God help me. I’m completely fucked.
Nico
I can’t stop thinking about her.
The way she fell apart in my arms on the training field, trembling, moaning my name, soaking my fingers through those flimsy shorts. I would’ve gone much further if Marco’s fucking phone call hadn’t interrupted us.
I wanted to rip those shorts down, drop to my knees, and taste her right there on the grass. I wanted to bury myself inside her until she screamed.
Even now, hours later, my hand still smells like her, that sweet, musky scent of her arousal. I lift it to my nose without thinking, inhaling deeply as the car speeds along the highway. Just a hint, but it’s enough to make my cock twitch again.
Get it together, Nico.
My driver’s voice cuts through the haze. “We’re here, Boss.”
I look out the window. We’ve arrived at one of my warehouses on the outskirts of the city, a large, nondescript building surrounded by high fencing and security lights. Perfect for discreet operations.
I step out of the car, still trying to shove thoughts of Eleonora out of my head. She asked me what would happen to her when this was all over. I told her I didn’t know, because I honestly don’t. There’s a dark, possessive part of me that doesn’t want to let her go at all. A part I can’t afford to examine right now.
Marco is already waiting at the main door.
“Everything accounted for?” I ask as I approach.
He nods. “All the product came in clean. Three hundred kilos, pure. No missing weight, no tampering. The new route through Jersey worked better than expected.”
“Good. We need more consistent means to bring it in,” I say, walking inside with him. “That’s why we need those ports. The Caruso shipping lanes are the key. Once we force Massimo to hand them over, we control the entire East Coast flow.”
Marco falls in step beside me. “We’re also expanding the cleaning operation. The new nightclub in Manhattan is pulling in serious cash. Restaurants are doing even better, especially the ones in Brooklyn and Queens. We’re running three new ones through shell companies. Should be enough to wash the next big shipment without raising flags.”
I nod. “Keep the restaurants clean on paper. Use them for the high-volume stuff. The clubs can handle the riskier money. Just make sure the books look legitimate. I don’t need the feds sniffing around right now.”
We walk deeper into the warehouse, past stacked crates and armed men who nod respectfully as we pass.
I stop and turn to Marco. “Any word from Caruso?”
“Not yet. But he’s sweating, knowing we have his daughters.”
I don’t reply. Because every time someone mentions “his daughter,” my mind goes straight back to Eleonora, the way she came undone for me, the way she looked at me like she wanted more.
This obsession is becoming a problem.
A very dangerous problem.
We’re deep inside the warehouse, checking the latest shipment. My men are working, cutting open the sealed bricks, testing purity, repackaging the pure product into smaller, street-ready units. The sharp chemical smell of cocaine fills the air.
“I need you to…”
I'm interrupted as gunshots suddenly rip through the air.
Bullets shatter the windows. One of my workers drops instantly, a red bloom exploding across his chest. Another round slams into the wall inches from my head, sending concrete dust flying.
“Get down!” I roar, already pulling my gun.
Chaos erupts. More gunfire explodes from outside as masked men storm through the side entrances, weapons blazing. My men return fire instantly, the warehouse turning into a warzone. Shell casings clatter across the concrete.
I duck behind a stack of crates and start picking targets, two quick shots drop the first attacker, then a third.
I move fast, staying low, firing as I advance. One of the invaders gets too close, I put two rounds in his chest and one in his head. Another tries to flank us. I spin and shoot him in the throat. Blood sprays.
