Recklessly His: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Page 3

  Good question. I leaned in, tightening my fists, pausing just long enough to see the nervous uncertainty light up her eyes.

  “I'm proud of serving my family. My people. This fucked up world doesn't have many places for men anymore. I can't run off to the battlefields like gramps did for the motherland. I'm American through and through. Haven't been to Moscow since I was a baby. Still, the values are the same, especially here in the land of opportunity. Best thing I can do is make my family proud, doing what we do best.”

  “Yeah?” Her eyebrows lifted. “And what's that?”

  “Making bank. Spilling blood, sweat, and tears, getting our piece away from the rest of the mad dogs chomping at the bit in this town. You ever heard of the Red Eagle?”

  She shook her head.

  “It was a little vodka bar my Uncle Volodya started right off Fulton, back in the late nineties, about the time I figured out I could do a whole lot more with a woman besides stare at her pretty dress.”

  I dropped my eyes, a blatant attempt to catch some tits hidden behind that fabric. It was too high to see any skin, but fuck if it wasn't tight enough to see her curves, make out the plush outline of those tits my hands burned to ravage.

  Shit. It was way too early in the interview to let my dick get this hard, snapping at my orange pants, too stupid to know throwing her to the wall and fucking her wasn't an option right now. Not just yet.

  Good thing reporter girl was just as flustered. Her cheeks got a little brighter, and she lost my gaze, darting to her notepad and then back up, trying to clear the steam throttling her brain – or maybe oiling up her pussy.

  “Uncle Volodya tried to go legit. He was a good guy. Funny, generous, dedicated to his work. He got rave reviews and tons of tourists. He was making money hand over fist, and for awhile my old man was looking at getting into the biz himself. Then one day a pack of Yakuza put three neat holes in his chest and popped about as many heads as they blew vodka bottles. You wanna talk about massacring innocents? This family lived it. We let our guard down. After Uncle Volodya, we learned there was no going back.”

  I paused. She scribbled furiously – probably trying to keep her pure eyes off me. I sure as shit didn't keep mine off her. No, it was the perfect opportunity to watch her tits bobbing underneath that shirt, watch her plucking at her glossy bottom lip with those little teeth.

  I'd suck that sweet flap between my lips ten times harder. Fuck, I'd bite it, sink my teeth in, taste her and memorize it before we fucked ourselves crazy.

  “Tell me about your brothers. Family's obviously important to you.” She looked up, tucking a loose strand of that silky black hair over her ear.

  “Lev and Daniel are my blood. They've got my back and they always will. I watched them come up behind me as a kid. They cried just as hard as I did when our parents died. They celebrated like fucking maniacs right along with me every time we won something new for the family. They're my brothers, in blood and spirit. The shit we've done...it brings you close, Sabrina. Closer than anybody living a nice, quiet life on the outside will ever understand.”

  There was that nervous flash again in her hazel eyes. I smiled. She didn't know that I knew exactly who her family was. Just like she didn't realize I was staring at my ticket to a family reunion really soon.

  “I want you to give me a moment,” she said, twirling the marker against her lips thoughtfully. “Sometime when you knew this was the life for you, and there was no turning back. Was there one?”

  I nodded. She did a damned good job of changing the subject, deflecting the shit I said about criminal lives. This little reporter knew a helluva lot more about it than anybody else who'd be sitting in that chair for a sensationalized bullshit rag.

  “3:30 PM. A cold Wednesday, about four years ago. That was the day I held my old man as he coughed up blood and shuddered one last time, on his way to meet the reaper. It was a hit and run. They did it quick while he was walking on a busy street, slammed him to the wall and sliced his throat with a piano wire. Sloppy as shit. He played dead. Took him about a half hour to bleed out and go cold. Long enough for me to come running when I got his garbled call. Not long enough for the medics to do shit. It feels like it was yesterday, and it's still gonna feel that way next week too.”

  Sabrina stiffened. She sat straight up, a dark sympathy swirling in her eyes. Good thing they were so bright just then, because with her sitting up like that, my eyes wanted to fall instantly to her tits. My hands hurt, begging to flatten themselves against the glass, wishing to high hell they could find their way through and squeeze her nips.

