Gio
I wake to the sound of my own shout, the, No! echoing off my bedroom walls, Marissa’s horror-stricken face burnt into my retinas, those bluish green-colored eyes bright with tears.
Fuck.
I throw the sheet off my sweat-drenched body and get up, my side pulling with a dull ache. The scar tissue is getting stiffer every day.
Desiree-Junior’s bride, the nurse who saved my life- says I need to get the fascia worked out. She wants me to see a physical therapist or some other shit, but that bullet hole is evidence to the crime Junior committed, killing those bratva bastards who shot me. So yeah, not happening. I stick to my morning run and lifting weights in my home gym.
I stand shirtless in the window of my apartment and look out at Lake Michigan. Sailboats cut through the water, picturesque as a fucking painting. Maybe I should learn to sail.
The thought falls like a brick, like all thoughts for my life. For my future.
Meh.
I’m living the goddamn dream here. Penthouse apartment right on Lake Shore Drive, lavish furnishings, the black Mercedes G-wagon in the garage.
I was already pimping it before got a second chance at life. So why am I the least grateful fuck in Chicago? I should be waking up every day thanking my lucky stars for all I have to live for.
Except that’s just it.
There’s nothing to live for.
Not even the glory of business anymore.
I’m not saying I miss it. The violence, the danger. The intrigue. But there was a certain adrenaline rush that came with every interaction. The thrill of taking care of business. Watching money multiply. Loaning it. Collecting it.
Junior shut down a lot of the business after I got shot. Although that may be more about becoming a husband and daddy again than about almost losing me. Not that I think he didn’t suffer over what happened. I know he did. Does.
His job was always to protect me, from the time I was born. And he has. Even when that meant shielding me from the judgment of our own father. He and Paolo were the badasses, and I was the finesse. I did the smooth talking when it was needed. Played good cop, not that we ever played cops.
I wander into the living room, still in my boxer briefs and sit down at the baby grand in the corner. My fingers move over the keys automatically, the muscle memory there without thought. I still have my music. Too bad it’s not enough.
My phone rings beside me, and I stop playing and pick it up. It’s the phone number I use for women, only I haven’t been with a woman since the accident.
Marissa. I gave her the number before I left the other day.
Never expected her to use it.
I pick up. “This is Gio.”
“Gio, hi. It’s Marissa. From Caffè Milano?” She sounds nervous.
“Everything okay, doll?”
“Um, yeah. Well, I need to talk to you. Can I meet you somewhere? Not at the cafe.”
I don’t know what I hoped. That she had the nerve to ask me out. Or was calling to tell me again that she’s glad I’m alive.
That she knows I dream about her every night.
Of course not. There’s only one reason I get a call like this.
And I fucking hate the way it makes me feel.
“Sure, Marissa. Why don’t you come to my home office?” My dick gets hard as I give her the address to my apartment, even though I know that’s not how things are going to go down.
Just the idea of having her here gets me chubby, though.
I hang up and give my cock a rough squeeze. Down, boy. This is business, not pleasure.
Too fucking bad.
Marissa
Gio lives right on Lake Shore Drive in what must be a million-dollar townhouse on the top floor. I took the L in and walked the rest of the way in my high heels. I have blisters by the time I reach his building, and I’m cursing everything about my plan.
I dug in the back of my closet for a silk blouse, pencil skirt and these cursed stilettos, but now I’m wondering what the hell I was thinking. Am I here to sell myself to Gio? Dress up like a pretty piece of meat, flirt a little and get thirty grand?
I guess it’s better than my alternative, which is to sign the cafe back over to the Tacones, which would absolutely kill my grandfather. I don’t even know if the place is worth that much, anyway. We don’t own the real estate. I’m not even sure if a bank would give us a loan against our business.
It’s a beautiful fall morning, but I’m icy cold when the doorman opens the door for me and takes my name to call up to Gio.
This is for Mia, I keep chanting to myself.
In the elevator, though, I lose my nerve.
Gio’s going to want the cafe. I can’t give it to him. I can’t. My grandparents wouldn’t think it’s worth it, not even for Mia.
Thinking he might give me the money for something else-for me? Was that the idea in the back of my head? It’s-ludicrous. And I don’t want to resort to begging or whoring myself out.
There must be another way.
And there is.
I have dirt on the Tacones. I can leverage it. They already paid us hush money when they overpaid for the repairs to the place after the shooting. They can pay a little more.
