Mercenary (Gangsters of New York #3) - Bella Di Corte Page 0,73

fucking like it,” I said.

He put his fist up to my chin, like he was going to give me a punch, but instead, he brought my face closer so his lips could claim mine.

“That mouth on you,” he said after he’d pulled away. “I fucking love that.” He turned and blew out all of the candles he’d lit. Then he swept me off my feet, carrying me toward the door of the shop. He stopped before he stepped out of it. We stared at what was starting to become something special.

“This is all you, angel eyes,” he said. “This is your thing.”

“It is,” I whispered. “And this—” I put his hand against my stomach. “This is ours.”

“Il nostro sangue in un cuore,” he said. Our blood in one heart.

I kissed the pulse in his neck. “It is an honor to carry a piece of you within me,” I said in Sicilian. In that moment, I could not remember a time when I did not love him.

L'ho amato per sempre. Lo amerei per sempre.

I loved him forever. I would love him for always.

He had been warning me of the hurt he could cause. I accepted the warning. All things in life worth bleeding for are worth living and dying for.

24

Alcina

Pulsing music blared from inside of The Club. I felt it rattling the cement underneath my heels as we made our way to the door from the car. Corrado put his arm around my neck, pulling me closer.

A line wrapped around the building, hundreds of people waiting to get in.

I looked at Corrado as we passed the crowd. He kept his face forward, his arm tight around my neck, ushering me past.

Some of his men were ahead of us, a couple on each side of us, and a few behind us. The men working the security at the door allowed us in without even looking at us. They wore headpieces, and I heard one speaking in Italian. “He has arrived.”

Corrado wasn’t flashy, but he was stylish, and the papers were reporting that he had started a new era of bosses. He was an ode to days long gone, when men wore suits to be respectful of the job. They said he was bringing back the Golden Days of Capone.

He is quiet about his dealings, one paper said, like his grandfather. Even though they knew what he was, they couldn’t prove it. He was exactly what had gone missing in this modern society—he didn’t exist even though people knew he did.

His nonna, Teresa, made sure the news was on whenever I went into the kitchen. She’d leave me newspapers and articles to find.

I kept to myself in the house, because the women who spent most of their time with her did not like me.

The feeling was mutual.

There was one—the one with the evil eyes—who cursed me every time I walked into the kitchen. Her name was Martina.

She was one of the reasons why I was with Corrado tonight. He spent a lot of his time doing business, and even though he had the pool house converted into a place for me to work on my candles, the mansion felt suffocating.

I needed to breathe. To live outside of the confines of the baroque gates.

It did not seem as if the wives usually came with the men to places like this. Corrado did not say as much, but this was not a social visit. He was here for a different reason, one that was not entirely business-related, either. He had told me he was looking for a man who had something to do with his past, with his father, Corrado Palermo.

I had never been to a place like this, and when I told Anna I was going, she demanded that I send her proof or it did not happen. I slipped the phone out of my pocket, taking pictures of the people, of the stage, of the entire setup as we made our way to a private table.

The music, the lights, the smells…it all started to move through my bloodstream. I had the urge to dance.

We stopped at a booth tucked away in one of the darkest corners. The seats were blue velvet and plush.

“No.” Corrado helped me slip off my dress coat. “No dancing.” He set it over the crook of his arm, gesturing for me to sit. He eyed me up and down before I did, looking over my dress again.

It was a shorter version of the one I wore to the opera.