120

Junior
I grab twenty grand in cash and jump in the car with Desiree, who has her pop music playing on the radio.
I don’t know why I find that so adorable.
Her barb this morning about not trusting her stuck in my ribs. She’s right. I don’t. I can’t. That’s how I was raised. The training drilled into me by Santo Tacone.
But I brought her an olive branch. I drop her phone in her lap.
She looks over at me in surprise, but I don’t acknowledge it. Fuck, my suspicious instincts already have me wanting to snatch it back, keep her from any outside contact.
But I have to trust her at some point. If I’m letting her walk out of my house when it’s all through, trusting her not to tell anyone, then I should extend the same faith now.
Still, when she immediately starts texting someone, I get tense. She’s a fucking saint, because she says to me in an exasperated voice, “I’m texting Lucy, my bestie from work. Just to tell her I miss her ass.” She holds up the screen to prove it.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
I drive all the way into the city, to Caffè Milano. Kill two birds with one stone.
I circle the block, looking for anything off. Cops could be watching the place after the shooting. Or Vlad’s crew. Once again, I probably should’ve called one of the guys to watch my back. I would’ve insisted Gio or Paolo bring backup if they’d come. It’s goes against my alpha tendencies to admit any weakness, though. I don’t see anything or anyone who looks out of place, so I pull in and shut off the ignition.
“You’re actually going to leave your Maserati parked on a street in this neighborhood?” Desiree asks in disbelief.
I shrug. “Used to be everyone in this neighborhood knew better than to mess with my car. Not sure if that’s still the case, but I’m gonna hope so.”
“May I drive it?” she asks as she slams the door shut.
“What?” I’m taken aback, mostly because no one in their right mind has ever asked me to drive it, other than my stronzo brothers, and I told them all to fuck themselves twenty times before finally relenting.
She beams a thousand-watt smile at me as I head to her side, protectively shielding her from traffic. “Pretty please, Junior? Come on, what does it do-zero to one hundred in four seconds?”
I chuckle, surprised at her interest and knowledge. “Yeah.”
“Let me drive it. Please? I’ll give you the best cock-suck in the history of the universe.”
My dick goes rock hard at her proposal. I have to reach down and adjust myself in my pants. “Well, fuck. That’s a tough offer to refuse.” I grip her face and kiss her again, like I did in front of my house this morning. I don’t know what my fascination is with kissing her so much, but I can’t seem to stop. She tastes like mint toothpaste and berry lip balm. Her lips are soft and full, and so fucking luscious. Seriously, I want to eat her up.
And yeah, I am the big, bad wolf.
I shouldn’t. We’re not a couple. This isn’t dating. We have an arrangement, but I know she’s not interested in continuing beyond its expiration.
“Is that a yes?” she asks when I break the kiss. I love her spunk.
“Yes.” I can’t look away. She’s all bright-eyed and flushed-so full of life. Such contrast to me. I’ve been half-dead for years. For sure since Mia’s death, but probably longer. Hell, I can’t remember when my life ever felt worth living. Like it was my own.
I’ll bet Nico doesn’t feel that way. That testa di cazzo has been living his own life since the day he graduated high school and cooked up his Vegas plan.
I force myself to break the eye contact, to sweep the streets for anything dangerous. Any observers. I don’t see anything off. Even so, I get the sweats when we walk up to Caffè Milano, the echo of shots ringing in my ears. The sound Gio made when hit. The look on his face flashes before my eyes. And then the image of the carnage I left behind.
I’m not innocent. I’ve had blood on my hands before. But that scene was pretty fucking bad. I didn’t even know I had it in me to be a one-man Terminator. I guess that’s what happens when someone shoots my brother.
The place has a few customers ordering their morning coffee at the bar. Some young people sit at tables with their computers out. An old man reads a newspaper.
“So are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Desiree asks in a low voice.
“What do you mean?” I ask without stopping my constant sweep of the area. I draw in a slow breath, but my heart’s still beating too hard.
“Are we here for business? Because you sure don’t look hungry.”
Cazzo. I shouldn’t have brought her. What in the hell was I thinking? She’s already an accessory. Now I’m just further burying her.
