six

E L I A

―――

GIA SHAKES A CIGARETTE from the pack tucked in his suit jacket, offering it to me. I wave him off, ignoring the way my blood warms at the slight tobacco scent. "I quit."

"Really? Luca seems to think you left quite the opposite impression on his mother's foyer."

Pushing off the metal wall, I stuff my hands in my pants pockets and turn to the garage door, waiting for Marco to let us inside. "Luca should learn to keep his stupid fucking mouth shut."

"Must run in the family."

I scrub a hand over my jaw, ignoring the jab. Not because Gia means well, but because my mind is completely stuck on whatever Caroline might be doing at the house. It's been a couple of days since I've even been able to get back, and I hate that there wasn't time for me to show her around and help get her settled.

And even though Benny's at home watching over her, I can't stop my heart from beating erratically at the thought of something happening to her. Which is completely irrational, considering I've known her officially for all of a week and a half—but still.

My legs itch to carry me back to the car and the club, where I can sit behind my computer screen and keep watch over her. Something about her screams trouble—both causation and attraction; a delicate bird with a damaged soul, looking for predators to prey on, with no idea of how small and ineffectual she is.

"You seem on edge." Gia takes a drag of his cigarette, propping his foot against the wall as he examines me. "Married life not all it's cracked up to be?"

"What are you, a fucking shrink?" The heels of my hands dig into my eye sockets, rubbing until a kaleidoscope obscures my vision. "And anyway, I've not even been home long enough to experience domestic bliss."

"Ah." He flicks ash onto the ground, smoothing it into the pavement with his boot. Black counter tracking boots without tread, keeping our involvement at the warehouse anonymous. "So, that's your problem."

If Marco isn't here in the next sixty seconds, I'm liable to rip out Gia's jugular."What is?"

"How long's it been since you got laid?"

Crossing my arms over my chest, I grit my teeth together, trying to reel in the irritation lacing my blood. His self-righteousness really puts a damper on our friendship. "None of your damn business."

"Testy." Snapping his fingers, he cracks a smile. A rarity. Montalto men don't smile, except when we're throwing our power around or trying to get pussy. My fist balls, desperate to erase it from his face. "Oops, sorry. Wrong word."

"Are you twelve, G? Because only a fucking prepubescent child would find that funny."

"I'm just saying. I thought part of the benefit of this relationship would be you getting to bend that prim and proper ass of hers over any time you please."

You and me both.

At my sides, my hands curl into themselves, nails digging into my palms. I feel the skin break, feel the blood blot under the nails, feel my heart rate kick up until I can hear it in my ears. It pounds mercilessly, drowning out every other thought. "I didn't ask for your goddamn opinion. Shut the fuck up, or I'll put a bullet through that thick skull of yours."

He clamps his jaw closed just as the garage door finally slides up, Marco's lanky form appearing from behind. He's in black jeans and a black muscle tee, revealing his heavily inked body. Must have just left Siena; she's a sucker for tattoos, and he rarely walks around with them on display. Too identifiable.

My mother had two full sleeves, tattoos she got before she ever met my father. They were daisies and sweet peas—her birth month flowers—rising from her wrist to the crook of her elbow.

They're visible in every picture I have of her, making her a clear target. Not many tattooed Danish women in New York City ever shacked up with an Italian underboss. I've just got the one, a sort sol like she used to talk about. A phenomenon of birds, gathering to nest for the night, that she took as a sign of fate.

She should've known the translation, black sun, could've never meant anything good—for the world, or for me.

As the thoughts worm their way through the pounding in my ears, Marco hurries us inside, slams the door shut as soon as our feet clear the threshold, and crosses to the other side where a few decrepit, polyester couches sit. Swiping a black button-down shirt off the arm of one couch, he pulls it on and leaves it hanging, gesturing around at the stacks of packaged coke lining the tables.

"You're fucking late." I make my way around the pallets, inspecting packages for tampering. If we hadn't already been balls-deep in the fucking drug trade when I took over as capo, I would've let the antiquated process die with Gia's father's career. Unfortunately, King's Trace tourists are coke fiends willing to pay a pretty penny for a quarter ounce.

Now, I have to make weekly trips to the fucking warehouse and make sure shipments are coming in clean; until we figure out exactly who's skimming off the top, I have to be vigilant. Colombian exports are expensive, and losing money makes me look like a goddamn pussy.

Marco side-eyes Gia, who shrugs. "Don't mind him. He's grumpy because his wife is giving him permanent blue balls."

"Jesus Christ." Tilting my head back to look up at the rafters in the ceiling, I press past the anger dancing inside. Killing my second-in-command wouldn't be a good look and could jeopardize Caroline's semi-freedom since he's investigating her father's finances.

