Junior
“Gio!” My brother’s on the floor, groaning.
“Ow. Fuck.” Gio groans.
I rush to his side and grab under his arm to help him up. “Hey, fratellino. Take it easy.”
Desiree positions herself on the other side him to help.
“I’m okay. ‘S okay,” Gio says, but he’s panting and wincing and can’t seem to stand up.
“Fanculo,” I swear.
“On three,” Desiree says, totally in charge of the situation, as usual. “One… two… three.” I pull as hard as I can, because I sure as fuck know Desiree’s not strong enough to lift my brother, and we get him up.
His yelp of pain goes right into the center my bones though. My brother’s no pansy. If he’s making sounds like that, he’s in serious pain, and can’t control his own responses to it.
“On his left side,” Desiree directs and we roll him over. She pulls off his bandage from the back, her lips forming a tight line.
“Is it okay?”
She uses her efficient nurse voice. “He tore the IV site and the stitches, but he’ll be fine. I’ll get him stitched and repacked.”
Gio looks at his wound in the front. “How long since I was shot?”
“Four days,” I tell him.
He cranes his head to look at Desiree. “I’m lying here with two holes in my gut while you’re boning my nurse?” he asks me in Italian.
“Shut the fuck up,” I say, but it doesn’t have the force behind it I usually use. I’m relieved to hear Gio talk again.
“Well, she’s hot, I’ll give you that. I’d bang her-”
“I said shut up.”
We’re both speaking Italian, but Desiree gives us a suspicious look. “Are you talking about me?”
“He said you’re beautiful.”
Gio shoots me a startled look, like he can’t believe I just made nice to another human being.
“That’s the drugs talking,” she says easily, and it occurs to me that it’s not the first time a patient has said that to her. I have to swallow down a mouthful of jealous prickles. The kind that make me want to mark my territory so firmly no guy ever looks at her again.
I catch Gio studying me and attempt to make my face blank. Or angry. Fuck-what did my face used to look like before Desiree? I don’t feel like the same man I was a week ago.
“So who came over from Italy?” Desiree asks conversationally as her hands fly over the wound, cleaning, bandaging. “Your father?”
“Our grandfather moved the family over when our father was ten.”
“And you all still speak fluent Italian?”
“He went back to Sicily to marry our mother-it was sort of an arranged thing, so we’re first generation American on both sides,” I explain and frown when I catch Gio watching me again.
“Where’s Paolo?”
“He’s around. Want to see him?”
“Nah, just making sure he’s okay.”
“Yeah, he’s good. You were the only casualty on our side.”
He glances at Desiree. “And on theirs?” he asks me in Italian.
“She speaks Spanish,” I warn, also in Italian. Which means she can probably understand us. But I tell him, anyway. “All dead.”
Desiree stiffens.
Fuck.
Gio nods and watches as Desiree preps his other arm for the IV. She inserts the needle and gets the drip running. Gio closes his eyes when the painkiller hits him, the taut lines of his face relaxing.
“You want the TV on or anything?” I ask, but he doesn’t even open his eyes, just shakes his head, sinking into rest again.
I look at Desiree. Things are getting too intense between us. Every minute I’m with her I fall in deeper-and I can’t. As much as I want to claim Desiree forever, she wants-needs-a different man. And if I’m going to let that happen-let her walk away when this is all through, I need to stop acting like we’re dating or a couple. We need a chance to catch our breaths. No wine and pasta and a hard fucking on the countertop tonight. But the what-to-do options are pretty limited considering how housebound we both are. “How about pizza and a game of gin rummy?” I suggest as we walk out of Gio’s room.
She shoots me a funny look. “Um, yeah. Okay.” Her voice sounds surprised, but willing.
“Joker’s wild,” I tell her.
Her soft laugh is sweet and yielding. “Joker’s wild.”
Desiree
I wake up on the wrong side of the bed the next morning. I don’t know-maybe it’s just too much for me to process-grieving my little boy, being held in quasi-imprisonment by Junior. Having feelings for said captor and not wanting them.
I’m mixed up, muddled up, miffed.
