Desiree waiting at the door for me in nothing but high heels and her lacy bra and panties, a drink in hand. Desiree on her knees, taking my cock deep while I conduct business on my phone.
It’s wrong and fucked up and so damn appealing.
I get a hunk of parmesan from the cheese drawer in the fridge and bring it to the table with the grater.
She grins. “Right. I forgot the cheese.”
“What’s funny?”
“I just figured there were risks in preparing Italian food for a Sicilian. I knew you’d get me on something.”
I grate cheese on both our plates, then open a bottle of red wine, pour each of us a glass, and sit down. “I’m not getting you on anything.” I take a bite and nearly groan with appreciation. She added fresh garlic and maybe some wine to the sauce and it’s absolute perfection. “At least not on your cooking.”
She meets my gaze, the usual challenge there. “Yeah, well, if you want some scared little bunny who jumps and scurries every time you give an order, she isn’t me.”
I shovel another bite of food in my mouth. It’s so delicious. “We’ll talk about it later,” I promise. My words have the intended effect. Her nipples poke through the fabric of her bra, tenting the fresh scrubs she put on after we went to her apartment.
Remembering her admonishment earlier, about me not saying please and thank you, I make an effort. The words are rusty on my lips—she’s right, I’m out of the habit of using them. “Thank you for cooking, doll. This food is delicious.”
She raises her eyebrows. “A compliment from his highness. I can’t believe it.”
I shake my head. “Keep pushing it, bambina. I promise I will make you good and sorry.”
Her pupils dilate and she takes a healthy gulp of wine.
“So what’s the scoop with your brothers? You guys don’t all get along?”
I sigh and reach for my wine, sitting back. “Nah. Not really.”
“How many brothers do you have?”
“Four. I’m the oldest. Then Paolo, then Gio. Nico and Stefano are the youngest. I got forced into the mold my father made for me. Stepped into his shoes when he went to prison. Nico and Stefano, they never wanted to be part of the Family business. Nico’s smart as fuck. Honestly, he probably would’ve made the best don out of all of us, but he had no interest. And things don’t work that way anyway—it’s all about birth order.”
I stop and take a long sip of wine. I can’t believe I’m telling her all this. It’s not like me to make small talk with anyone, and I definitely never spill my guts. And talking about Family? It’s forbidden. But she’s watching me with such interest, warmth pouring out of those chocolate brown eyes. It’s not just easy to talk to her—I want to tell her everything.
“Anyway, Nico concocted this plan to take the gambling side of business to Vegas where it’s legal. He invested Family money and made a goddamn fortune. That place makes hundreds of millions a year. And it’s all legal.”
I don’t know why I’m gratified that Desiree doesn’t seem overly impressed. She doesn’t jump in with questions about the casino like most people do when they find out our brother runs the Bellissimo.
“The money comes to all of you, or just him?”
Astute question.
“All of us. Of course, Nico holds a huge percentage of the corporation, but it was Family money that started the business. We all get fat dividends.”
“So what business do you run here that gets your brother shot? Nevermind, I know you can’t tell me.” She dabs her lips with a paper napkin. “But really—couldn’t you just retire?”
I shake my head, the familiar ache starting between my eyes. The one that’s there every time I think about Family business. “My father left me to run things. He wants all his business ventures in place when he gets out.”
She tilts her head to the side, chewing on a bite of pasta. “I see.” After a moment, she says, “Seems like you and Gio and Paolo carry all the risk and Nico and Stefano carry the reward.”
Something akin to relief runs through me hearing her say it that way. Sometimes I feel like fucking Cain, jealous of my brother’s successes. I’m shackled here, running an outdated, old school business that’s dangerous as hell. They’re living glamour, money, and sex in Vegas.
And they’ve made it plain they don’t want my help or interference there.
“When does your dad get out?”
“He’s got twelve more years on his sentence. He could get out early on good behavior, but I doubt he will. It would be bad press to let a known mobster out.”
“Seriously? Twelve years? Your dad has to be what—in his sixties?”
I nod. “Sixty-five.”
“So he’ll be seventy-seven when he gets out. You really think he’s going to still want to run the business? Won’t he want to take all those millions and retire in Cabo or something?”