hair. I felt my fingers unpinning it, letting it slide down
her back in a shining wave. I wanted to feel it against
me. I wanted to part it like a curtain to kiss my way
down her naked back.
It was just dark enough, at my table, that if she’d been
there I could have pulled her out of her seat and onto
my lap. Dark enough that, if she’d been wearing a skirt,
I could have hauled it up her thighs and stroked her
pussy through her panties, my actions hidden by the
table and her thrashing cloaked by the shadows. I could
have brought her to silent, panting climax right there,
feeling the pleasure roll through her as she trembled
against me. And the whole time, I’d whisper in her ear
exactly what I’d do to her when I got her back to my
place.
I was itching, aching for this girl. Had been ever since
I’d seen her on stage and it had only gotten worse since
Central Park. I couldn’t remember ever being this
desperate to get a girl into bed. But there was
something else, something that worried me. Wrapped
around that hot, primal desire to bed her was something
else, something lighter and harder to pin down. It
slipped away every time I tried to focus on it, but it was
there. Whenever I thought about seeing her again, just
seeing her, not even spreading her thighs and fucking
her or slipping my cock between her lips, I
felt...impatient. Tense. Like I couldn’t draw a full, deep
breath until I was with her again. What the fuck was
that?
Maybe I was tired. God knows I had enough on my
plate.
Just as I thought it, the Russians arrived. Two big guys,
probably ex-military, their bratva tattoos just visible
above their shirt collars. They swaggered in like they
owned the place.
I hate Russians...with one recent, platinum-blonde
exception. I’ve never understood them: from what I’ve
seen, they’re power-crazed and ruthless, without any of
the honor of my people.
And in particular, I hated these two Russians because
they were sent by Mikhail Stasevich, the local Russian
mob boss. A nasty SOB, but until recently not too much
of a problem. Vicious if you backed him into a corner,
but he hadn’t had enough money to expand. Then he’d
teamed up with Vasiliy Malakov, an old-school bratva
boss from Moscow who wanted a New York base
through which to move guns. With Vasiliy’s money,
Mikhail was trying to take over my turf.
I’d be damned if I was going to let it happen. My dad
fought hard for every foot of this territory and it’ll be
Baroni forever. I’d sworn that the day he and my mom
died.
That brought me to the main reason I hated Russians.
The one that hit me every single morning, making me
tumble out of bed and hit the ground doing push-ups so
that I would be ready when I needed to be. The one
that made me finger my gun every time I thought about
it….
The one that demanded I kill every last one of them.
The two Russians hustled Mario into a back room. I
silently followed, the rage building in my chest. I
reached the back room just in time to see them pressing
Mario up against the wall, a knife blade gleaming
against his throat.
“Ten percent,” said the one with the knife in fractured
English. “Is good deal. You take it.”
“No,” I said firmly, announcing my presence. “He
won’t.”
Both of the Russians spun to face me and I saw in their
eyes that they recognized me. “Tell Mikhail it ends
here,” I said. “This is the start of my territory.” I started
walking towards them. “One street over, you shake
down whoever the fuck you want. But this? This is
Baroni turf. Always has been. Always will be.”
The two Russians glanced at each other. The one with
the knife held it ready, weighing it in his hand. I was a
tempting target: two against one, and he’d get to be the
big guy who took out a mob boss….
But that’s not how the game is played. No one—at least,
no one smart—wants all-out war and that’s exactly what
killing me would bring. So it came down to intimidation.
It came down to who had the biggest balls.
I walked right up to him, until the point of the knife was
nicking my suit jacket, and stared him right in the eye.
The room was so quiet I could hear his breathing. Show
no fear. My father’s voice in my head. Show no
weakness. I could hear his hand clenching and
unclenching around the handle of the knife and feel the
point twisting and scraping against the fabric of my suit.
He was as big as me and he probably had fancy military
training I didn’t, plus he had his buddy beside him.
But he didn’t have what I had. He didn’t have the will
my dad bred in me, the will to do whatever it takes to
maintain control. I’d die to defend my turf and that
meant he didn’t scare me. But I scared the shit out of
him.
His eyes flickered and I knew I had him. “Get the fuck
out of here,” I told him, my voice barely more than a
whisper.
The guy stepped past me. “This isn’t over,” he
muttered. “Mikhail wants this territory. We’ll be back.”
From behind me, there was the metal click-clack of a
shotgun being pumped. “No you won’t,” said a calm,
deep voice. Everyone looked up as the man stepped
into the room.
Rico. My sotto capo, my second-in-command and my
best friend since high school. He was in his usual long
leather coat, his favorite shotgun cradled in his arms
and pointing right at the Russians. He’d been outside in
the car, with orders to follow the Russians inside once
he’d made sure there were only two of them. Just in
case I needed backup.
The Russians looked at each other again and scowled,
but they knew when they were beaten. They slunk past
me, the knife disappearing into a pocket. The tension
drained out of the room. Mario gave a loud sigh.
I turned and grinned at Rico. “Thanks.”
Rico lowered the shotgun. “You would have been fine
without me,” he said graciously.
Maybe. Maybe not. It worried me how cocky and
aggressive the Russians were getting. The thought of
Rico and that shotgun might just keep them from
coming back for a while. And it had felt good to have
him watching my back. It always did.
I embraced Mario and told him not to worry and to call
me if the Russians were dumb enough to shake him
down again. Then I strolled out to the car with Rico.
Rico knows as much about the business as I do and he
handles a ton of the day-to-day shit I don’t have time
for. My guys respect him like no one else. If we weren’t
such good friends, I’d be watching my back, expecting a
coup.
“You want me to drop you at Cafe Auben?” Rico asked.
He knows my routine.
I nodded.
“I’ll join you.”
I hesitated. Normally I loved spending time with my
buddy, but I was hoping—praying—that Irina would
show up.
I didn’t even need to say anything—that’s how well Rico
knows me. He glanced across at me, saw my expression
and his jaw dropped. “Wait. Are you meeting someone?
Do you have a date?!”
I shrugged, embarrassed. But I couldn’t stop a smile
tugging at the corners of my mouth.
He started driving, staring out through the windshield in
silence.
“What?” I asked at last.
“I’m just trying to figure out when you last went on a
date. I’m back three....no, four years.”
I elbowed him in the guts. But he was probably right. I