  “And how did that make you feel?”

  Fuck, was this chick even wearing a bra? I looked down, giving her my best sad puppy dog face, hoping it wasn't too fucking unbelievable. No, she had a bra after all, but it didn't do anything to hide her curves and edges. Thorns scraped my veins, a horny numbness, aching to get outta this cage, lay her down, and fuck the living shit outta her.

  Patience, you bastard, I thought. Finish this shit right, and you might get your chance in another week.

  “Alone,” I said. “Like I'd been thrown in solitary, except nobody was ever coming back. I was the only one of my three brothers who got to say goodbye to papa. I gave myself a day to be quiet and sad at his funeral, and then...”

  When I wouldn't finish it, burying my face in one hand, she tapped the glass gently. I threw my hand down, making her think I'd swept a fake tear from one cheek.

  “Then what, Anton?”

  “I swore I'd storm heaven and hell paying back every last fucker who did this to him, to our family. Before papa bit it, I thought I might try to do some shit like Uncle Volodya, without letting my guard down. Maybe I'd learn to set guns or run a chop shop for motorcycles, something with a connection to the hard world I'd grown up in, without having to do outlaw shit into my thirties. That all went out the window the day my old man died. His death left us to head the Chicago clan. Ivankovs have a way of burying their own dreams for family blood. For honor. For all the shit that matters.”

  She nodded, scribbling a few more notes. Had to look away when her tits pressed together, bobbing again, hypnotizing me to do something stupid that would blow this whole fucking thing.

  When she met my stare again, her eyes were darker, reluctant, like they were holding something in. “You look like you know a thing or two about loss,” I said.

  Sabrina shrugged. Smart girl. She wasn't throwing me a bone and turning over any control to me – not after she thought I was giving her everything.

  “What? I thought you were gonna ask me all the hard stuff,” I said. “Looks like you're trying to protect my feelings. Don't bother, babe. I don't fucking have any.”

  Liar. I had feelings for this chick, all right, but right now they were all concentrated in the red hot lava throbbing in my dick.

  She bit her lip, and then pushed her chair in, closing the last tiny distance between her and the glass. “How does it feel knowing everything you wanted to accomplish is in your brothers' hands now? You're serving a life sentence, Anton. The bombing was too infamous. If there's ever any parole opportunities, you'll be an old man.”

  Fuck. I'd underestimated her. She really knew how to sling arrows at a man's heart, and not all of them hit with a heart shaped kiss from cupid.

  “How the hell do you think it feels?” I growled, letting more anger than I intended slip out. “I...you know what? Fuck this!”

  Time to run with that anger. I jerked up, watching as she threw herself back fearfully, and then jumped when my chains slapped the glass. One day soon I'd break that shit and waltz outta here. Just not today.

  “Question time's over! You got what you wanted. Get the fuck outta here!” I kept my angry eyes blazing on her as she stood and gathered her things.

  I heard the door behind me burst open. Charlie and some other guys were coming in to get me the hell away from traumatizing the poor girl.

  “Come on, big guy. Visiting hours are o
ver when you start acting like an ape,” the old warden said.

  I turned, beaming death rays at him out of my hateful eyes. I started to walk before any of those fucks could lay a hand on me. Shit, I'd gone way past pretending here – my veins throbbed with a bloodlust I hadn't felt since knocking out the shithead's teeth who'd landed me in solitary.

  He had it coming when he thought he could have a piece of me in the shower with his crew. Bastard became my relief valve for a whole lotta pent up rage when I broke his jaw, ramming my fucking head against it while I let his guys hold me down. They got a few bruises of their own before the guards broke up the brawl, and I walked away with my virgin asshole intact.

  “This isn't over! You come back next week, Sabrina!” I roared, turning back to her before I was through the door. “Wednesday afternoon. I'll give you the rest. Everything you ever wanted and a lot fucking more.”

  She looked shaken up through the glass, but not so fucked she'd avoid me. I hid a smile from Charlie and his boys on the way to my cell.