Stiffening my spine, I walk out of the elevator with my head high and ring Gio’s doorbell.
He answers, dressed to the nines, as usual, in a suit that probably costs more than a car, smelling of soap and aftershave.
He gives me a cool, assessing glance, taking in my outfit and expression, then steps back from the door and ushers me in. “Welcome, Marissa.”
The apartment is huge with a wall of windows looking out over Lake Michigan and a black baby grand in one corner.
“Do you play piano?” The stupid question tumbles out of my mouth before I can stop it. I’m nervous-saying anything to fill the space. Of course he doesn’t play piano. Some decorator probably put that in here.
But he surprises me with a “yeah”.
“Really?” Now I’m genuinely interested. A mafioso who plays piano? Unexpected.
“Really, doll. Surprised?” There’s a challenge in his tone, and it occurs to me that he might have had to fight that same stereotype his whole life.
“Um…”
“My office is through here.” He’s all business, which is more disappointing than I care to admit. But this is business. And I need to follow through on my plan.
For Mia.
He leads me to the office, decorated in red leather and mahogany wood. Masculine and comfortable in that rich gentleman sort of style.
“Have a seat.” He indicates the padded leather chair across from his desk and settles opposite me.
I sit and cross my legs like a lady. Fight and fail to swallow. My tongue tangles in my mouth.
“What can I do for you, Marissa?” Everything about him this morning is cool and manicured. So different from the casual charming demeanor he had at the cafe.
I clear my throat. “The shooting had a big effect on business,” I say, which is a lie. It happened in the evening, when almost no one is around, and the Tacones paid for immediate clean up and repairs, so we were only closed one day.
The way Gio raises one brow tells me he knows I’m bullshitting. I also sense his disapproval. Like he knows where this is going and doesn’t like it.
I rush on. “We require another payment of at least thirty grand to make things right.”
Gio doesn’t say a word. Nothing shows on his face. Even his eyes-usually so beautifully warm are dead.
My heart pounds so loudly I swear he can hear it. Sweat trickles down my ribs.
“What for?” he says.
“I’m sorry?”
“What’s the money for?”
I’m so breathless I can barely speak. But I force the words across my lips. “To keep us quiet,” I say.
Gio’s mouth tightens.
“I told the cops it was the Russians. But I could call them-”
Gio holds up a finger to interrupt. “Don’t fucking say it.” His gaze is black as night. “Seriously. Nobody blackmails a Tacone and walks away.”
I choke on my breath.
Blackmail. Yes, I guess that is what I just attempted. And now I am so fucked.
Did he just tell me I’m dead? Will he shoot me right here? Or drive me out to the woods and make me dig my own grave?
I stand up from the chair and start toward the door. “You can’t… I’m… the feds know I’m here,” I blurt. “I’m wearing a wire.”
“Don’t touch that door.” His command rings out with steely authority. I freeze. Maybe he has a gun pointed at my head.
Gio reaches me at the door. He catches my wrists and pins them behind my back with one hand and flattens me against the thick, expensive wood. With the other, he burrows his fingers into my French twist and tugs my head back. “Wearing a wire.” His voice drips with disbelief.
I try to answer, but only an unintelligible sound escapes my lips.
“Well, I guess I’d better check.” His hand slides across my belly, inside my blouse.
The moment it does, the air electrifies between us. Changes.
He knows without a shadow of a doubt I’m bluffing. His touch sears my skin even though he barely ghosts across the surface. He holds me captive as he checks inside both bra cups, between my breasts, down my back. “Nothing here.” His voice sounds deeper than before. Not quite as controlled or angry.
He pulls the zipper down on my skirt and it falls to the floor at my feet. I’m wearing pale pink thigh highs that match my panties and bra.
He tsks. “Was this really your plan? Put on grown up clothes, show me a little cleavage and these pretty legs and then threaten me? Very bad move, Marissa.”
“I-I’m sorry, Mr. Tacone.”
“Our families go way back. We’re allies, babygirl. All you had to do was ask for the money and it would’ve been yours. Instead you point a gun at me.”
“I-I don’t have a gun.”
His chuckle is dark and rumbles through my limbs, making them even weaker. “Metaphor, angel.”
“Oh.” Oh. That’s all I can think to say? I’m going to have to think faster if I’m going to dig my way out of this disaster.
