I’m already on it.
Of course he is. Lazaro was Lorenzo Pontrelli’s underboss, and upon his death became Davide Pontrelli’s underboss. Now he’s mine. Though since he’s a Pontrelli on his mother’s side, he made a play for the role of don before the families decided they wanted me instead. Well, they wanted my father, but they got me. I think that irked Lazaro, even though he insists that I’m the best man for the job.
Lazaro thinks the new Irish in town are fucking with us, but I doubt it’s them. We have a treaty with the O’Rourkes and the Monahans have no reason to fuck with us. So it must be someone else.
Maximo:
Keep me updated on what you find.
Lazaro reads my message but doesn’t bother to reply. He’s all business and always straight to the point. Which is fine, we need to track these fuckers down before they cause too much damage.
Frustrated and annoyed by this entire day, I sit back in my chair and open Elena’s novel on my phone. For some reason reading it makes me feel closer to her. Perhaps I can understand her better through her fictional story. Already I see her spark and fire come through in her writing. This is the side of her that she hides away. The part of her that I crave.
I’m not long into this fantasy romance, which is about a princess whose love interest seems to be her enemy. The sexualtension between the characters has really ramped up. This villain-slash-love interest says some very naughty things to the princess, who seems to enjoy it even though she’d never admit it to him or herself.
She ridicules him and their verbal sparring goes back and forth, heating up until the scene becomes sexually charged.
Hm. Elena Pontrelli isn’t as innocent as she seems. My girl has a filthy mind. I like it.
Would she ever think these thoughts about me? Could I get her so turned on that she presses her thighs together and envisions my mouth on her, just as her heroine does? Is this something Elena wants in real life or does she only enjoy it in her fiction?
Given the way she recoils from my touch, I’m assuming it’s the latter. Though… she did melt into me at Enzo’s party. I felt the moment her body relaxed against mine—it was fucking heaven. I’d do anything to have more of that easy comfort with her. Her trust.
Returning my attention to her book, I read a passage that makes my breath hitch. It’s a verbal sparring match between the two characters. Except this time, almost all the words are ones that I remember Elena and I speaking to each other. In real life. Back in Italy. It was the first time I saw her fiery nature.
I’ve come to visit Aunt Antonia, but really I’m desperate for a glimpse of the young woman under my protection. She’s only five years younger than me, yet she seems so innocent and naïve—and vulnerable. Realizing she’s not in the house, and knowing she’d never set foot outside these walls, I enter the back courtyard where I find her perched on top of the stone wall. A wooden ladder leans nearby.
Elena’s gazing over the other side. Chin resting on her knees as she takes in the world beyond. She’s wearing a thin, flowing summer dress. A long auburn braid hangs downher back. There’s a faraway expression on her face, as if she’s daydreaming about those fantastical books she’s always reading.
Desiring her attention to focus on me instead, I interrupt her solace. “Planning your escape?”
She gasps, startled. “What? No. I’m not a prisoner here.”
“Are you so sure about that?”
“I’m sure.” Elena gazes down at me from near the wide ledge on top of the wall. “Even if I were a prisoner, you wouldn’t be able to hold me. Not for long anyway.”
I chuckle, surprised by her defiant tone. So there’s more to the shy girl who hides away in Aunt Antonia’s home. Good to know.
Crossing my arms, I lean against the stone wall. “And how, exactly, would you escape me?”
“Easy. I’d jump off this wall.”
“Really? But you don’t know what’s on the other side. There could be danger down there.”
She cranes her neck, gazing down. “If I wanted to escape, I’d be willing to risk the dangers out there.”
“Then why don’t you?” I press. For some reason the way she keeps herself hidden away here annoys me. I want to see her spread her wings and fly.
“Because I’m perfectly content right where I am.”
I huff a disbelieving laugh. “Are you though? Really?”
She studies me, as if she’s not sure what to think of our conversation. “Yes. Really. Why are you questioning my happiness?”
I shrug. “Maybe because I think you’re lying to yourself.”
“That’s a rude thing to tell someone. Especially when you don’t really know them.” She swings her legs down to the old, rickety ladder resting against the wall. With sure-footed confidence, she steps down—and the wooden step splits in half.