  It would be at least another week before I got to grab her soft dark hair and pull it while I fucked her, but I already had her tangled around my fingers. She was in my fucking trap, and now all I had to do was swing the gate.

  Dino was snoring that night before I started on the stress ball.

  I'd lied through my fucking teeth, and the Ligiotti bitch ate it up. If she didn't come back next Wednesday for the finale, I'd find her later and spank that nice, full ass when I found a different escape line. And if she did, I'd have my cock so far down her throat in another week that I might forget what solitary felt like.

  The plan was perfect. Daniel would figure it out when he saw the shit on the blog. He'd always been the real brains behind our operation.

  My Uncle Volodya never owned a vodka bar called the Red Eagle. That was a code to my brothers, and they'd see it as soon as this part of the story went live.

  Everything else I'd told her was true – or true enough. Gioulio and his bastards probably kept her shielded from the nitty-gritty details about the war between our families. Didn't think she knew it was his men who'd sliced papa's throat and left him to bleed out in my arms in a cold Chicago alley.

  It took four years after he was buried to blow that fucked up club sky high. I'd paid for my act of terror, and I was serving my time accordingly, but fuck if my work was done. Not while Gioulio was breathing.

  He was number one on my hit list. Lev and Daniel couldn't do him without me. And Little Miss Blogger was gonna be the pretty key up my sleeve for getting at him – right after I fingered, twisted, and bent her all around my dick.

  One last humiliation for the Italians who'd fucked us and spilled our blood. My stone cold heart said I should have my fun, use her, and then kill her to finish off their Chicago bloodline forever.

  But I didn't like the way she looked when I hopped up and pounded on the glass. It wasn't just the cruel lust in my veins knotting my brain. Something about seeing this devotchka scared caused an ounce of guilt to curdle my savage blood.

  Just an ounce, and nothing more.

  I wasn't slowing down. One more week, and I was busting outta here. I'd be reunited with my brothers and my quest for vengeance, right after I reunited my starving cock with some tight wet pussy.

  I squeezed too hard. The ball popped in my fist, exploding grainy stuffing all over my chest. Fuck.

  Another one ruined.

  Dino coughed above me, woken by the sound. He rolled in his sleep and flopped over before he began snoring again. Soon, it was all quiet in the prison, nothing but his steady growl to keep me company.

  The countdown started in my chest. Seconds slipped past with every rampant heartbeat. I couldn't wait to find out how fucking good she felt against my skin, and I wanted it as bad as breathing the fresh air outside without my ink covered up in eye-bleeding orange.

  III: Buckle Under (Sabrina)

  It was a long drive home. I got inside my condo, threw my stuff down, and set myself to work transcribing the interview from my recorder. I'd kept in my pocket, concealing it from him, deliberately using the one thing he'd forbidden.

  It was the only way I was going to remember every shocking detail just perfect. The notepad was worse than useless – nothing on the paper except nervous squiggles – all I could do to keep myself fearless and focused.

  It worked, right up until the end. Then he threw his tantrum and made me question whether or not the thick glass would hold if he really went berserk. He only slapped it once, but the boom was like the end of the world.

  I walked out of there as he yelled after me, shaken like an animal who'd just escaped over a busy road. I barely had time to catch my breath and stop before Charlie came in to escort me out.

  I worked on the transcription without thinking. Hearing his rough, smooth voice again on the speaker made it even harder. But I sat down and did it, promising myself a nice, tall drink after I was done.

  I knew I'd need several to fall asleep tonight, as soon as the draft was off to Richard's inbox. I'd have to get totally plastered to avoid the dreams like the first time I'd interviewed him, especially with his voice here in my own home.

  He dominated the silence. I'd never met a man whose presence twisted the atmosphere into submission with just the sound of his voice or a single glance at his massive body.

  But that superpower was Anton Ivankov's specialty. And he'd rooted himself deep in my life like a supervillian.

