He collected her in his arms as he rolled to his back. “I haven’t either. It’s not about erasure. I’ve been in love before, and I know you have too. But this is…” With a thoughtful pause, he searched her face. “Well, you’re the poet. Maybe I can tell you how I feel and you can put it into pretty words.”
Amelia traced her fingertip along the angelic host tattooed to his chest. Maybe the placement was intentional, his better angels so close to his heart.
“For you, I already have,” she said.
TWENTY-EIGHT
EMORY
“Fold,” Emory said and tossed his cards to a table too intimate for poker.
The Queen of Hearts sopped up condensation that pooled at the base of his glass. With a coquettish smile, Amelia fanned herself with a straight and scooped up her winnings.
“Are you sure you’re good at this?” she teased and organized her chips in mismatched stacks that drove Emory wild, almost as wild as her lips that pursed with a bad hand and fingertips that mindlessly stroked her collarbone.
It was the deal they’d made after a morning of incredible sex—hands off each other for a little while; let their bodies recover as they came up for air. That task grew harder with each successive round of cards.
Emory laughed. “I was until I taught you.”
He shuffled the deck and dealt another round. Oddly enough, Amelia’s winning streak didn’t fan his competitive flame. It ignited other fires, though. With each win, she’d lightly gasp with surprise and bounce in her seat, breasts jostling in the tight confines of a black tank top. Emory collected the sights and sounds and layered it over visions of her in his bed; how she had gasped beneath him with a quiver and quake, clung to his shoulders, clawed at his skin.
Neither could leave it alone, whatever they’d started, so sublime magnetism prevailed. On the third floor, they spent the day listening to music, playing poker, and stealing kisses every chance they got.
The room boasted the fine antiques Liam’s late wife had collected—woven rugs that brightly adorned terracotta tile, curios with odd functions, dusty books with well-worn pages. The space was chiefly a grand gesture of love.“I’ll always be her husband,”Liam had told Emory years after Francisca died,“and in this room, she’ll always find a quiet place to rest.”
Through the window, a balmy breeze carried in the scent of lemon blossoms, and a strip of sunlight laid across Amelia’s bare thighs. All afternoon, Emory watched the light roam her body—across her face where it revealed the rich russet of her eyes, along her breasts, pooled between her legs. Soon, his lips would forge that same path down her body.
On the table, his phone buzzed.SoCal calling…
“Do you need to take that?” Amelia asked on the third ring as Emory debated whether to answer.
The shadow had already been cast, so he patted his knees and stood with a sigh.
“I do.” He motioned to his cards face down on the table. “This is trust. Don’t peek.”
“Trust,” Amelia said and handed him her cards. Back lit in the afternoon light, she gazed up at him with a winsome smile.
Jesus Christ, stop my fucking heart.She’d tossed that look at him all afternoon. It heated his blood and flooded his cheeks with warmth. Emory tucked her cards in his back pocket and leaned down for a kiss, but his mood soured as he stepped into the hall.
In solitude, he led best. His men festered with a feral need for vengeance, though. Over the past few days, all twelve captains had separately sought his private audience. Emory had listened to liquor-induced tirades about retaliation and a few composed appeals for a tactical counterstrike.
Wild dogs needed to be kept on a short leash, though, so Emory stolidly refused bloodletting in the streets. The corpse ofan important man trumped a mass grave of nobodies. Once Gio was put to rest, the red shroud would lift and they’d all see clearly what must be done.
In the meantime, Emory sent his most vengeful men on a mission to sate their bloodlust. If Scumstache was smart, he would’ve skipped town east bound. Instead, he was holed up in a casino hotel waiting to be rescued. No one was coming to save him, though, and there wasn’t a stone in Vegas Emory couldn’t overturn.
He lifted the phone to his ear without greeting.
“We got him,” Corey, captain of San Diego post, relayed. “You know that prick only shadow walked a year ago?”
Not surprising. Greed and glory sent the young bloods off the rails. They weren’t slick enough to mastermind schemes or connected enough to guard against blowback.
“If he’s that green, how did he know our plans that day? Someone had to’ve been working him.”
“We’ll make him chatty,” Corey said with glee registering in his gruff voice.
“Please do.”
Emory hung up the call with a pit in his stomach. The kid was just the stem. He still had to dig out the roots. Back in the room, the air was honeyed with Amelia’s perfume, and the light suffused with cloud cover. In luminous contrast to the dark deeds done in the hall, she beamed at him as he took his seat.
