Bound by Danger: An Enemies to Lovers Mafia Romance (Born in Crime Book 2), page 6
“You’re good with animals. It seems like you’d be great with kids.”
I feel overwarm at the praise. And, glancing up, I realize Seth’s smile is a little bit deeper than normal, his eyes burning a little brighter. I look back down quickly. That’s the last thing I need. I don’t want anyone at the shelter developing a crush on me. I’ve decided that not only do I not want to date anyone, but dating someone I kind of work with would be a huge disaster.
Seth starts whistling while he brushes, seeming to get the hint. That’s another thing I can add to the list of things I like about him. It’s also another thing I can lump up onto the list of things I dislike about Dario. Tact. Or, when it comes to Dario, tactlessness.
And there I go, thinking about Dario again.
I force myself to focus hard on finishing up Missy’s brushing. I still have three more kennels to clean and two dogs to walk, and I’m already beyond exhausted. After I got home last night, I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t shut my mind off for even a moment, kind of like I can’t shut it up right now. I’ll probably have another sleepless night again tonight, too. That usually happens. The lack of sleep catches up and makes it so that more lack of sleep occurs. Plus, I’ll have food for unfortunate thought after the family dinner is over. At least I’ll be able to look forward to sleeping tomorrow, when my brain will be too exhausted to hold out on me any longer.
John’s birthday supper couldn’t have worse timing, although one could always hope that a certain obnoxious someone will decide to rest and recuperate rather than make an appearance.
Chapter 5
Dario
Last night was a shit night and today’s already stacked up to be the same. Between meetings with my uncle and John this morning, heading out to check on my warehouses, following up with my men, and trying to get the blood out of my Mustang, it’s been one shit show after another. My shoulder only adds to the agony. I’m not above popping a few pain pills, but I know myself well enough to realize that I can’t take them and actually function. And John only emphasized that this morning when he gave them to me, reminding me that the pills our surgeon prescribed will be stronger than any over-the-counter shit. He warned me that if he catches me taking one and leaving my condo for any reason, he’ll put a bullet in my other shoulder to teach me a lesson.
So, that in mind, I’ve manned up. Long story short, though, it’s fucking sucked. Getting shot isn’t as much fun as everyone makes it out to be. I haven’t eaten a single thing all day because my stomach is a churning mess from whatever I was given last night, as well as from the pain of carting myself around all day, pretending I’m not hurting. I’ve had water to keep hydrated, but that’s about it.
By the end of the day, I’m feeling thankful John and Elisa are kind enough to have offered me a ride to Gastone Gambino’s house, where we’re having family dinner.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Elisa asks as we crowd around the doorstep outside and wait for someone to open the bloody front door. She’s a nurse, so I imagine she can probably see right through my bullshit stoic expression.
Still, I shrug. “I’m not going to keel over anytime soon.”
She snorts. “That’s the most honest answer I think anyone’s ever given when I ask that question.”
“He knows he has to make it until the end of the night,” John comments. “We have a meeting with the Gambino men after dinner. About what happened last night.” So that accounts for the urgency in John’s voice.
Uncle Leone hasn’t come up with anything, and neither have any of our men. I doubt the Gambinos know anything, but it’s always worth a shot. At the very least, the situation has to be discussed. Either something is going on with our rivals, or I pissed off the wrong trigger-happy son of a bitch. I haven’t had much of a chance for the latter lately. I’ve been too busy.
The door finally cracks open, and Sara’s mother, Maria, is standing there. Maria looks a lot like her daughter, and I can’t help staring at her as though I’m seeing her for the first time. She’s older, in her late forties, but she’s still trim and beautiful. She’s not tall, not busty, and no, she doesn’t have a big bottom. I feel like an asshole for realizing that’s my list of things that I first notice on women, but it is what it is, and now that I’ve been thinking of her daughter, I can’t helping taking a little bit more notice of what Maria looks like—in part, as a sort of glimpse into her daughter’s future, they’re so similar.