  My fingers whirled across the keyboard, digesting the interview, re-living every word. God, he'd acted so different this time, and I still sounded weak on tape. I'd bristled when he suggested I knew nothing about the underworld – the only thing I could do. Any other reaction threatened to show him who I really was.

  Then there was the way he'd exploded against the glass at the end. How much fiercer would it have been if he'd known I was Giovanni Ligiotti's only daughter? Would I have made it out of there without getting torn to bits in flying glass? Would I have made it home alive?

  I wasn't sure. All I knew was I worked without breaks. I only stopped when he pounded the glass at the end, followed by his muffled shout, and then the final minute or two of my own hurried footsteps mixed with heavy breaths.

  It was night when I was finally finished. I sent the transcript off to Richard with my commentary and stepped outside. I'd never been so grateful to breathe the cool Chicago air.

  I stuffed some easy cash in my purse for tips and cab fare before I was off to the Silver Pear. I'd need them later, when I was so sauced up I could barely stumble out of the elevator at my place.

  I'm going to forget Anton Ivankov, I vowed. No matter how much it makes my liver cry in the process.

  I ordered heavy, strong drinks, one after another. Someone was looking out for me near the end – probably my Uncle's manager, Vitto, who came out and personally thanked me for the family visit.

  I wanted to throw my empty shot glass at him.

  “Bar's closing early, Miss Ligiotti,” he said, offering me a big apologetic smile.

  “Sure it is.” I turned away with a haughty sniff, leaving the waiter a good tip. It wasn't his fault this asshole was one more extension of my Uncle's eyes and ears, reaching into my life where it didn't belong.

  “Wait, wait,” Vitto pleaded, running after me when I slid out of the booth and marched toward the lobby. “He's waiting for you, Miss Ligiotti. No need to call a cab.”

  I stopped in mid-step, turned, and nodded. Shit.

  One more pivot and I saw him sitting in the entryway, two stoic faced thugs in leather jackets at his side. I hadn't seen Uncle Gioulio since a cousin's wedding almost four months ago.

  He was out of his chair and heading toward me before I took another step. He was a tall, lean, balding man with a scar on his cheek. He always joked it was from a bar brawl in his younger days, but I suspected something worse.

  The expensive suit covered up the belly he'd been developing in his fifties nicely
. His well polished shoes completed the ensemble, always immaculate.

  “Sabrina!” His cold hands folded around me, and I returned the hug, bracing as he kissed both cheeks. “It's been too long, my niece.”

  “Far too long,” I agreed, letting my drunken tongue sound more enthusiastic than I really was.

  “Come sit. There's something we need to discuss. You know it's not like me to drop in personally without notice, but tonight, I couldn't resist.”

  My knees felt like rocks as I followed him to the empty chairs. The whole bar staff cleared out. They knew to keep their distance when the real owner showed up.

  I sank down on a bench a few feet across from him, watching as he sat between his men. He fished out a pomegranate and a small silver knife. He took his time, slicing away the top, opening it up, using the blade to help dig out a few seeds, which he popped into his mouth and chewed before he looked at me.

  “You're a good girl, Brina. My favorite niece. When will you go off and find a good man to marry? I'm surprised you're still here and not traveling abroad. You ought to be putting your heels far and wide while you're young enough to enjoy it.”

  I smiled – all I could do to settle the unease in my legs. Damn, maybe I should've skipped the last two drinks after all.

  “Can't do that until I've got some stuff published, Uncle Gioulio. I'm –“

  He cut me off, holding up a finger, chewing a few more seeds. “You're busy sticking your pretty head in places it doesn't belong.”

  “You're talking about Anton Ivankov?”

  My Uncle bowed up when I said the name. He looked at the bulldog on his right and handed the pomegranate to him, then leaned forward in his seat, folding his hands. The knife rested on the arm rest next to him.

  “You know I am. Why didn't you clear this with me first, Brina?”

  Because there's no way in hell you'd let me go through with it, I thought.

  “He's locked up,” I said quietly. “I didn't think you'd have a problem.”

  Gioulio's face darkened. He shook his head, like I'd just smashed one of the regal portraits of our ancestors at his city estate.