“Baby, don’t ask questions.”
“Are you freaking kidding me?” She keeps her voice low, but the tone is every level of pissed off. “Junior, I don’t want to be a part of this shit.”
I scrub a hand over my face. “I know. I fucked up. I shouldn’t have brought you. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Actually, I do know what I was thinking. That having her along would ease the strain. Maybe even help me smooth things over with the Milano family, because she’s the type who can lead anyone she wants around by the nose.
Myself included.
The Milano girl is behind the counter, and goes pale when she sees me, but otherwise plays it cool.
Desiree and I go to the counter and order coffee and pastries, then sit down at one of the tables. Now that I’m inside, I check out the new glass. It’s decent. Thick, double-pane. Better than what they had in here before.
That’s good.
I pick up a newspaper from one of the tables and pretend to read the headlines. I’m thinking I’ll slip the money into the newspaper and hand it to the granddaughter before we leave.
“Junior, I’m scared.”
I look up, surprised. Desiree doesn’t strike me as the type to admit her feelings, especially one like fear.
“What are we doing here? What’s going to happen?”
I reach across the table and pick up her hand. It’s ice cold. “Baby, you don’t have to be scared.” I don’t know what compels me-I’ve never spilled a secret in my life-but I can’t stand the thought of her nervous because of me.
She probably picked up on my PTSD being here and now she thinks something terrible is going down.
“This is the place Gio got shot,” I tell her in a low voice. “I came to make nice with the owners, that’s all.”
Now Desiree’s face is pale. She darts her eyes around without moving her head, like she’s a spy or something. “Okay,” she nods a few times, as if she’s trying to be brave. “What do we have to do?”
Her words hit me square in the chest. Shock me.
What do we have to do.
Even though I subconsciously brought her to be my better half, to be a part of my team, it was the wrong thing to do. And yet here she is, terrified, out of her element, disapproving of the whole thing, but still willing to play my sidekick.
I squeeze her cold fingers. “You don’t have to do anything. I just wanted to show my face and leave some cash to cover damages. I’m gonna put it in this newspaper and hand it to our waitress when she comes.”
Again, the over-share shocks me.
My own father would shoot me in the head for being so fucking stupid.
Maybe this is what love does to you.
Fuck.
Do I love Desiree?
I sure as hell don’t remember feeling this way about Marne. I cared for her-still do-but it’s in more of an abstract way. The way I feel for Desiree is visceral. Real. Like I’d rather stab myself in the eye than see her hurting. Or scared. And she demanded my trust, so I’m giving it to her.
I’m also placing her in all kinds of danger.
Which is why this isn’t going to work. I need to stay the fuck away from Desiree or I’ll drag her right down to the depths of hell with me.
“You should quit this business, Junior. You don’t like it,” she says, like she read my mind.
The truth of her words hit me hard.
I’ve spent most of my life feeling sick over who I am. What I do. I’m a monster. I gunned down six Russians in this cafe, for Christ’s sake. Yes, they meant to kill us first, but is this any way to live?
And maybe when I said my dad wouldn’t have an identity without it, I was really talking about myself.
Sure, I’d love to just shut down shop. Move my mom to Florida and spend the rest of my days watching girls in bikinis. But the emptiness in that idea leaves me cold. What in the hell would I do with myself? What would I live for?
If my daughter Mia was still alive, maybe I’d feel different.
Maybe I’d still have a decent marriage, having something besides a dying business to look after.
“You could go legit like Nico did. Open a string of Italian restaurants in the old neighborhoods so you can look after things.”
“No?” She watches me closely, like she’s trying to tune into my thoughts. I’m not used to people trying to read me. To anyone giving a shit what I think unless it affects them.
I adjust our table to fix the wobble in it. “I don’t know, doll. The pressure I feel from my dad is fucking real. But yeah, I’d like to get out of La Nostra. I really would.”
“Then you should.”
I stare at her, feeling like I’m thrust backward, away from her and any possibility of a normal, legit life. A normal family. A woman who makes the room light up. It’s like I’m in a movie, when the camera suddenly zooms way, way back. She becomes tiny. So far away. Completely out of reach.