“Hi!” Maria greets us, gathering Elisa into her arms for a big hug, which she somehow manages just fine around Elisa’s burgeoning stomach. She goes for John next, and then even includes me.
When she wraps her arms around my neck, I bend and put mine around her, but wince as my shoulder shoots fiery death pain through the rest of my body. She pulls back and then stares at me.
“I forgot about your shoulder!” Maria gasps. “I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” I promise. “It’s all stitched up. Not much damage you could do. Unless you’re packing scissors.”
Maria gasps and covers her mouth. “That would be awful!”
“Sorry. That’s not funny,” I admit.
“It’s not.” John slaps me on the back, near the good shoulder. Still. It hurts like being run over with my own car. My own twin in this case, to some extent, since I’ve pulled a John and gone with all black clothing, both of us wearing black button-down shirts and pants. Elisa, in stark contrast, has on a bright yellow maternity dress.
“Welcome, welcome,” Gastone Gambino says as he appears, a big smile on his face.
He looks better than when I last saw him. Before, he looked like an old man, but these past few months, seeing his daughter happy and getting rid of some of his old enemies—turning them into friends, even—has shaved off a few of the years. His hair is thin and gray, but he no longer looks so old as he did. Still, I hope I don’t look like Gastone does when I’m in my fifties.
Rather, I hope I’m still fit, trim, healthy, driving fast cars, and… no, never mind. I’ll leave the women out of it this time. It goes unspoken that every man still hopes to be virile well into his later years.
“Come in, come in!” Gastone urges us again. “Everyone is already here.”
I feel bad about making us late to the party, but at least I had an excuse. It was John who picked me up, not the other way around.
Our Uncle Leone is already seated at the large dinner table. Gastone’s house is like a museum. Not only huge, but old. The walls have wainscoting, the ceilings crown molding. Gilded paintings line the walls and expensive rugs decorate the floor.
The dining table itself is an old antique beast with thick legs that are more like pillars and a top that could survive a bomb strike. Right now, it’s laden with delicious-looking food, and I find my stomach cramping with hunger. I thought I was going to have to fake an appetite, but the aroma of rich gravy, mashed potatoes, freshly baked buns, and roast is having its intended effect.
Gastone’s younger brother, Carlo, is seated next to Leone. Beside him, the chair is empty, and I assume that’s Maria’s place. The one other seat, I suppose, is Gastone’s. There are no places set at the head or the end of the table, and I respect Gastone for that. At his table, we’re all treated like equal members of the family. The other side also has four settings. Sara’s seated herself in the middle, leaving one chair to her right and two to her left.
No doubt, she hopes Elisa and John will sandwich her in, but I make for the empty seat at the end fast, before Elisa or John can reach it and make me fight it out in a scene.
As I slide in, I hear Sara inhaling sharply. And I don’t think she’s just taking an extra whiff of the expensive cologne I always dab on—tastefully. There’s nothing worse than a person who bathes in the stuff. Either way, she scowls at me dangerously once the attention of the table has been turned to John and Elisa sitting down.
Gastone opens up with his usual welcome, and then he urges us all to dig in. Small talk ensues—mostly about the delicious meal that Maria prepared. I hear almost none of it because I’m so dialed in to Sara. She’s pointedly ignoring me, focusing on her food so that she doesn’t have to say anything.
“You look amazing.” I said it quietly, putting it out there nicely, but her scowl deepens. “I’m not just saying that,” I add. “You do. Truly.”
She has her hair curled into loose waves, and she’s wearing a simple enough dress, but it tucks in around the bust and tightens at the waist. It fits her perfectly without being revealing or fancy. The red goes beautifully with Sara’s skin tone. She’s wearing heavier eye makeup tonight, and red lipstick to match her dress.
