Bloody Heart: A Second Chance Mafia Romance (Brutal Birthright Book 4)

I take Simone over to my car. It’s just an old Bronco, battered and gunmetal gray. It’s not good to drive a flashy car in my business. Not good to draw too much attention. Besides, I wouldn’t fit in some tiny sports car.

Simone doesn’t seem to mind. She waits by her door for a second, not touching the handle. I realize she expects me to open it.

I lean forward to grab it right at the same second that she does. We bump into each other, which does nothing to me but almost knocks her off her feet. She blushes and says, “Sorry, that was—”

“No, I’ve got it,” I say.

I’ve never opened a door for a girl before. I wouldn’t have thought about it.

I’m not exactly the “dating” type. More the “get drunk at a bar, and if someone’s giving me the eye, I guess I’ll take them home” type.

I like women the same way I like burgers—if I’m hungry and there’s one available, then I’ll eat.

Simone is no burger.

She’s a ten-course meal, if I’d been starving for fifty years.

She could bring me back to life if I were almost dead.

She climbs into the passenger side, looking around at the cracked leather seats, the worn steering wheel, and the little woven band hanging from the rear-view mirror.

“What’s that?” Simone asks, pointing.

“It’s a friendship bracelet. My little sister made it for me. But she made it the size of her wrist, so it doesn’t fit,” I chuckle.

“You have a sister?” Simone asks, surprised. Like she thought I was raised by mountain trolls.

“Yeah,” I say, putting the car in reverse. “I’ve got one baby sister, and two brothers.”

“Oh,” Simone sighs. “I always wished I came from a big family.”

“There’s no family like Italian family,” I say. “I’ve got so many uncles, cousins, and people who think we’re related because our great-great-grandparents came from the same town in Piemonte that you could fill the whole damn city with them.”

“You’ve always lived here?” Simone says.

“All my life.”

“I am jealous,” she says.

“What are you talking about? You’ve been everywhere.”

“Visitor everywhere, citizen nowhere,” Simone says. “Do you know we’ve never owned a house? We rent these palaces . . . but it’s always temporary.”

“You should come to my house,” I say. “It’s so old it’s probably put down roots.”

“I’d like to see it,” she says, with real excitement. Then she asks, “Where are we going now?”

“Where would you like to go?”

“I don’t know.” She hesitates. “Are you afraid to be seen with me?”

“No. Are you?”

“A little,” she says honestly. “My parents have an itinerary for me. Wilson drives me everywhere I go.”

“I’ll take you somewhere nobody will see us,” I promise. “Or at least, nobody you know.”

I drive us over to Lakeview, to an old brick building with a nondescript door halfway down its alley. Simone looks like she barely wants to get out of the car once I’ve parked. Still, she follows me out, slipping her hand in the crook of my arm as we walk, holding onto me for protection. Nobody around here would fuck with us, but I like the feel of her clinging to my arm.

I knock twice on the door. After a moment it cracks just wide enough for the bouncer to give me a once over. Tony breaks into a grin at the sight of me.

“There he is,” he says. “Where’ve you been, Dante?”

“Places where they don’t skimp on olives, ya cheap fuckers,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder.

“You’re not supposed to eat a whole jar with your drink.” Tony grins. “Guess they never taught you that in finishing school.”

Tony cocks an eyebrow at Simone, hiding behind my arm.

“Dante,” he says. “What are you doing with a pretty girl like that? Are you so tall she can’t see your face? Come on love—you know you can do better than this guy.”

Simone looks mildly alarmed, but her years of social training haven’t deserted her. She looks up at me as if really examining my features for the first time.

“He’s not so bad,” she says. “Not if you squint.”

Tony laughs. “Squint a lot in there—you won’t notice the holes in the carpet, either.”

He lets us pass into the speakeasy.

The Room is a private club with only three hundred members. Papa and I are two of them. The rest are some of the most old-school Italian, Irish, and Russian gangsters in the city. And by old-school, I mean very old—I’m probably the youngest member by ten years at least.

That’s why I’m not worried about bringing Simone here. She’s more likely to witness a coronary than a shoot-out.