Coming over to stand beside me, Marco sweeps his hand out over the bricks filling the room. "As you can see, everything comes prepackaged, and I'm sure as shit not tampering with anything. No desire to do blow here, Boss."

"Would probably get in the way of your addiction to alcohol." I move through the aisles, glossing over each minute detail. Some bricks are packaged individually—for tourists who make it out about once a year and like to shell out a cool twenty-five grand for a kilo of aggressive fun. Others are packed in a baker's dozen, running a good quarter of a million dollars, sold in bulk only to reputable, returning customers.

Each pallet appears to be intact, sealed with industrial-strength plastic wrap, and reinforced with packing tape. At the end of the far aisle next to Marco's unorganized desk sits a locked crate that I know is stuffed full of guns of varying sizes, in the event anyone ever discovers this little hellhole.

"If everything comes in off the truck intact, and we've not had any issues with our suppliers in the past, our best bet is that someone in our own ranks is skimming the product before delivery, and then telling the Stonemore gang where we sell in exchange for a cut of the cash."

Marco nods, solemn. "Any ideas who it might be?"

"Not a fucking clue." I look to Gia, who stands off to the side, surveying the area. Always on the lookout.

He meets my eyes, and I don't even have to mention his older brother's name before he lets out a heavy sigh, shoulders slumping. "Fuck. Angelo?"

"Unfortunately, he's the only one of my men ever to have a coke problem, and the one constantly testing his boundaries with me."

"For the record, I don't let that fucker anywhere near this place." Marco strokes his chin in thought. "If he's stealing, it means he knows where this is, potentially making it a target."

"Anywhere we go is a goddamn target. That's why we carry."

Gia frowns. "I'll talk to Angelo, see what he knows."

"Good. In the meantime, we'll double security here and at the drop-off locations. No one delivers by themselves anymore. I don't put it past Kieran to leave that fucking gothic castle of his just to come down and ambush us during a deal."

"What are you gonna do if it's Angelo stealing?" Marco cocks an eyebrow, shoving his hands into his jeans.

"I'm gonna fucking kill him."

We double check each pallet for missed details, lock up the warehouse after stationing two soldiers at both entrances, and head back to Crimson as the sun sets along the King's Trace skyline.

The pink splashed against the clouds reminds me of the heat dotting Caroline's cheeks when I say something particularly crass or rub my erection up against her. The flush that coats her creamy skin when we kiss—like the mere connection of our mouths sends her blood singing. My body aches for hers, a wanton muscle in desperate need of a massage, and the desire coursing through me makes me nervous.

Something strange is going on with her, and I know I shouldn't trust her or let my guard down in her presence. She could kill me. Maybe not physically, but this attraction is dangerous and part of the reason I've been staying away. I only married her to appease the ghost of my mother.

And yet, I can't deny the way the base of my neck knots up at the mere thought of her, and that's a huge problem.

Instead of indulging my perverted fantasies when I get back to Crimson by calling her, I spot Siena in the VIP lounge, dressed in skimpy, leather lingerie, and drag her up to my office. She stumbles inside as I slam the door, not bothering to lock it. "On your knees."

A little grin lights up her face as she kneels before me, reaching to adjust the cup of the studded bra barely large enough to contain her tits. "I thought for sure you were done with me now that you're married."

Undoing my belt buckle, I slide the leather band out from the loops around my waist and unzip my slacks. "I don't remember asking you to fucking speak."

Licking her lips, she bounces on her heels and moves forward, cupping me through my black boxer briefs. For a moment, as I stare down at her, the red of her hair morphs to a golden blonde, and it's almost possible to imagine this is Caroline and not some common whore.

That I'm in a regular marriage where my wife isn't plotting something, keeping secrets, and not sleeping with me; that I don't need to turn to one of my own strippers to relieve myself of the dark thoughts swarming my mind when I think about Caroline Harrison.

Fuck. Harrison. Siena slips her fingers beneath the waist of my boxers, tugging down until my cock springs free, and the face of the senator flashes through my mind, causing my hands to ball into fists at my sides.

My gut tells me he's the one that put those bruises on her neck, but I can't figure out why. Why he'd do it, and why she'd let him. I need to figure out what's going on there, before it ruins everything.

Siena's botoxed lips close around my shaft, which is only half-hard at this point and becoming softer the longer I get stuck in my head. I grip a handful of her hair, trying to force myself into the moment, but it just isn't working.

There's only one set of lips I want on my cock, and she's nowhere around the club tonight.

"Suck harder," I grit out, my grip becoming punishing as I refocus on the task at hand. Siena pumps my base with her hand, circling the tip with her tongue, drawing her mouth in around me as tight as she can get. It feels good, but it's not enough.

