Spin Ruin: (A Mafia Romance Two-Book Bundle) (28 page)

I blinked, squeezed my eyes shut, and opened them again. The room was tight and low, with dirt walls and ceiling. Enzo and Niccoló passed by, yammering in Italian, and over me was…

“Capo.”

“Shh. Please. You got a good knock on the head.”

“Where am I?”

“Under
l'uovo
. But I’ll say no more.”

“Where’s Marina?”

He shook his head. “She’s fine, but stupid. Otto found her and you just in time. She’s being sent home to Naples tomorrow. How is your ear?”

That must be the searing pain on the side of my head. “Hurts.”

“It caught a bullet.”

I got up on my elbows and looked around. I saw a door on each side of the room and a wall lined with racks of rifles.

“I wanted to tell you something,” I said.

“Marina told me.”

I noticed then that he wasn’t touching me. He wasn’t holding my hand or stroking my cheek. His fingers were laced together between his legs.

“Thank you. The warning about the DA is very helpful. We were clearing out anyway. Paulie’s gone.”

“Why?”

“Why? He put you in a terrible position. We, ah…” He looked at his hands. My vision had cleared enough to see the red scratches on his fists. “We fought. He set the shop on fire. I don’t know who he will align with, if anyone. But not me.” He stood. The ceiling wasn’t much higher than his head.

“Antonio,” I said, “where are you going?”

“I have a war to prepare for. Otto will make sure you get home safely.” He walked toward the door like a doctor satisfied the patient would live.

“No,” I said, suddenly lucid. “Don’t. Please.”

“Nothing’s changed, Theresa.”

“That’s right.” I swung my feet around, and they found the floor. I was sitting on a wooden bench. “Nothing has changed. You feel the same. Deny it. Deny you love me.”

“I don’t love you.”

“You’re lying.”

“Contessa—”

“Don’t call me that until you admit how you feel.”

He closed the door, shutting out the sounds of the men. “What difference would it make? I won’t destroy you. If I take you in, you’ll be miserable. You’ll spend your life never knowing who I am or what I do. You’ll have to accept that I may go to jail for years, and you can’t leave me, even then. It won’t be tolerated. But even me in jail is the better scenario.”

“And the worse one?”

“You learn to tolerate me.” He put his hand on the doorknob.

I knew that if he went into the other room, only Otto would come back. It would be the last I’d see of him. So I jumped up and stood in front of the door. The world swam. I tried to lean on the wall, but my stomach turned over, and I was sure I would fall.

Antonio’s arms went around me, holding me up. My senses came back, and I pushed him away.

“Admit you love me.” I touched his face, feeling the stubble on his cheek and the exhaustion emanating from him. I wanted to make it all go away, to give him peace.

“It wouldn’t make any difference,” he said.

“Admit it.”

“I loved you the second I put my eyes on you. It doesn’t matter.”

“Let me love you back.”

“You have a life to live.”

“I have nothing.” I stroked his lip, and his hands remained at his sides. “I’ve danced enough. I’ve seen movies. I’ve been in every pool in Malibu. I’ve travelled. I’ve dated. Worked on a political campaign. Met stars. Had a job. I’ve done all that. What I’ve never done is love a man like you.”

He turned, ever so slightly, and kissed my palm, letting his eyes close. “What if you die from loving me?”

“What if I die from not loving you?”

He kissed my cheek, and I melted into him. I thought I’d never feel those lips again, and when I did, I groaned.

“Please,” I whispered. “I’ll follow you anywhere.”

“You’re going to get hurt.”

“Hurt me, then. I’d rather get hurt than live a lie.”

He put his forehead to mine and wove his hands behind my neck. It increased the pain in my head, but I fell into it, wanting his pain as much as I wanted his pleasure.

“Contessa, you make me crazy.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know where you’ll fit in with me. I don’t know your place.”

“My place is beside you.”

