Page 9 of The Mobster’s Nurse

Call me Luca, I almost say. But no. I stop myself in time. She's not my friend. I want her to be, but right now she’s not. She could be working against us. Against my father, my family. Against me.

So, sure. Okay, Mr. Moretti, it is.

But I feel a connection I can't break. Don't want to, truth be told.

"We'll get to the truth eventually," I tell her. "You'd be doing yourself a favor by just speaking honestly now."

"Do you need me to learn Italian and tell you that way? Will you understand⁠—"

She suddenly cuts off. Looks mortified. Probably realizes that her sassiness has just made her snap at a mobster. I see her physically clench her mouth. So tight that her facial muscles and cheeks bulge, and her skin starts to blush. She sees it too, in the mirror.

I stand. Walk around the desk and move behind her. She twists her head, exposing the nape of her neck. I want to bite, kiss, and own it so badly, it hurts.

But I don't. I won't.

My whole body tingles. But not yet. Not until she gives me something real to work with. Not just a silent absence of refusal — I’m looking for a real indication of her desire. I know the difference. It matters to me, even if nobody outside my world would believe it. I live by rules, ethics, just sometimes different from regular society.

I raise my hands behind her, feel her energy without touching. She shifts uncomfortably. Wrings her hands in her lap. I move back and stand across from her, my desk between us, and look down at her. She barely looks back at me. Scared.

I sit, smile at her. I'm obviously not good at this, but I try to lighten the mood.

"Ellie, I've personally ended three men's lives in this room." A single tear pops from her right eye and tries, but refuses to roll down across her cheek. Her throat gulps. I continue, "but never a woman's." I stand and begin unbuttoning my shirt. "And, on my honor, I never will."

Her lips part slightly when I stand. Her eyes track me — she tries to stop them; I can see her effort, but she fails. Her gaze drops to my hands and then snaps back to my face. Her cheeks flush. There!

She knows I've seen it.

Good. I was starting to think I was imagining things.

There it is. That's what I was waiting for. Needing to see.

I pick up my phone, punch the microphone button, and state, "Ending interrogation of Elena Cruz. Now." I walk around the desk and stand behind her. Her eyes and body follow me this time.

A jolt runs through her when I place my hands on her shoulders. I feel the heat of her skin blazing through her clothes. My cock is so hard, so fast.

I squeeze her shoulders. Not enough to hurt. Not even close.

"Mr. Moretti," she exhales.

"You need to be honest with me," I say fiercely. "It's a very, very bad idea to lie to a Moretti. Or maybe you need some more encouragement. The carrot instead of the stick?"

This is wrong — this isn't why I'm here — but I look at her face in the mirror before my hands move anywhere. Really look. She looks at herself and at me. Her shoulders have dropped. She draws a long breath in through her nostrils.

“What’s the difference between the carrot and the stick, Mr. Moretti?”

Her breaths come faster and shallower than fear alone would account for. I've spent my life reading rooms, reading people, reading danger. What I'm reading right now isn't reluctance.

“Good question.” I walk to the door and open it wide.

“You are free to stand and walk away, through that door, right now. Your choice.

But if you choose to stay … well, every cell in my body wants you to stay here, with me.”

She does not move but looks up at me, her eyes curious, her front teeth biting down on her bottom lip.

My hands move. Driven by instinct, yes. But also by what I can see clearly.

I bend down and run the tip of my tongue along the side of her exposed neck. All the way down the sensitive skin to her collarbone. I expect her to react, to stand, pull away. Shout out an expletive, maybe.