Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 59551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
His job was always to protect me, from the time I was born. And he has. Even when that meant shielding me from the judgment of our own father. He and Paolo were the badasses, and I was the finesse. I did the smooth talking when it was needed. Played good cop, not that we ever played cops.
I wander into the living room, still in my boxer briefs and sit down at the baby grand in the corner. My fingers move over the keys automatically, the muscle memory there without thought. I still have my music. Too bad it’s not enough.
My phone rings beside me, and I stop playing and pick it up. It’s the phone number I use for women, only I haven’t been with a woman since the accident.
Marissa. I gave her the number before I left the other day.
Never expected her to use it.
I pick up. “This is Gio.”
“Gio, hi. It’s Marissa. From Caffè Milano?” She sounds nervous.
“Everything okay, doll?”
“Um, yeah. Well, I need to talk to you. Can I meet you somewhere? Not at the cafe.”
I don’t know what I hoped. That she had the nerve to ask me out. Or was calling to tell me again that she’s glad I’m alive.
That she knows I dream about her every night.
Of course not. There’s only one reason I get a call like this.
And I fucking hate the way it makes me feel.
“Sure, Marissa. Why don’t you come to my home office?” My dick gets hard as I give her the address to my apartment, even though I know that’s not how things are going to go down.
Just the idea of having her here gets me chubby, though.
I hang up and give my cock a rough squeeze. Down, boy. This is business, not pleasure.
Too fucking bad.
Chapter 2
Marissa
Gio lives right on Lake Shore Drive in what must be a million-dollar townhouse on the top floor. I took the L in and walked the rest of the way in my high heels. I have blisters by the time I reach his building, and I’m cursing everything about my plan.
I dug in the back of my closet for a silk blouse, pencil skirt and these cursed stilettos, but now I’m wondering what the hell I was thinking. Am I here to sell myself to Gio? Dress up like a pretty piece of meat, flirt a little and get thirty grand?
I guess it’s better than my alternative, which is to sign the cafe back over to the Tacones, which would absolutely kill my grandfather. I don’t even know if the place is worth that much, anyway. We don’t own the real estate. I’m not even sure if a bank would give us a loan against our business.
It’s a beautiful fall morning, but I’m icy cold when the doorman opens the door for me and takes my name to call up to Gio.
This is for Mia, I keep chanting to myself.
In the elevator, though, I lose my nerve.
Gio’s going to want the cafe. I can’t give it to him. I can’t. My grandparents wouldn’t think it’s worth it, not even for Mia.
Thinking he might give me the money for something else—for me? Was that the idea in the back of my head? It’s—ludicrous. And I don’t want to resort to begging or whoring myself out.
There must be another way.
And there is.
I have dirt on the Tacones. I can leverage it. They already paid us hush money when they overpaid for the repairs to the place after the shooting. They can pay a little more.
Stiffening my spine, I walk out of the elevator with my head high and ring Gio’s doorbell.
He answers, dressed to the nines, as usual, in a suit that probably costs more than a car, smelling of soap and aftershave.
He gives me a cool, assessing glance, taking in my outfit and expression, then steps back from the door and ushers me in. “Welcome, Marissa.”
The apartment is huge with a wall of windows looking out over Lake Michigan and a black baby grand in one corner.
“Do you play piano?” The stupid question tumbles out of my mouth before I can stop it. I’m nervous—saying anything to fill the space. Of course he doesn’t play piano. Some decorator probably put that in here.
But he surprises me with a “yeah”.
“Really?” Now I’m genuinely interested. A mafioso who plays piano? Unexpected.
“Really, doll. Surprised?” There’s a challenge in his tone, and it occurs to me that he might have had to fight that same stereotype his whole life.
“Um…”
“My office is through here.” He’s all business, which is more disappointing than I care to admit. But this is business. And I need to follow through on my plan.
For Mia.
He leads me to the office, decorated in red leather and mahogany wood. Masculine and comfortable in that rich gentleman sort of style.