He leaned back, and I felt the loss of his touch deeply. I needed more. But he put his hand behind his collar and took off his medal of St. Christopher.

He pressed it into my palm, one hand over mine, one under. He looked into my face as if watching a storm gather. The metal was hard on my skin and warm from being close to him.

“Are you sure you want to never feel safe?” he asked. “Are you sure you want to always look behind you? Are you sure you want a life without people you trust?”

“If you’re with me, yes.”

“Are you sure you can love a man who’s damned?”

“Only you. Damned or saved, I want only you.”

“I have a problem, my Contessa. It’s been eating me alive since I kissed you. I want you, and I don’t know how to have you. I want you beside me. I want my world and your world to be one. To see you laugh in the morning. To see you weep my name at night. I am not ever afraid, but with you, I am. I’m afraid I won’t have you, and I’m afraid I will.”

He turned my hand over until my palm was facing downward, clutching the medal. He leaned down and kissed it, fingers, knuckles, wrist, and looked up at me. His eyes were felony black, lips built for declarations of love, jaw set to break barriers.

“I can’t let you go,” he said. “I want to be that man who can make you breakfast and raise children without always looking behind his back. I am going to make myself worthy. I am going to get out so I can’t hurt you. But I can’t just walk away from what I do, and I can’t turn away from you. God help me, every time I walk away from you, I only see hell in front of me.”

I put my hands on his face, letting the chain slip over my thumb and dangle. “Don’t walk away from me. It kills me when you do.”

“This life, it’s impossible to pay every debt and go straight.”

“Pay what you can.”

He took the chain and opened it. I leaned into him so he could put it around my neck and fasten it.

I laid my head on his shoulder and pulled back. “Ow. My ear.”

He turned my head to get a good look. “It’s barely a scratch.” He kissed my neck, moving the chain to put his tongue on the skin where my neck and shoulder met.

“I have a headache,” I said, pushing his ass forward until I felt his erection at my hip.

“I’ll fuck you gently. You’ll come long and slow. Your head will forget its ache when you shed tears.” He reached under my skirt from behind.

I groaned.

“
Shh
,” he said. “My men are on the other side of this door.” He pushed me back onto the bench and spread my legs. “
A
more Mio.”

He kissed inside my thighs, moving my panties aside to lick so slowly I almost came with anticipation. I grabbed his hair, but he wouldn’t suck. He only used the tip of his tongue on my clit.

“Antonio,” I whispered. The hard bench bit my back and the room was rough hewn from the earth, yet I’d never felt so comfortable, at home, safe. “Always be my Capo.”

He slid my underpants off and planted himself between my legs, his dick out and ready for me.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Fuck me,” I said with conviction. “Fuck me now.”

He put one of my legs over his shoulder, opening me for him. He moved my body like a precious thing, then he slid his dick into me. I was so wet, he got the whole length of him in with one try.

“
Come vuoi tu
, Contessa.” He moved out then in again, every inch a breath of intention to keep me safe, to keep me pure. But most importantly, I felt his intention to keep me. His voice dropped, and his words sounded more like prayer than surrender. “
Come vuoi tu.
”

Fine, per adesso.

------------

RUIN.

Songs of Corruption - Book Two

C.D. Reiss

theresa

verything bled. The sun bled gold over the skyline. The deep blue horizon bled over the map of the streets. The trapezoid of light bled across the carpet as the day passed. The smog bled into the cloud. From the tower, I presided over silence.

I didn’t know how many hours a day I sat in front of that window, looking out over the breadth of the Los Angeles basin with its endless ocean of greys and browns, wondering where he was and where I was and how many hours were between us. Wondering if I’d eaten or if my motionless night at the window had been cut by sleep or if my open-eyed diligence was to end in another day of bleeding the hours of life into the endlessness of death.

He was gone. He didn’t talk about what he did, but I was sure the sun draining onto the blanket of the basin was blood shed by him or his men or on his behalf. I feared it was his. Everyone’s blood looked the same once spilled, but his, running the same color as a polluted sun, would have brought me to tears.

