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Bennett decided to go with serious. He wrote, Aren’t you supposed to have a wife and a few mistresses by now?
NM: Are you offering to be my mistress?
The idea should’ve repulsed Bennett—and it did—but it caused a wave of heat to slowly roll through his veins. His tongue grew thick and he swallowed, trying not to imagine it—being a side piece for Nico Marzano and having rough, secret sex whenever their schedules allowed.
Bennett: Gross
NM: Liar. You would love it, waiting around to service my dick
Bennett shut his eyes tightly, hoping to stop the lust building in his groin. But that didn’t help because now he was picturing it . . . so he reached down to grab his thickening cock through his jeans, squeezing. Damn it. He couldn’t jerk off to memories of Nico or this text thread. He had to pull himself together. He was thirty-one years old and a pro athlete who was paid millions of dollars to play hockey. A captain. Respected around the league and a celebrity in two countries.
Nico sent another message. Bennett debated not checking it. But in the end, he couldn’t resist. After a few seconds, he unlocked his phone and read it.
NM: Fuck, I can’t stop thinking about the noises you made underneath me
Shit! Bennett nearly dropped his phone on his face. Immediately, he turned the device off. Maybe he’d keep it off for the rest of the night—or the rest of the road trip. Or maybe he’d throw this phone away and get a completely new number.
And yet he was smiling a few minutes later as he crawled into bed.
Nico sipped his drink and studied the latest update from Sergei. The financial records were still being untangled and dissected, and the team files were taking more time than anticipated. Cazzo! Sergei’s reports were a pointless waste of words and a waste of Nico’s money. Nico wanted answers now, not maybe, maybe, maybe.
Downing the rest of the liquor, he tapped his phone against his knee, thinking. It shouldn’t be hard. Yet finding this man from the club was like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands. Which spoke to years and years of doing this and getting away with it, honing your technique and planning your steps to avoid getting caught. Again, something Nico understood well. Not this particular crime, of course, but other crimes.
“Fuck,” he muttered into the darkness and dropped his head against the chair back. This was a problem to be fixed and Nico wasn’t used to grasping for answers, unable to handle it expeditiously. Sofia was trusting him to get justice and Nico would not let her down.
Prima viene la famiglia. Family comes first.
Rising, he went to refill his glass. As he set the expensive bottle back down, he heard the elevator gears begin to turn, and anticipation slid through his veins. Nico leaned against the bar and sipped the scotch—the best he’d ever tasted, honestly—and waited, more eager than he’d ever admit, even to himself.
By the time the key fit into the lock, he was composed. Ready. Any emotion other than grim determination safely locked away tight. Then the door swung open and Bennett Verreault appeared. His large body froze in the doorway when he realized the lights were on and he was not alone. His gaze immediately found Nico and a muscle jumped in Verreault’s jaw as he walked in and shut the door. The silence stretched as he carefully took off his coat and shoes. Meanwhile, Nico’s fingers traced the sharp edges of the crystal glass, his eyes admiring Bennett even when Nico tried not to, and an unbidden rush of heat quickly followed despite his efforts to remain detached.
The memory of having all that strength and power to himself, to enjoy and command . . . Madre di Dio. That night was burned in Nico’s brain.
“The fuck are you doing here?” Verreault grumbled, dropping his bag into a chair.
“I’m here to talk.” Nico took a sip of the scotch and studied Verreault over the rim of the glass. “Why? Were you hoping for something else?”
“Fuck you, Marzano.” He sat on the armrest and glared. “Say whatever it is you need to say and get out. I’m exhausted.”
This was apparent. Dark circles hung beneath Verreault’s eyes and the hollows of his cheeks seemed more pronounced. “It was a good trip, no?”
“We won all three games, so yes. But I know you don’t give a shit about hockey.”
“I am learning to appreciate it.” Which was not a lie. Sharp blades and fighting? Knocking out teeth, throwing other men against the boards? The arena was a modern-day Roman Colosseum. Each game was a battle of physical and mental fortitude, and injury was a risk every time one of the players touched the ice. If the sport weren’t so cold, Nico might love it.
“You’re wasting your time. I don’t have a name for you. I might not ever have a name for you.”
The way Verreault said it—rushed and clipped with anger—irritated Nico. Dai, was this an inconvenience for the Reign captain? He found it annoying that one of his teammates had drugged Nico’s cousin? The fucking balls to even suggest it. Nico had killed men for less.
He took another drink and tried not to lose his temper. “Do you think this is a joke?” His accent thickened, as it did whenever he struggled to stay calm, and he set the crystal tumbler down. “Do you think I am here to see you because I have free time? I am busy, Verreault, and I do not care about your games or whether you are tired or not. A member of my family has been wronged and I will have vengeance for it.” He was practically shouting by the time he finished.
The muscles in Verreault’s thick throat worked as he swallowed. “Look, I know that’s your mafia code or whatever, and I get it. I’m looking into it, okay, but guys don’t talk about this kind of stuff with each other. Whoever did this is keeping it very quiet.”
“You are waiting for someone to stand up and confess it, like a priest in a confessional. You must ask the right questions. Talk to each one of them and discover who has this secret. Adjust your strategy.”
“That is a job for the police, not for me.”
Nico sneered at the absurd idea. “There will be no investigation or charges filed. I am only asking you to find information. You are close with these men. Figure it out.”