Plus, I figured she’d dig the vibe. It’s a tiny space, dark as night since we’re underground, except for the low light of the shaded lamps on the table, and the green neon sign over the bar. There’s plush crimson chairs, faded carpets, ancient wallpaper, and a solid wall of dark, dusty liquor bottles that really might have been here since Prohibition.

The waiters are about a hundred years old, too. They shuffle around in their white dress shirts and long black aprons, never spilling a drop of a drink.

Carmine comes to our table, giving me a friendly nod and Simone a little bow.

“What can I get you?” he rasps.

“Let’s do the sampler,” I say before Simone can answer.

“Thanks,” she says, as Carmine totters back to the bar. “I didn’t have a clue what to say. I’ve mostly only drunk champagne or wine. Plus a few mimosas. My parents aren’t big drinkers, but you know wine is hardly considered alcohol in Europe.”

“It’s mother’s milk for Italians,” I say.

Carmine comes back a few minutes later with a tray loaded with eight miniature cocktails, plus a wooden board bearing marinated olives, house-made pickles, nuts, dried fruit, and a couple kinds of cheese.

“Is all that for us?” Simone squeaks.

“These are historic-era cocktails,” Carmine explains patiently. “Just a little sample of each. Here you got The Bee’s Knees—a little honey and lemon in your gin. Then the Mary Pickford—that’s Cuban rum, pineapple, and a touch of grenadine to give you that lovely pink color. I’m sure you’ve had a Sidecar before—brandy sour with cognac, orange liqueur, and lemon. And finally, the classic Chicago Fizz—a little dark rum, ruby port, egg white, lemon, and club soda.”

He sets the miniature cocktails down in a row in front of Simone as he names each one.

“Cheers,” I say, picking up the Chicago Fizz. Simone gingerly holds up the same. We clink glasses, and she takes a sip.

“Not bad,” she says.

She has a foam mustache above her lip. It makes her look even more like a little cat. I can’t help smiling.

“What?” she says, smiling back at me.

“Nothing,” I say.

She starts to giggle.

“Why are you laughing?” I ask her.

“Nothing,” she says, shaking her head.

I catch sight of myself in the mirror over the bar. I’ve got a mustache too.

We’re both laughing, so much that the men at the other tables give us disapproving looks.

I wipe my face with a napkin, then hers, gently.

“You were never gonna tell me, were you?” I ask her.

“No,” Simone snorts.

I put my hand over hers, on the tabletop. Her hand is slim and perfectly shaped. It makes mine look like a baseball mitt by comparison.

The jukebox in the corner switches records. Even though it’s a 20’s style speakeasy, most of the music that plays is actually from the 60s or 70s, since that’s the “good old days” for most of the patrons.

“Ring of Fire” by Johnny Cash begins to play.

“Dance with me,” I say to Simone.

“Nobody’s dancing,” she says.

“We are,” I say, pulling her up from the table.

I’m a shit dancer. I already know that.

It doesn’t matter. I just want to hold Simone against my chest. Nobody cares that we’re dancing. They give us a glance, then return to their conversations.

I can smell the sweet, clean scent of Simone’s hair. She knows exactly how to move.

After a few more songs, we sit down at our little table again. We try all the drinks, as well as the food. Simone is flushed from the liquor. Her cheeks turn pink and she gets more talkative than ever. She asks me all kinds of questions.

I haven’t drunk much, but I feel intoxicated by the sight of her. By the color in her face and the brightness of her eyes. They alter, depending on the light. Sometimes they’re clear and golden like honey. Here, in lower light, they look as orange as amber.

“Are you . . . a mafioso?” Simone whispers, not wanting anyone else to hear.

“I guess.” I shrug. “It’s not like a gang you join. It’s a family business.”

“What do you mean?” Simone asks. She looks genuinely curious, not judgmental.

“Well . . .” I try to think how to explain it. “Like all businesses, there’s the deals you run above board, and the ones that exploit the loopholes. There’s the laws you follow and the ones you don’t, because fuck the people who made those laws—they’re just as dirty, and they exploit them just the same for money and power.”

I try to think how to phrase this without insulting her.

“Your father—he makes deals, he calls in favors. He has his friends and his enemies. My father’s the same.”