And I’m here, stuck being the man everyone hates. My own brothers included.
The Milano girl comes over. “Here you go, Mr. Tacone,” she murmurs as she places my coffee in front of me.
“You okay?” I ask.
She heaves in a breath and blows it out. “Yeah.” A bob of her head. “I’m okay.”
“Baby, this is Ms. Milano, owner of the place.” I purposely don’t use Desiree’s name. And of course, I’m not sure of the Milano girl’s first name. Under the table I slide the envelope of cash into the newspaper.
“Marissa.”
Ah. That had been one of my guesses.
She slides our pastry plates down. “My gramps still owns it. I just run it for him.”
“How is Luigi?”
“Good, good. Well. He’s getting old. He’s a little pissed off at you right now, too. Says you’re letting the neighborhood go to hell.” She glances nervously around and gives a forced little laugh.
The familiar thud of guilt hits me like a wrecking ball, square in the chest. “Yeah, I’m working on it,” I tell her.
“Junior won’t be around forever,” Desiree cuts in, eyes sparking. “There’s a season for everything, you know? And his season might be winding down.”
I stare at Desiree, shocked by her instinct to defend me.
Marissa flushes.
I thrust the folded newspaper at her. “Here, you can take this,” I hold her eye so she knows I’m communicating something more than a garbage run. “I’m all done with it.”
She nods and spins around to walk away, moving swiftly toward the back room.
I drain my coffee. “doll, I’m not used to anyone being crazy enough to speak for me.” My voice comes out gruff, but it’s not a remonstration. I’m just not used to feeling indebted to people.
“Well, that’s bullshit,” she snaps and I can’t help but smile.
“You’re still dreaming I can quit.”
“You want to. Admit it.”
I find myself drawing in a sudden breath at the audacity of even allowing myself to think, much less speak that truth.
I ball up my napkin and toss it on the table. “I can’t. End of story.” I stand up.
Marissa emerges from the back room and gives me a nod from behind the counter. I guess that means I brought enough. I walk over and hand her a card. “Tell Luigi to call me if he needs anything, yeah?”
She takes the card and bobs her head.
“Or you can call. Caffè Milano is a business I will always support.”
I mean protect, but I don’t want to say it out loud in front of customers.
“I appreciate that, Mr. Tacone, I really do.”
Desiree steps closer to me and I put a hand on her back.
“Have a nice day,” I say, steering Desiree toward the door.
“You too. Thank you,” the Milano girl sings out to my back as we leave.
“So what’s her story?” Desiree asks rather sharply as we walk out.
I shrug. “Don’t know. I remember her running around here as a little kid. Now she’s running the place.”
“The money made her moony.” There’s a bitterness in Desiree’s voice that isn’t familiar to me.
I stop her in front of my car and tilt my head, looking down into her face. “What do you mean?”
She purses her lips. “Like she was ready to blow you after she saw how much you gave her.”
A bark of surprised laughter tumbles out of me. “Cavalo, doll. You don’t have to be jealous. I’ll be giving you twice that.” I smile. “And you won’t even have to blow me.” Except all the blood rushes to my dick at learning Desiree’s jealous, so I’m immediately sorry for those words.
She flushes and gives me a shove, like she’s embarrassed at being called out. “I’m not jealous,” she grumbles.
I back her against my car, cage her between my arms. “Baby, I’d give you money just for that pretty smile of yours.” I grind against her, watching her pupils dilate, the pulse in her neck go wild and frantic.
She grips the lapels of my jacket in her small fists and pulls me even tighter against her, rocking her hips to meet mine. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I even said I’d let you drive my car, and you should know that I don’t let anybody drive my car.”
She beams up at me. “Then give me the keys, hot shot.”
I shove my aching cock into the notch between her legs one more time, then dig my hand into my pocket to produce the keys. “Please don’t make me sorry,” I beg. “This car is my baby.”
Her grin is naughty as hell, and she’s every bit the woman who drives me wild-the sassy, confident beauty who tosses her hair and swings her hips as she walks, daring every man around to watch her without getting hard.
I groan and pull open the passenger door, sliding in.