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“Matteo.” I say gruffly.
“We need to get eyes on that will before next week. I have a hunch the answer is scratched in blood on there.”
“It won’t be easy. Our father used Ernest Bagway for a reason.”
A low laugh escapes me when I think of the cunning man who heads up the most trustworthy law firm in town.
“There must be a way. If there is, I’m guessing you will find it.”
“I’ll do my best.”
There’s a short silence and then he whispers,“Take care, brother.”
He cuts the call before I can answer and, for a second, I hold the phone with a strange emotion inside me. Brother. I wonder when that description ceased to mean anything in our lives, if it ever did in the first place, that is.
I pocket the phone and once again my thoughts turn to Flora, waiting for me to make my move. If it wasn’t so urgent, I would enjoy every minute of this and drag out the pleasure. However, it’s obvious time is a luxury none of us can afford and so, with grim determination, I head off to business.
CHAPTER17
FLORA
What the fuck has happened to me? I’m an idiot. Obviously, something is seriously wrong with me because why am I not putting up a fight? It must be him. Domenico Ortega. Somehow, I feel safe and protected all the time I’m with him, which is a fucking joke because I am definitely not safe from that man. He appears to want to tear me apart for his own pleasure, and I only have one person to blame for that. My sister.
I wish he looked at me and didn’t see her. The way he touches me sometimes tells me he is capable of great tenderness and love. He tries to disguise it, but it’s there, standing center stage, yearning to be seen. He is damaged, probably beyond repair, and I understand a lot about how that feels.
The door flies open, making me jump and I swallow hard when I see the man himself, glowering at me from the doorway. I briefly wonder if I chose the right outfit. Respectful, he said. I chose a Chanel shift dress and ivory heels. A smart matching jacket makes me feel a million dollars and I expect the clothes I discovered in the closet weren’t far off that sum due to the designers I found there. Dior, Givenchy, Versace and Chanel were dripping from the rails. Valentino and Dolce and Gabbana were their accomplices, and I stared around me in awe at the magnificent sight.
Mafia money is dirty money, and I must remind myself of that and so I push away my awe and trample on my envy because I will not allow myself to respect this man.
He prowls toward me like a black panther, dressed head to toe in black Armani, looking like every dark dream I have ever had. I’d prefer to think I’ve only had a few, but it appears darkness follows me around because at night they creep into my subconscious and unleash a yearning inside me for a life I ran from in terror. I expect it’s because I grew up around the mafia. It’s all I know; hell, my own father was one. Cut down in his prime, fighting a war that included him falling on his metaphorical sword to protect the life of a grade A bastard.
Domenico stands before me and his dark glittering eyes hold a promise that whatever this is, will end when he says so and I stare at him defiantly and wait for him to speak like the good little girl I appear to be.
He says nothing.
Instead, he stares into my eyes with a yearning that tears at my heart, ripping it apart and exposing it to emotion toward him. I want to reach out and soothe away the trouble that surrounds him. He is conflicted; a fool could see that, and I’m surprised when he reaches out and strokes my face lightly, with a reverence that slays the monster inside me and turns it into a pussycat.
I lean against his hand and am mesmerized at how his eyes glitter with emotion, and I dare not speak and destroy this intimate moment. He is somewhere else. The instant realization that when he looks at me, he sees another is a crushing blow, which makes me wonder if he has stripped me of my sanity.
“You look beautiful.”
His whispered words surprise me and a brief smile lights my face, which causes a strange expression on his. I surprise myself when I return the favor, and reaching up, cup his cheek and whisper, “Let me help you.”
The intensity increases and his hand snaps against mine and yet, rather than pulling my hand away, he deepens the hold. Skin on skin, minds connected, we both recognize a kindred spirit when we see one.
“How?”
His response catches me off-guard, and I lean a little closer. “I want to help you bring my sister and Mario down, and I think I can help with that.”
“I’ll ask you again—how?”
He doesn’t even blink and as we stare deep into each other’s eyes, I whisper, “I know their weakness. Hit them there and they will fall.”
He nods and I’m surprised when he shifts closer and runs his hand around the back of my head and clutches my hair in his fist. His grip tightens and it makes my eyes water as the sadness inside him manifests into a cruelty I am used to. Then he pulls my face close to his and before I can react, his lips fasten on mine and still holding my head in place, he kisses me so passionately I forget to breathe.
It lasts a lifetime—at least it seems that way and as our tongues collide, they dance in a battle of wills. He tries to dominate me, but how can you when the person on the receiving end craves every bit of it?
It’s as if he opens the floodgates because I can’t think of anything but him right now. He has stepped inside me and blocks out the light, and as his hand moves lower and lifts my dress around my waist, I don’t even recoil. If anything, I lean closer and as his fingers inch inside my panties and thrust deep inside, I moan like a whore as he invades my most intimate place.
