Lennon
Sloane and I are in the backseat of Gunnar’s SUV. I’m staring out the tinted window at the city lights because I can’t stop the tears rolling down my face, and I don’t want to alarm Sloane. Whatever devastation she saw when we were reunited had her wrapping her arms around me instead of asking what happened.
I can still smell Sandro, still feel his arms around me, his fingers inside me like phantoms. I already miss him, crave him. I try to discretely wipe at the tears with the back of my hand, but Sloane reaches over and presses a Kleenex in my hand.
When I turn to her, she gives me an encouraging nod. “You’ll get through this,” she whispers. “Remember who you are.”
Yeah, that’s the problem. I do remember. I’m the girl in love with an unavailable mobster.
Gunnar glances at us in the rearview mirror, his arctic blue eyes meeting mine. He sighs. “For what it’s worth, Lennon. He’s just as miserable as you are.”
Sloane snorts. “Good.”
I’m too exhausted, too confused, and too hurt for decorum. “Why is he marrying Giada? Why her?”
Gunnar shakes his head slowly, his attention moving to the road as he makes a right turn. After a few moments of silence, he says, “You know the world he comes from. It isn’t his choice. It’s for an alliance between the families.”
I thought that would make me feel better to hear, but it doesn’t. It just means misery for Sandro, too. And I find I don’t want that.
Chapter 18
Alessandro
Imake my way back up the stairs to the VIP lounge, a headache beginning to thump behind my eyes. I can still feel Lennon’s heated body pressed against mine. Still smell her scent on me. My mood is darkening by the second.
When I reach the top of the stairs and head to the back, Giada is striding toward me with a forced smile and a wicked gleam in her eyes I don’t like.
“There you are, fiancé,” she says as she approaches. Without warning, she throws herself against me, pressing her mouth harshly against mine.
I grab her arms instinctively.
A flash goes off. She pulls back and smirks at me. Then nods to the man standing a few feet away with a camera. “Get that to the Tampa Times tonight.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says. Then shoots me a small, apologetic smile as he scurries away.
My confusion solidifies into hot molten rage when I realize what she’s done and why. I clench my fists to keep from wrapping my hands around her throat.
She steps into me and glares up into my furious gaze, her dark eyes hard and glittering dangerously. “I told you I wouldn’t have my fiancé simping after trash, Sandro. You embarrassed me in front of some important people tonight. Do it again, and I will ruin her life.” She bumps into my arm as she pushes past me. Then stops. “And by the way, Papà insists you come for family dinner tomorrow night. Since we’re going to befamily. Six o’clock, don’t be late.”
I grind the heels of my palms into my eyes, trying to calm the internal tremble of rage shaking my bones. It’s been a long time since I’ve lost control, but Giada fucking Zerilli threatening Lennon is bringing me to the edge.
Fuck it.I need to destroy something.
I push past some VIP assholes partying with the girls Rocco hired and find my men still seated in our booth.
Excellent.
Reclaiming my seat, I glance at the men. Rocco and Caelian are staring at me with raised brows.
Fausy, Caelian’s thirty-year-old brother and one of my capos, is peering at me curiously. Out of all of us, he’s the most unassuming at 6’2 with a stocky build, a head of curly black hair, and a short beard that enhances the structure of his baby face. He’s smart andlevel-headed, though which is just as deadly as muscle in our world. “You look like you want to murder someone. What the fuck just happened?”
Rocco chuckles and squeezes my shoulder. “Lennon just happened.” He smirks at me. “Oh, brother.” He lifts his finger to order me a drink.
I shake my head. “Whiskey’s not going to cut it. We’re going to burn down one of the Bratva’s whorehouses,” I say, my tone laced with promises of death.
Rocco’s gray eyes gleam with excitement and probably too much scotch. “Fuck yeah,” he grunts. Fire is his preferred method of destruction. “When?”
“Tonight.” I flick my gaze to Fausy. “Get ten soldiers together. Your best fighters, sharpshooters. I don’t know how many Bratva will be there. Have them meet us at the warehouse at midnight.”
