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TATUM
Every powerful family had a pied-de-terre in Sunnyside, Queens, the hub of our mafie world. Everyone had a family member living in what was originally a small brownstone that had been expanded upon. In the most ostentatious cases, a family bought the buildings on either side of theirs and built a monstrosity of a McMansion.
The Lupu boys and I grew up in the houses where our women still remained, so we kept things humble. However, that didn’t mean we didn’t bling out in other ways.
Clara planned to shop for new clothes, and I had my heart set on lavishing her with everything under the sun. It took a bit of doing to convince Clara that I would not only be accompanying her but that I would be paying for every single item her dainty fingers touched. With Star’s help, we eventually wore her down, and she ceded to my will.
We were on our way to our first stop, the Louis Vuitton store in Soho. It would be one of many stops today because I had every intention of draping my woman in the finest of everything, including lingerie.
I was biding my time, giving her the chance to get to know me, and myself the time to figure out my next move, but if sitting beside her in the Range Rover was any indication, I didn’t think I’d be able to restrain myself for long. It had been hell sitting in front of Clara when I was trying to avoid her. Sitting beside her in the back was infinitely worse.
She was dressed in my sister’s casual clothing again, and no lie, I enjoyed her looking so carefree and youthful. I knew where her tastes ran, and I wanted to encourage her toward softer and more feminine clothing. Ever since she left California, she toned down her structured suits, even though one would think they would fit better in the city than on the West Coast. It was as if she didn’t feel the need to wear them here, away from her clan. After the hurricane, she didn’t want to retrieve her clothing. Fair enough, but the dominant in me wanted to test her, to see if I could lead her toward clothing I chose.
I’d appointed a personal shopper to meet us at the store for backup. Sheyna was the go-to stylist everyone in the mafie world used because she could do everything from modern and cutting edge to classic and elegant. Or so my mother told me.
Clara was unusually quiet on the ride to Lower Manhattan, but she needed time to adjust and transition from hating me to accepting me and ultimately wanting me. The passion was always there between us, and hopefully, her suspicions of the Lupu clan, or at least of me, would dissipate over time.
The yellow taxi driver beside our car leaned on his horn as he cut us off and raced ahead, crossing a red light. Glancing over at Clara, I couldn’t help but admire her. My gaze took in her smooth, creamy skin, her high cheekbones, and the elegant nose from which she liked to look down on me. I craved to lean over and bite her bee-stung lips.
Her crisp, summery scent drifted over me, and I had to fist my hands to stop myself from reaching across and mauling her. I was a man of control and restraint. Or so I thought until Clara came into my life. Even when we were at each other’s throats, sexual tension was thrumming between us and upended my self-possession in ways I never thought possible.
The car stopped, and I ducked out to go around and open her door myself. Extending a hand, I waited to see how she would react. She paused, threw me a suspicious look, and ever so warily placed her hand in mine. Her delicate fingers wrapped around my grip, and damn, did it feel good. Her willingness to let me touch her, to guide her out of the car, was a silent opening, and I’d make sure to repeat it every chance I got.
We reached the storefront and she immediately dropped my hand, but those extra moments when her hand was protectively wrapped in mine had my chest puffing with pride.
I opened the door for her, but her head swung to the side. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she spotted something halfway down Greene Street, a row of ornate cast-iron façades from an assorted mix of neo-Grec, Italianate, Renaissance Revival buildings. Pivoting to the side, she strode away from me.
“Hey,” I shouted, but she dismissed me and streaked across the cobblestone street, dashing between cars.
I cursed as I shot after her.
Leave it to Clara to abandon whatever plans I had for her and go off on her own.
She skipped up a few stairs, ducked under a fire escape, and slipped through a large door of a funky Soho clothing boutique. I didn’t recognize the name.
Huffing in irritation, I followed her inside. It was a huge sleek space with a few island displays and one wall lined up with racks holding a minimal amount of clothes. Crossing the glossy, black flooring, I stalked up to Clara, who was already sifting through one rack.
Grabbing her arm, I said, “Don’t run away from me without even letting me know where you’re going. Follow instructions. Why are you so difficult?”
Over her shoulder, she tossed out, “I wasn’t running from you.”
I shook my head. “You literally ran across the street.”
She gave a little shrug and muttered a half-assed apology before tacking on, “You’re so controlling.”
“This isn’t a top-of-the-line fashion house and I had a personal shopper meeting us at the Louis Vuitton store.”
She made a scoffing sound, taking a dress off the rack. “You’re such a snob. Anyway, I’m a grown woman. I don’t need help shopping. I have my suits handmade for me from Savile Row in London. If I go shopping in New York, the whole point is to wander around and find interesting treasures on my own, not go to the same old boring designers I can find in Los Angeles and Paris. Chanel, Dior, Louis, Hermes. Boring, boring, and boring.”
I grimaced. “What the hell are you talking about? That’s what every mafie woman wants to wear.”
“Maybe I don’t want what everymafie woman wears. Have you seen what I wear? Do I look like I dress like them?”
“No,” I said with a snort. “Only woman I know who wears suits.”
She stopped rifling through the clothing, turned to face me, and cocked a hip. “Exactly. I want something different.”
Huh, that sounded promising. She seemed to be doing exactly what I wanted her to do. Of course, she ran away from me and didn’t go about it the way I’d planned, but Clara was nothing if not spirited and single-minded. Hopefully, the day would come when she’d give me permission to dictate what she wore. I glanced down at the dress she’d picked. It was a slinky, silky-looking number. I’d appreciate seeing her in something like that, and if she was naturally inclined to switch it up, then I’d take it as a win.