“I suppose,” Simone says, toying with the glass of her Sidecar. “It’s not only back-door business deals, though, is it?”

She looks up at me, not wanting to offend me with the question, but wanting to know the truth.

“No,” I say. “It isn’t.”

Nero and I knocked over two armored trucks in Canaryville just last month. I’m not above any kind of crime, not really.

I don’t give a fuck about stealing from a bank. Banks, governments, businesses—you show me one that’s truly clean. It’s all a system to shuffle money around, and I have as much right to siphon off a few thousand as any fat cat banker.

I wouldn’t hurt somebody for fun. But when there’s a reason . . . I don’t hesitate.

“Have you ever killed anyone?” Simone asks, so quietly that I can barely hear her over the music.

I feel my jaw clench involuntarily. I killed someone the night we met. And that wasn’t the first time.

“What do you think?” I ask Simone.

She bites her lip, unable to answer. Or unwilling.

“Come on,” I say. “Let’s get out of here.”

We get back into the Bronco. I drive east, over to Lakeshore Drive. I’ve got the windows down, and the cool night air streams through.

Simone looks a little sleepy, because it’s getting late, or because she’s not used to the drinks. I pull her head down onto my lap, so she’s closer and she can rest.

She lays there, with her hand on my thigh.

The warmth of her cheek against my crotch, and the friction whenever she moves her head even a little, starts to excite me. I can smell her light perfume. I know she can feel my cock swelling under my pants, and that turns me on more.

When I’m too hard for her not to notice, she lifts her head a little. But she doesn’t sit up. She starts unbuttoning my jeans instead.

She slides down the zipper, reaching into my boxers with her slim hand. She pulls my cock out.

It looks as thick as her wrist, the head flopping heavily into her palm. She startles but squeezes it tentatively. A little clear fluid beads up at the tip.

She licks her lips to moisten them. Then she licks the head of my cock, tasting it.

The idea that my cum is the first she’s ever tasted turns me on more than ever. I want to look down and watch her, but I have to keep my eyes on the road.

I feel those full, soft lips close around the head of my cock. She’s licking, tasting, exploring. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. But that’s more erotic than any porn-star blowjob. I’m taking her mouth for the first time, feeling my cock bang around against her cheeks and tongue as she tries to figure it out . . .

I’m so hard that I groan from every touch.

I want to be gentle with her, but it’s so fucking hard to wait. I put my heavy palm on the back of her hair and push her head down, so my cock slides further into her throat.

Simone gags, her saliva running down my shaft. I hold her head there, thrusting my cock in and out of her mouth. I can feel the head pushing into the back of her throat, unable to get any further. The squeezing around my cock is tight and hot and wet.

I let her up so she can breathe. Simone gasps for air, tears running down from the corners of her eyes. Not because she’s upset, just from the gagging.

After she gets her breath, she tries again. She holds the base of my cock in her hand and tries to get as much of the head into her mouth as she can.

Her technique is shit, but her effort is A+. I’m torn between my desire to protect her, to be gentle with her, and the rabid lust that makes me want to fuck her face as hard as I can within the confines of the seatbelt and the steering wheel.

Simone is delicate and cultured. It brings out the animal in me. I want to rip her clothes off, throw her down, use her body. Her natural gentleness and sweetness make me want to dominate her all the more. She’s a good girl—I want to make her MY good girl. My obedient little kitten.

I’ve never felt desire like this: crazed, furious, and extreme. I feel like I’m barely holding onto my last shreds of self-control.

If I didn’t have to keep the car on the road, I probably wouldn’t be able to contain myself at all. That’s the only thing that keeps me patient enough to let her work, to let her slide her lips and tongue around my cock until I finally explode.

Hot cum boils up into her mouth. I can tell she wasn’t expecting it. Some drips out onto my jeans, and some she swallows.

She sits up, gasping and wiping her mouth.

I’m so dazed I can barely drive. The orgasm was wild, wrenching. It jerked the wheel. I really should have pulled over.

My heart is thudding like a sledgehammer.

“Was that okay?” Simone asks.

I pull her back over and kiss her roughly. Tasting myself on her lips.

“You’re perfect,” I say. “Fucking perfect.”