Page 44 of Wicked Mafia Sinner

"Fuck. Me." This is not sustainable. I never thought I would fold myself into a pretzel over a woman, yet here I am.

While I only have one bedroom, I do have two bathrooms. I make my way to the cabin above the underground fortress and head straight for the shower. After the hot water pounds my body for ten minutes, I grab a towel and head for the built-in closet off the side of the bathroom. I keep clothes on this level as part of my be-ready-at-all-times motto. I grab a fresh pair of slacks, a black button-down and skip the tie and jacket.

Rolling up the sleeves, I make my way back down to the kitchen and prepare the coffee pot.

While I wait, I grab my phone. Two texts came through overnight. The first from Drake confirming Kon handled the cleanup at Cora's apartment and Mrs. Mertle across the street is booked on a six-month cruise leaving tomorrow. The second from Luca, timestamped four in the morning. Five minutes after interrupting me with Cora last night with the news of a second body, he called back and suggested I stay put. Going out and picking up a tail that follows me back here is a risk we all agree I shouldn’t take.

I open Luca’s text.

Second body confirmed. My contact in the Ravenswood network. Found him two blocks from my front door. Same kill signature. Two to the throat, one to the forehead.

The kiss of the Volkovs. My son's calling card, left within walking distance of my brother's home.

I stare at the text for a long time. Two of my informants dead in forty-eight hours. Both killed with my father's signature. Both positioned where I would find them, where the message would land with maximum impact. This is not random violence. This is Nikolai dismantling my intelligence network one body at a time, and he wants me to know it.

And Cora was right. He wants me to think he knows where to find me and the other men. My father was good at scare tactics and it seems my son has picked up my father’s bad habits.

Unlucky for them both I don’t scare easily and I know every play in both their handbooks.

I type back: Keep Ilona and baby Lucia close. I'll call if anything comes up.

I crack my neck and roll out the pain buried in my left shoulder. I can focus on the shit going down and the fact my brothers are handling it while I hold up, or I can make the best of my time here.

I know my brothers can handle the mess my son is making, but it’s not easy staying on the sidelines. I scrape a hand over my face, the weight of my last name heavier than it has ever been. Idle is not a good speed for me, but Cora needs me here.

I pocket the phone and grab the only mug in the place. Skipping sugar, I pour a cup of fresh brew and hope it helps work out the rest of the kinks the shower didn't touch.

I lean a hip against the island, taking the first few sips when it hits me.

The kitchen is different this morning. My gaze sweeps over the space, but it takes me a second to find the change. It's not perfume. Cora isn't wearing any. It's more subtle than that.

I reach for the case of smokes I usually keep in my breast pocket, only to come back empty-handed. I left them in the car on purpose last night. A nasty habit and the idea of filling her air with toxic smoke didn't sit right.

I huff out a grunt.

That's what is different. Her. Her warmth, her energy. It's soft, inviting and it has seeped into every part of this place.

I'm not a woo-woo kind of person, but I understand energy. It's kept me alive for over forty years. When you're in my line of work you learn to listen to your senses. When the energy shifts it often means something good or something bad has entered your space.

Massimo and Kon say I have eyes in the back of my head and can sense when someone is gunning for me from behind. It's just reading the energy. Someone is always looking to stab a wealthy mobster in the back. I know because there was a time I didn't believe in reading the room. I learned how wrong I was the hard way and have the scars to prove it.

I down another swallow of coffee and catalog the compound. Dirt streaks the kitchen counter where she leaned against it with garden-soil hands yesterday at some point. I grab a dish towel and clean the space, tossing it aside.

A barefoot print marks the stone outside the door leading to the garden she found. The books on my shelf sit in a new order. The blanket on the reading chair was folded when I found it last night, she folded it sometime yesterday while I was out. She's left her touch on nearly everything.

I pour another cup of coffee and cross to my bedroom door.

She's left it ajar so I push it open a few inches and stop.

A lamp on the nightstand throws a glow of warmth over her. It pools on the bed and spills over her sleeping form, turning her white hair golden. Sunshine. The word plays through my mind.

She's in the middle of the bed. Dead center, claiming it. Half under the covers, half out. A shapely leg drapes over the top of the blanket. Despite bringing her new clothes and pajamas, the woman chose one of my shirts. A black button-down. She's rolled the sleeves and left enough of the buttons undone that I can see the soft swell of her breasts. At the other end, the hem rides high over the curve of her ass.

My jaw tightens. I grip the doorframe hard enough to feel the wood bite into my palm. Yesterday I had her pinned to a rock wall with her legs wrapped around me and the taste of her on my tongue. I can still feel the pressure of her grinding against my cock, the wet heat of her soaking through my slacks, the sound of my name breaking from her mouth. If that phone hadn't rung, I would have been inside her.

And I would have hated myself for it. A man who takes a woman under his protection is no better than the men he protects her from. My father taught me that lesson by being the opposite of it.

I'm a bastard for standing here watching her sleep. I know. But I've never had a woman in my space. Never wanted one. And I've damn sure never had one this beautiful, this tempting, wearing my clothes in my bed like she belongs here.