I happen to have a thing for red lipstick, but unlike the thought process that usually follows my noticing it, I don’t now imagine myself kissing it off of her, or consider those cherry red lips being wrapped around my dick. For some reason, I can’t quite imagine Sara like that. I could imagine tasting her lips, but savoring them. Sipping at that lipstick like I would at an expensive whiskey. I can imagine savoring other bits of her, too. Suckling her nipples until she’s begging me to lift up the skirt of that dress which fits her so well, and then spending hours worshipping between her thighs.
As I pass over the buns, Sara’s fingers brush against mine. A thousand other dirty thoughts immediately take root in my brain, just at that innocent contact.
“Do you hate me?” I rib her, under my breath. The rest of the table is buzzing with conversation and no one is paying attention to us.
Sara puts the buns in front of Elisa and sets her hand out for the dish of beans I’m working at. I hate green beans, but I feel like trying everything is important, so as not to insult Maria.
“It’s impossible to hate someone you hardly know,” she tells me quietly. “That would imply care, or some kind of passion, because hatred is a passionate emotion, and I certainly don’t feel any of that. I’d say you’re more like a bad taste in my mouth. I dislike playboys who think they’re hot shit, and don’t bother protesting that you don’t think you’re hot shit; it’s obvious that you do. Don’t mince words. Lukewarm shit is still shit. And don’t give me your usual line about being reformed, either. The devil might put on a smile, but he’s still the devil.”
I sit stunned for a second, considering what to say. I was perfectly willing to be a gentleman tonight, but it’s clear enough Sara wants war. I pass over the beans, and she practically tears them out of my hand. I lean in after setting down two pickles on the edge of my plate. “You wouldn’t believe what I can do with a pitchfork.” At her purposeful, forward-gazing stare, I clarify. “Or my horns. I have this trick I can do with my tail, and you wouldn’t believe what hooves can be used for….”
I set the pickle platter down. Sara ignores it.
“For Christ’s sake, pass the gravy,” she says.
I pour it liberally over my dinner, and then hold the gravy boat ominously. I stare at Sara’s mound of mashed potatoes. “Make a hole,” I tell her.
“No, I’m not going to make a hole,” she seethes. “Just pour if that’s what you’re going to do.”
I grin, pushing for my way. “I can’t. It won’t taste right. It insults every one of my senses to do that to you.”
“A hole in the middle isn’t going to change the taste,” she argues.
“It will. I promise it will vastly improve your experience.” I’ve said that with more than a hint of suggestiveness, and I know it. I can throw down with the best of them, and it wasn’t me who started whatever challenge is going on between us right now.
“Vastly, hmm? We’re using the big words now?”
Even as she’s asking that, I realize people are starting to look at us—Maria, particularly. Sara notices, as well. She picks up her fork and quickly spreads the damn potatoes around, doing it so fast that they just about fly off of her plate and end up in her lap. I tip the blue boat and gravy flows out, landing neatly in the hole.
I set it down without pouring anywhere else, just as a gentleman would, and I wonder if she expected me to make a mess of her food. Clearly, Sara’s more than annoyed. She grabs the gravy and douses the meat and vegetables, too, apparently not satisfied until everything’s swimming. Her plate would give most women a heart attack; alone, it’s probably about two thousand calories. But Sara digs in. She closes her eyes in pleasure, and then compliments her mom and thanks her for the meal.
I look away, realizing I’ve probably already paid too much attention to her. To her brazenness, and her style. I like it.
That she’s so different. She’s strong in her own right. Tough. God, she’s tough. She’s not afraid what people will think of her. She’s bold. She’s polite. She’s complicated. She speaks her mind. She seems entirely immune to me… which I don’t like, but I also don’t not like it. There are all the signs there that she’s thinking of me like I’m thinking of her, however—her subtle changes of breath, the way she purposely won’t look at me, the slight tremble of her fingers on her fork. I don’t think she’s as immune to me as she pretends to be. She doesn’t want to like me, I’m willing to bet, but I think she actually does. Just a little. Either that, or I piss her off just by existing. Even that idea doesn’t dismay me too much, though. I can work with that.