“Why would you threaten me, Marissa? You have to know how easy it would be for me to wipe you and your entire family out of existence. You’ve seen with your own eyes what we’re capable of.”
My body goes rigid. Ice cold. “You can’t kill me.” I’m choking on my own spit.
He laughs again, but switches his hand from my hair to my nape and presses me against the door, my cheek flattening with the steady pressure. “You sure about that?”
His other hand starts swiftly roaming over the back of my panties, inside the waistband, between my legs.
Cold turns into the hot flush of embarrassment. He gives my ass a light slap. “No wire. But we already knew that. You’re a horrible liar, Marissa.”
I choke on the tears in my throat. “But you had to strip search me anyway?”
His searching hand rests lightly at my hip. He strokes it down the side of my thigh and up to my waist. “That wasn’t a strip search. You still have clothes on. But I’d be happy to comply if that’s what you’re going for.”
“You’re sick,” I bite out.
He slaps my ass again, this time hard. “And you’re in a world of trouble.” He pulls me off the door, and I step out of the skirt at my feet before he spins me around and marches me to the leather chair and pushes me into it.
“I’m disappointed in you, Marissa.” He stares down at me with dark, glittering eyes. “Like, heartbreakingly disappointed.”
I rub my lips together, heart beating as fast as a hummingbird’s.
He cocks his head to the side. “Was it pride?”
“What?”
“That kept you from just asking?” He trails a finger over the cap sleeve of my blouse thoughtfully. “Feminism?”
He really wants to know. I think I genuinely offended him by not asking for the favor. He wanted to be that guy who granted it. Wanted to be sugar daddy to me and I denied him the pleasure.
Why did I? He’s right. It would’ve been easy. I knew he would’ve given me the money. I guess I just wanted some measure of control in this interaction. Which is like the gazelle trying to dominate the lion.
I swallow past the band of dread around my throat and nod. “Something like that,” I admit.
He leans against his desk, facing me, arms folded casually over his chest. He’s downright debonair in his expensive suit pants and button-down shirt, open at the throat. He sweeps a cool glance down my body, making me acutely aware of the fact that I’m in my panties, with the full length of my legs on display for him.
“How’s that working out for you?”
Hot tears spill down my cheeks. He pushes away from the desk and wipes one with his thumb. “You don’t need to cry. A guy like me might let anything slide when it comes to a woman as beautiful as you. Especially considering our family history.”
Might.
He might let anything slide.
And that’s when I admit to myself that I knew that all along. I knew he wouldn’t kill me. I know I wouldn’t get the control I so desperately wanted. I knew it would come to this. Him demanding sexual favors from me.
And the stupid part of it all is that the idea isn’t abhorrent because he disgusts me. Or that I don’t want to have sex with him.
Because honestly?
I do.
He’s sexy as hell.
It’s because I’m afraid I’ll like it.
That, and I don’t want to belong to the devil himself.
“I’m not having sex with you,” I blurt.
I think he’s going to scowl or worse, tell me coolly why I am. Instead, his smile stretches wide. “Thanks for the clarification, doll, but I’m not interested. I don’t have to force or pay for sex, babygirl.”
My face flushes hot, even as a similar tingle puckers my nipples and pools in my belly. I still feel his hands all over my body. Everywhere those large, rough palms traveled over my bare skin.
He puts a finger under my chin and tips my face up to his. “But what am I going to do with you? That’s the question.”
I blink rapidly at the tears forming on my lashes.
“How much do you need?”
I go still. Is he going to give me the money? After I royally fucked this up? “Thirty thousand.” My voice cracks.
“What for?”
I gulp. “My little cousin needs a surgery. She’s scheduled for it Monday, but insurance refused to pay and the hospital called and said if they don’t get a check by close of business today, they won’t do it.”
I swear Gio looks a little sad. “That’s all you had to tell me, you know.”
Heaviness descends down to my belly. Like I’m taking his disappointment in me to heart. Which is stupid.
“You didn’t have to show the legs or the cleavage. You didn’t have to fucking blackmail me.” He raises his voice on the last three words, and I see the Tacone temper that I expected.
The trembling starts up again. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
He folds his arms over his chest, his gaze suddenly hard. “You should be.”
He walks behind his desk and takes a painting off the wall. Behind it lies a safe. He opens it, pulls out three stacks of hundred-dollar bills, and tosses them into my lap.