I do my usual rounds with Gio, then shower and dress. Instead of looking for breakfast, I put on my new leather jacket and walk out the front door. I need a break from the house and I’m feeling prickly about still being a prisoner, even though Junior treated me like a princess yesterday.
I’m not surprised to hear the door fly open behind me. “Hey.” It’s a sharp, commanding bark.
I’m not dumb enough to keep walking. I stop, but don’t turn around.
“Where are you going?” Junior strides purposefully toward me. He’s already showered and dressed himself, looking impeccable as always in a finely tailored suit.
“Back off, bossman.” I give it right back to him. “I’m going for a walk.”
It’s not cute foreplay this time. I’m not feeling sassy, I’m downright bitchy, and he’s not amused. “Don’t speak to me that way.” It’s a low command. The kind that is certain of being obeyed.
I find myself flushing, because he really doesn’t deserve my nastiness. Not today, anyway. Still, I don’t back down. “Listen,” I tell him, hands on my hips. “I’m doing my job. I’m all in on taking care of Gio. I’m trusting you to hold up your end of the bargain and pay me and let me go when he’s up and around. But trust goes both ways. You show a little, too. I need some fresh air, so I’m taking it. I’ll be back in twenty minutes, okay?”
His mouth firms into a thin line and he stares at me for a long moment. He looks as weary today as I feel. After a moment, he tips his head in the direction I was walking, as if to say, “then go.”
I turn and flounce off, walking with long, angry strides-the kind designed to burn off frustration. I don’t look back until I’m halfway down the block, and when I do, I find Junior trailing twenty feet behind me.
Nope. No trust on his part.
He’s probably freezing his ass off without a coat, too.
I’m not going to feel bad about it. He’s the one who decided I needed to be supervised on my walk around the block.
Or three. I walk a long loop and by the time I arrive back at the house, I’m feeling more like myself. More awake. Alive. A little sassy. A little sorry.
I stop at the sidewalk leading up to his million dollar house and look back at my tail. It’s ridiculous what the sight of him does to me. The flutters in my chest at his large, fit frame, flutters in my belly over his frown.
Because I still think I’m right and don’t want to say sorry, but I also want to make nice, I wait for him. When he arrives, my body moves toward him of its own accord, and suddenly I’m leaning my forehead against his chest. It’s not quite surrender-more like beating my head against a wall.
And that wall is him.
It takes two beats before his arms lift and circle me. “You okay?” His gruff voice holds genuine concern.
I nod against his chest. “A little out of sorts.”
He rubs the back of my neck. “Me too.” He pulls me away from his chest and grips my jaw, tilting my face up. And then his lips descend on mine, his kiss a punishment-hard and claiming.
I yield to it, open my lips to let his tongue sweep in.
He starts off hard, but by the time he’s finished, his lips and tongue are in exploration, tasting me, teasing me. When he breaks it, I’ve forgotten why I was in a snit. He stares down at me. His expression is inscrutable, but his thumb strokes my cheek lightly.
“What’s your real name?” I ask, somewhat breathlessly. It’s like I need something from him-some concession, something personal.
Something stiffens in his face. “Santo.” He doesn’t like saying the name. Maybe it reminds him of his father, and the memories aren’t good.
I know he feels trapped by his father-I felt it in every word he spoke about his situation. That’s why I encouraged him to leave it all.
It had nothing to do with me trying to make him into someone I could be with long term.
Nothing at all.
I shiver and he turns me toward the house. “Let’s get some breakfast.” We head into the house and then straight through to the garage.
“My car!”
It’s there beside his beautiful Maserati. I had worried about it sitting in the hospital parking lot, but never imagined it was right here the whole time. That kind of makes escape plans more simple-not that I’m still plotting that sort of thing.
“Yeah. I wanted it somewhere safe,” Junior says. “Don’t get any ideas,” he warns, ruining any appreciation I might have felt for his thoughtfulness.
He opens the door to the Maserati and reaches across me to put the keys in the ignition. “Start it up if you get cold. I’ll be right back.”
Well. That’s a sliver of trust, isn’t it? He left me with the keys in the ignition. I could totally take the car and leave.
Of course, he’d kill me.
Literally.
So he probably knows I’m not going any further than a walk around the block without his permission. And that’s why I really need to stop turning molten every time he touches me.