’t have was Elena Abelli in my bed just one damn time.
“You don’t like my sister?” Adriana asked.
Jesus, she was a bit perceptive. I would have to remember that.
I took a sip of whiskey. “I like your sister just fine.”
“Hmm,” was all she said, like she didn’t believe me but didn’t give a shit either.
This was how our conversations seemed to go. Short and apathetic. I couldn’t decide if we were perfect for each other, or if she’d drive me crazy with her idiosyncrasies.
My gaze found that blond prick talking to one of Elena’s uncles. I didn’t know the man, but I knew I wouldn’t help him if I saw him bleeding out on the street. A burn radiated in my chest from only looking at him. I’d barely stopped myself from smashing his face against the front door earlier. Elena Abelli was not my business, regardless of the way the Russo blood in my veins burned a little hotter in her presence.
“Yankees or Mets?” Adriana had poured all the salt out of the shaker and was now drawing caricatures in it.
