Page 51 of Wicked Mafia Sinner

Her eyes flutter but don't open. She murmurs my name, half-asleep, and the sound of it stripped of all her sharp edges and armor guts me where I stand.

I ease the sweater over her head. She lifts her arms without waking fully, the way a child does when their parent undresses them for bed. Trust made physical. My fingers work the button on her jeans and I slide them down her legs, keeping my eyes on the task and my breathing steady. White cotton sits against her hips, simple and soft, and I leave it in place.

I pull the covers back and settle her beneath them. She turns onto her side, draws her knees up, and burrows into the pillow with a sigh that fills the quiet room.

I stand at the edge of the bed and look at her. Two nights of the chair. Two nights of telling myself I don't deserve the warmth of another body next to mine.

I unbutton my shirt and let it fall to the floor. My slacks follow. I pull the ring from my finger and set it on the nightstand where the silver catches the blue light.

I slide under the covers.

The sheets are cool against my skin. The mattress dips under my weight and she gravitates toward me before I can reach for her, rolling into the warmth of my body with the instinct of a woman who trusts even in her sleep. Her back presses against my chest. Her hair spills across my arm. I curl around her, one arm sliding over her waist, my palm settling flat against her stomach.

She takes my hand in hers and threads our fingers together, pulling my arm tighter around her. A small, sleepy sound escapes her lips, content and safe, and she presses her back closer to me.

I bury my nose in her hair. Cedar and pine from my shampoo, lavender and honey from hers. Our scents tangled together. My chin rests on the top of her head, her body fitted against mine like she was created to fill the spaces I've kept empty for decades.

For the first time in years, I close my eyes without scanning for threats. Without calculating. Without reaching for a weapon or turning the ring on my finger.

I sleep better than I have in years. Until my cell phone vibrates against the nightstand.

I untangle myself from Cora without waking her and grab it. The screen glows in the dark. Harlon.

Nothing good comes from a call at three in the morning.

Fuck.

I flick on the screen and open the message.

The text is short. Harlon doesn't waste words any more than I do.

Enzo is dead. Call me.

Cora doesn't stir. Her body curls into the warm space I left behind, her fingers closing around the pillow where my arm was.

I take the phone to the kitchen, easing the bedroom door closed behind me before I dial Harlon.

He picks up on the first ring. His voice is flat, controlled, and pissed off. Whatever he's about to add to the gut punch of his text has him grinding his teeth.

"I have bad news.”

“I read your text.”

“There’s more.”

“I’m listening.”

“One of my guards slipped up. Got too close to the cell. Enzo was faster than he looked."

Harlon pauses and it sounds like he’s taking a swallow of liquor.

"Grabbed the gun. Did it himself before anyone could intervene."

Enzo Marchetti. The fucker I squeezed for information two days ago, dead by his own hand with a stolen gun. I didn't think the old man had that kind of fight left in him.

"We'll issue a refund on the holding fees," Harlon says, and the dry practicality of it is so Harlon that under any other circumstance I might have cracked a grin.

I don't. Because Harlon isn't finished.