“What?” Sara mutters under her breath. “Can’t think of any larger words to use? I can. Idiot. How about that? As in, you’re a big, arrogant one. Try and top that.”
While she’s watching, and the rest of the table is focused on something Elisa’s saying, I slowly run my index finger through the gravy on the side of my plate. I make sure the movements are slow and languid before I pop my finger into my mouth and suck it clean. I also make sure I hold Sara’s gaze the entire time.
They widen just a fraction. An instant later, she grabs her fork again, and the gusto with which she digs in reveals that she’s not unaffected by what I just did.
I glance around the table because I know I’ve had appalling manners so far. I do care about what happens at family diners, especially with the Gambino family, at their house. John’s saved the day by talking about politics, however, controlling the direction of conversation so that eyes are off of me and Sara. I actually couldn’t care less about politics, other than that I do agree with him about the direction our family should be moving in. Doing more legit things would be nice. There’s less chance of getting caught, less chance of going to prison, less chance of paid people squealing, and less chance of getting shot and killed.
After last night, I’d rather not repeat the experience.
As if in agreement, pain floods through my arm and into my chest, radiating outward like I’ve just been stuck with a hot fire poker all over again. I just manage to swallow the food in my mouth and hold back a groan, but I know anyone who was watching me just now saw me wince.
Looking around to see if anyone noticed, I find Sara studying me. I grab my bun and tear into it without bothering with butter. It’s fresh. Soft. Perfect. I bite into it, and for further distraction from the pain in my shoulder, I imagine throwing Sara up onto the family dinner table, spreading her legs, and diving into her soft peach. I’d eat her until she screamed for mercy. Until she came on my face over and over again, her juices the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.
I bite off another piece of bun and chew slowly. Sara has a shocked expression on her face, to the extent that I’m pretty sure it’s obvious to her that I was just thinking about something dirty. Maybe she filled in her own fantasy. Or maybe she filled in mine. Either way, her pupils are blown, and the next time she calls me unattractive, I’m going to call her on her bullshit.
Unfortunately, I don’t get a chance. My nice little fantasy is interrupted by Gastone, who grabs his glass and stands. “A toast. To my son-in-law!”
Normally, this is the part where I’d mentally check out because toasts and speeches aren’t my thing, but this is about my big brother, so I grab my glass and get serious about participating.
“Happy birthday, John,” Gastone says, surprisingly low-key. If this was my uncle giving the toast, we’d be here until we were all skeletons. “You joined our family as part of a larger scale agreement, to make peace, but that’s not why we’re here today. This dinner isn’t out of obligation. I myself, and the rest of my family—we’re truly glad that you are a part of us now. A part of our family. Your drive, your ambition, and your loyalty are things we can all admire. Before I embarrass myself, I’ll sit down, but I want to say thank you for loving my baby girl as much as you do. I know you’d protect her with your life, and I couldn’t wish for a better husband for her.”
Everyone else offers hearty agreements. We raise our glasses after that, and we toast John. Because he hates attention like this, he goes scarlet, but when Elisa takes his hand, he gets that soft look and turns to graze her forehead with a quick kiss.
I toss back the rest of my drink, which is unfortunately just sparkling water. The hard stuff is coming later, after the dinner. And, I daresay, after the cake. I’m sure there’s going to be one, even though we’re all adults and far past the need for such things.
We resume eating after the toast and I cast a sidelong look at Sara. She ignores me completely. She’s unlike any woman I’ve met before. For one, she’s too smart for my games. She doesn’t play right into my hand or even begin to let me set a trap for her to walk into. She knows exactly what I can’t stand, too. Being ignored. So, that’s exactly what she’s doing. She keeps her eyes tied to her plate as she eats, and it doesn’t seem to matter that I watch her every move. The way she lifts her fork to her mouth. How she chews slowly, savoring the different flavors. The easy smile she has for Elisa when they start talking with each other. The way the bridge of her nose wrinkles when she stuffs green beans into her mouth and swallows them down as fast as she can. Apparently, she’s not a fan of the beans, either.