No, my brain is stuck on going home and fighting with Caroline until her face pinkens. I'd grasp the back of her neck and pull her body into me, enjoying the resistance she'd inevitably put up. Pressing my hips into hers, feeling the heat emanating from her pussy, I'd bring my face to hers and revel in the sharp intake of breath, the uptake of her heartbeat.

I'd bring my mouth to hers, fusing our lips in a kiss rivaling the greatest of fireworks, and strip her bare before she even realizes what's happening—before she has a chance to fight back.

The thought of her putting up walls against my touch, of pretending she doesn't want me as badly as I do her, has me growing inside Siena's mouth, my dick throbbing with unbridled desire. My fingers dig into her scalp as I think about spreading Caroline's legs and diving straight into her, guiding Siena's shallow strokes, so her mouth is seated more fully on my shaft.

She works me, feverish, reaching up to cup her own breast since I'm positively ignoring her needs. I don't fucking care about them; I just want to fuck this fantasy out of my head.

My mind wanders to how it'd feel to sink into Caroline's ass, what it'd taste like with my come dripping from the tight ring of muscle, how she'd quiver beneath me from the aftershocks of her orgasm.

The thought of being the first in that hole has me coming undone.

I pull Siena forward, so she's flush with my neatly trimmed pubic hair as lightning races up my spine, liquid fire collecting at the base and shooting straight through my balls. They seize up as I release down the redhead's throat, an animalistic groan ripping its way from my chest.

She gags on my dick, and I feel her throat spasm as she struggles to swallow the load.

It's been way too fucking long since I last came inside a woman.

I shove away from her, ignoring how she laps at the come dribbling down her chin from my sudden withdrawal—like she can't get enough of my salty release. For some reason, the gesture only serves to disgust me further. Siena is too fucking easy. A puppy vying for my attention.

I want the lioness—the woman I have to work for. Beg for. It'll make her surrender all the more sweet.

Walking around my desk, I grab a tissue from the box in the top drawer, wiping my dick off and tucking it inside my pants. Siena stands and comes over to me, taking a tissue for herself and dabbing at her chin. She perches on the corner of the desk as I sink into the chair, leaning so her massive tits are level with my eyes. I ignore her.

"Honestly, Elia, if you were gonna take me as your mistress, you could've just told me before you went and got married." She laughs, tossing her hair over her shoulder as if the notion is hilarious.

"Who the hell said anything about you being my mistress?"

Her green eyes widen slightly. "Well, you did just bring me up here to fuck my mouth."

"A one-time lapse of judgment, I can assure you." I lean back in my chair and point toward the door. "You can go now."

She blinks. "Are you kidding?"

"Do I look like someone who fucking jokes a lot?"

Her jaw drops. "Elia, you can't be serious. I—I'm your girl. Before that fucking prude wife of yours came into the picture—"

The tone of her voice grates on my already electrified nerve-endings. I react with a cruelty rarely seen on this level of the club. Violence is usually reserved for the basement and our fixer.

"I'm going to go ahead and stop you there." Pushing back from the desk and getting to my feet in one smooth movement, Siena doesn't have time to digest what's happening. My palm curls around her throat, my grip harsh and not at all reminiscent of the way I've held Caroline. I don't give myself time to process that before I squeeze Siena's larynx, cutting off her air supply.

Her fingers come up to scrape against mine, searching for traction. But I'm too large; too strong.

"Need I remind you who signs your paychecks, who ensures your safety to dance at this club, and who runs this fucking town? Me, princess. You will not speak to me like I'm the scum beneath your shoe, nor will you refer to my wife in any way that isn't entirely and outrightly flattering. You've serviced my cock for years, but rest assured when I say I won't fucking hesitate to slice your chest open and crush your bitter little heart if you ever fucking call me Elia again. I'm Mr. Montalto, or Sir, to you, and nothing fucking else."

"But—"

My grip tightens, my free hand joining to lift her off the ground. Her claws wrap around mine, desperate in their attempts to get me to relinquish control, but I hold still. Dark red splotches crop up along her cheekbones, coloring her otherwise pale and dull skin.

"The time for talking is over between us. You will not mention this to a single soul. If I think you've even breathed a sigh regarding this afternoon, I'll have your head mounted on my wall by the end of the day. I'm not fucking around, Siena. And I'm not taking a mistress. Capisce?"

She tries to nod, but my hold on her impedes the ability to agree with me.

With a harsh shove, I release her neck; my heart thumps erratically in my chest as she slumps to the floor, a sob wracking her body. Turning on my heel, I cross the room to the large window overlooking downtown and people-watch for a few moments in silence.

The door closes softly at her departure, and the tension coagulating in my shoulders softens, balmed by the loneliness permeating my office. And as I continue watching those below, picking out the addicts from the normal tourists, I lean my forehead against the cool glass, trying to calm the beat of my heart. Why the fuck does it suddenly feel so empty?