Neiter of us moves.
“Elena—”
“I know, I know. We’re getting up.” But instead of pulling away, she leans in and presses a kiss to my jaw. Then another, lower, at the corner of my mouth. “Just one more minute.”
Self-control has limits, and mine are currently being tested beyond reason. Hands grip her hips, prepared to set her away, but she chooses that moment to shift her weight and suddenlyshe’s straddling me, the t-shirt riding up to reveal bare thighs and—Cristo—matching black lace underneath.
“You’re trying to kill me,” the accusation comes out strained.
“Maybe a little.” Her smile is wicked. “Is it working?”
“Very effectively.”
She leans down, hair falling around us like a curtain, mouth hovering just above mine. “Then my work here is done.”
And then she’s gone, scrambling off the bed with a laugh, leaving me hard, frustrated and completely at her mercy.
“You’re evil,” the observation is called after her retreating form.
“You like it!” comes the response from the hallway.
The truth is, “like” doesn’t begin to cover what Elena makes me feel. But admitting that to her or to myself opens doors better left closed.
Thirty minutes later, the kitchen has been transformed into something almost domestic. Eggs scramble on the stove. Coffee percolates. Elena sits at the kitchen island in jeans and a sweater, hair still damp from her shower, watching with amusement as breakfast is prepared.
“You can cook,” she observes.
“Basic survival skill.”
“Most men in your position would have a chef.”
“Most men in my position don’t know how to be alone with their thoughts.” I plate the eggs, add toast and pour Elena a coffee. “Here.”
She takes the plate with a smile that does things to my chest. “Thank you. This looks great.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. But eventually, the reprieve ends.
“So,” Elena says, setting down her fork. “You promised me the truth. All of it.”
“Not all of it. Some things are better left unknown.”
“Alessandro—”
“But I’ll tell you what I can.” I set the coffee cup down, and fold my hands on the counter. Where to even begin? “My family—the De Lucas—we’ve controlled organized crime in Seattle for three generations. My grandfather started it, my father expanded it, and now it’s mine.”
“What exactly does ‘organized crime’ mean?”
“Protection rackets. Gambling operations. Some drug trafficking, though I’m trying to phase that out. Money laundering. The occasional... removal of obstacles.”
Her eyes widen. “Removal of obstacles. You mean murder.”
“Yes.”
She absorbs this, and watching her process the reality of what has been done, what continues to be done, is harder than any interrogation. “How many people have you killed?”
“Does the number matter?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” She rakes a hand through her hair. “I’m trying to reconcile the man who makes me breakfast with the man who admits to murder like it’s a business meeting.”