The most tender symptom of aging is the reduction of choices. I’d wanted to be everything when I was a girl: a scientist, a politician, a financier, a lawyer. But I’d made a choice to be nothing, bleeding options from a wound where my heart had been pulled out, inflated to ten times its normal size, and put back.

Time had passed in that bland grey apartment. People had come and gone like Zia Giovanna, Antonio’s aunt who ran a restaurant in San Pedro, and Zo, one of his associates, a sweet man who had no problem beating the life out of someone. Others with names and accents came, bringing food, clothing, comfort, and I still had no idea how I’d gotten there.

Not physically. I remembered the multiple cars, the handoffs in desolate places. But I couldn’t recall the single decision I’d made that had yanked me from my world and into that place, high above the city, where I knew no one, had no connection to the things I’d spent years building, and had no influence on decisions made about my life.

I was able to leave.

People watched me, but I could have eluded them if I’d gotten my mind to wiggle around options and choices. With a well-built strategy for escape, I could have left in a blaze of light or the thick of night. I had a phone. One call to my father, and my confinement would have been over. Or to Daniel. I could manage anything I set my mind to, even if I was watched. And I wasn’t being kept against my will. Not really. Not in a way that was decidedly illegal, but only in a way that left me staring at the breadth of the city and out to the horizon, bleeding time.

Until he came.

He barely knocked when he entered. Maybe the
whickCLAP
of the lock should have been as good as a knock. Or the mumbles of him and the guy outside, with his voice an interlocking puzzle piece to something in my brain. Something with needs. Something desperate. But every time he came to the apartment, I was surprised and relieved and hungry, like a woman who was so starved she hadn’t even entertained the thought of food until someone slipped a bowl of stew through a flap in the door.

I paused when he closed the door behind him. I never knew which Antonio I was getting when he walked in. It didn’t matter if he was in jeans and a polo shirt or, as was the case that day, a jacket and sky-blue turtleneck. He could be any one of ten incarnations.

“Contessa.” He tossed his keys on the end table.

I said nothing. Not yet. I was afraid speaking would break the spell, and like that, he’d disappear in a flare.

He shrugged out of his jacket, revealing the brown-leather shoulder holster that creased his sweater. He wore it in my presence. He trusted me. He wasn’t afraid, and as he walked toward me, the straps cutting his frame didn’t scare me either. The gun made me bold. The scruff on his face and the circles under his eyes made me compassionate, and the line shadows bleeding from his feet to the side of the room in the late sun made me angry.

“Capo,” I said when he was a step away.

He gently reached for my cheek, and before he could embrace me and sweep me away, I tilted my body back and slapped his face.

I hit him so hard his neck snapped ninety degrees until he was facing the window. The sound of skin hitting skin rang against the walls.

And I felt not an ounce of regret.

I raised my hand again, and he grabbed the wrist. He was not gentle when he drew it down, nor when he stepped toward me, pushing me back against the table. His breath was hot on me, his body a field of energy. His hips pressed against me so forcefully his erection hurt through my clothes.

“Did you want to tell me something?” Antonio let my wrist go so he could put his hand up my shirt. He shoved my bra out of the way and grabbed a nipple, pinching to pain.

“Where were you?” I gasped the question. All the accusation and anger heated to a sticky, molten mass between my legs.

“It’s business.”

“God,” I groaned. “Go to hell.”

I tried to wiggle away, but he grabbed under my arms and threw me on the table. I swung; he dodged and held me down with his weight while peeling my pants off.

“Did you hear me?” I growled.

“I heard you.”

I kicked at him, twisting. I fell off the table with a crash, pants halfway down, and I flipped so he wouldn’t have me helpless on my stomach. He grabbed my ankle and dragged me across the room. My shirt rolled up, exposing my skin to the burn of the carpet, which matched the burn between my legs.