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“Good girl.”
We stood there, looking at each other, our intermingled breaths loud in the sudden silence of the shower stall.
Whatever had just passed between us transcended sex or even normal emotion. I’d never been so vulnerable to anyone. And yet when I was weak, he was my strength. When I needed something, he gave without question.
His hand cupped my cheek, and a shiver tore over my skin. “I’ll always give you what you need, piccola. No matter how fucking dark it is.”
I gripped the back of his neck and pushed onto my toes to kiss him. How ironic that the man who was once a lingering shadow to my naïve innocence was now the only bright point.
With a start, I realized that I loved him. I loved Giovanni Guerra, and I didn’t know how to feel about the fact that I’d fallen for the very man I vowed I never would.
I kept my eyes closed as though he would see the truth if I dared look at him.
His fingers moved to my chin, tilting my face up. “Piccola, look at me.”
Unable to deny him, I opened my eyes, meeting his piercing gaze. He studied me for a beat, and I wondered if he saw it written into my face, if I was as horribly exposed as I felt.
“You’re my weakness,” he breathed, as though in response to my silent confession. His forehead fell to mine like he could breathe me in. He felt like oxygen and life and everything I’d never had.
I loved him, and though I knew that was dangerous, I couldn’t quite find it in me to care.
7
GIO
Adamo pulled up outside the warehouse in Calumet Harbor, headlights cutting over Jackson’s form leaning against the hood of an SUV.
The briny scent of Lake Michigan hit me the moment I set foot on the dock, the night air untainted by trash and the exhaust fumes of New York. I did not want to be back in Chicago so soon, especially given that I’d lost ten men here in just a few days. But we’d “questioned” and killed endless numbers of Outfit soldiers and a couple of their capos, so retaliation was to be expected.
What I didn’t expect was for them to so easily find the safe houses I had here. It was concerning. Suspect even. I wondered for a moment whether another rat sat amongst my ranks.
I pushed the thought aside for now and focused on Jackson. He’d wanted to handle this alone, given how risky things were. I admit, I was tempted, if only so I didn’t have to leave Emilia. She was better but changeable, fragile, dare I say, dependent on me.
I also had no doubt Sergio would kill his own niece to get to me, and no matter how many men I’d left at the house, no amount of protection felt like enough.
This was why men like me only married for business. The mafia had no place for feelings and sentiment, and honestly, the way I felt about her fucking terrified me.
I would go back to New York right now if I could, but this had to be me. Even if I trusted Jackson not to just kill everyone—and I did not—Patrick O’Hara had agreed to meet tonight, and I knew he wouldn’t talk to anyone but Nero or me.
I stopped in front of my enforcer, my gaze flicking to the semi-automatic rifle slung over his back. “Really? Is that necessary?”
“Dramatic effect,” he said, bringing a cigarette to his lips. The glow turned his face crimson, playing over the scar on his cheek. He liked to pretend it was some hard-won battle wound. Truthfully, he just liked insane women, the kind prone to jealous rages involving kitchen knives.
“Your guys?”
“Already in there.” He jerked his head toward the warehouse behind us before pushing off the car. “I waited for your boring ass before getting to the good stuff.”
I moved toward the building, and he fell in step beside me, tossing his cigarette to the ground with a skitter of sparks.
This warehouse was The Outfit’s main point of export—drugs and weapons shipped under the guise of electrical goods. Washing machines, dishwashers... I could have just slipped that tidbit of information to Howard, but this was so much more personal than anything the law could dish out. As much as I hated to admit it, Sergio had landed a blow against both my business and my ego, and I owed him.
No, there would be no prison cell for Sergio and his mafia, only death.
Jackson rapped his knuckles over the door, and one of his guys answered, waving us both inside. The warehouse was full of high shelves stacked with boxes.
As we made our way through, I counted seven bodies littering the floor. The sight of one of my guys amongst them had anger spiking through my bloodstream. I’d lost enough people, and that was another family without a son, brother, or father. This was the business, but it was the part I’d never quite managed to be okay with. And for the last few years, it was a part we’d avoided. We had peace, and Sergio Donato had dragged us into war.
