Page 4 of His Fatal Love

This man is different. A sharp intelligence looks out of those shadowed eyes, the kind of intelligence one doesn’t usually come across in the Bernardis who work the docks.

Some impulse makes me pull up my balaclava, keeping it rolled down over my hair still, but allowing him to see my face.

I suppose I’m interested to see what he’ll do.

I don’t move, even when he raises the gun and points it at me. The angle makes the shot difficult, and I’m confident enough in my own skills to wait and watch what he’ll do.

And then—how strange—he raises his other hand and presses his finger against his lips. His face is heavy-featured, severe. The two of us wait there silently, and I allow him to stare me head to toe with focused, intense desire as the seconds tick by. I find myself arching against the metal side of the shipping container, a non-verbal invitation.

He surprises me again. He smiles, and his face transforms into something beautiful.

But there’s no time to talk. We hear it at the same time, the soft footfalls of what we both know must be SWAT officers closing in from the sides.

It’s time to get out of here.

We are enemies, the two of us, but when he beckons me over, I go to him. Moth to flame? No. We’re equal predators, even if he can’t see that. I know this type. So muscle-bound that they can’t help telegraphing their moves. I’m more slender, only slightly shorter, but much, much more flexible than…

Hm.

He seems more familiar the closer I get, something in the way his massive shoulders set back as he watches my approach.

He puts out his hand and I take it, finding his grip oddly gentle despite the power radiating from his body. I’m drawn in, captivated, trying to find his personal scent under all that foreign blood.

And I was wrong about something else. This guy is no heavy dump truck. When he moves, he moves with electric grace, drawing me flush to him with one arm.

Any moment now, the SWAT team will come around that corner.

The Bernardi lets go of my hand and points up. Peppered across his fingers and knuckles, his ink tells me exactly who he is. I know those tattoos, I’ve seen them before…

The Bernardi Enforcer. What’s his name? It escapes me. I’ve never spoken to him before, never heard his voice, but I’ve seen him around. Don Aldo Berndardi’s second-born son.

Well, I knowthatfeeling.

Perhaps that’s where our connection comes from, because we certainly have one.

I take the chance, flicking my eyes skyward to follow his pointing finger, and see what he means. I nod, and—quickly, quietly—I kneel down, take his heavy boot in my hand, boost him up so he can grab at the edge of the shipping container’s roof. We’re lucky they’re only one-high here, and we’re also lucky that the noise of a ship’s horn—irritated at the hold up coming into the docks, no doubt—covers the sound of one of those boots banging against the metal container.

But he gets up there easily enough and then reaches down to grab me. I might as well weigh nothing; he simply plucks me from the ground and sets me down next to him.

The SWAT team arrives, seeping in from the darkness in silence that rivals my own.

The Bernardi pushes me down into a crouch underneath him, just about mounting me right then and there. An erotic charge shoots through me, balls to brain, and I consider fucking him right here, while the SWAT team circles below us.

Fantasies, of course. I’d make far too much noise with his thick cock working its way into my dry asshole.

Still, a sweet fantasy.

I’m aware of his heat, and the way his arms tighten around me, the coppery scent of blood coming off him, the bulge of his muscled chest against my back. His hands move down to my waist, and he pulls me in closer, until I feel his hardness press against my ass.

I’m not the only one with fantasies, then. And there’s something about him that feels…

Familiar.

The sharp spotlights of the SWAT team guns flash as they move around just below, sweeping up occasionally to check what’s above them. But the darkness covers us in our motionless, sexy position.

Once they pass by, we stand cautiously, looking around. He points one way—one jump across, and we’d land loudly, but then it’s a clear run to the edge of the dock, to a wire fence that I already know has a neat hole cut into it, because I saw Jack put it there.

Jack. I hope he got out alright. Sandro will be very cross if he’s dead.

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