Savage Lover: A Dark Mafia Romance (Brutal Birthright Book 3)

“What are you doing!?” I shriek as Nero speeds away from the cops.

Two squad cars chase after us, sirens wailing furiously. The police are driving Chargers, basically the most aggressive cop car ever built. They’re new, fast, and built like a tank, with front racks to sweep us off the road if they get so much as a piece of us.

Nero is staring straight ahead. His face is oddly calm. No, strike that—I think he’s actually enjoying this. His perpetual scowl is wiped away, and the tiniest hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

“Hey, psychopath!” I yell at him. “I think they want you to pull over!”

“I’m not gonna do that,” Nero says, calmly.

Jesus Christ. Just when I think I can’t get in any more trouble, now I’m evading arrest.

We’re racing down Wacker Drive, nearing the end of the strip that’s relatively free of traffic or lights. Soon we’re going to get jammed up in cross streets.

“Hold on,” Nero says.

“What? Why—”

He pulls the e-brake, spinning us around in a tight circle. The tires shriek, and the smell of melted rubber fills the car. The whole world spins around like a merry-go-round.

Now we’re facing the two cop cars barreling down on us, and Nero has floored the gas again. We’re hurtling toward them like a game of chicken. I crouch down in my seat, not wanting to be seen and also feeling like Nero’s about to crash us headlong into the police.

Instead, he shoots the gap between the two cop cars with only an inch to spare on either side. His side mirror hits the mirror of the squad car, ripping it off.

Then we’re barreling down the road again, going in the opposite direction. I hear the screech of the squad cars trying to brake and turn around. The Chargers are fast, but they’re definitely not as maneuverable. And presumably, the officers driving them actually care about staying alive, so they’re not whipping around like a demon in a go-cart.

“Just stop!” I beg Nero. “You’re gonna get us killed!”

“Probably not,” he says, as if he doesn’t much care one way or another.

Nero pulls a hard left down Adams, throwing me against the passenger door.

“You should buckle up,” he says.

I try to pull my seatbelt across my body, not easy to do when Nero is taking each new corner like he’s trying to confuse himself, only wrenching the wheel to the side when we’re almost past it.

We’re weaving through Greek Town. I can hear the sirens still, but not actually see the squad cars. I can’t tell if they’re behind us or one block over.

Nero seems to know exactly where they are, because he keeps doubling back and shifting over.

I have to admit, his driving is masterful. I’ve never seen somebody handle a car like this, especially an old Mustang that wasn’t exactly built for it. He shifts through the gears like they’re liquid, the tendons standing out on his hand and forearm. His skin is smooth and deeply olive, no hair on his forearms, so I can see every ripple of tension running up the flesh.

His black hair falls into his face as we wrench around the corners. He tosses it back again with a flick of his head, like a restless horse. His jaw is as tight as his arm. It flexes as he grits his teeth.

As I watch Nero drive, instead of watching the road and all the other cars we’re almost hitting, my panic begins to leech away. I’m mesmerized by the sight of him. I’ve never seen somebody so focused.

I’ve also never looked at Nero for so long before.

I never could.

I could only steal glances, knowing that he’s so high-strung, so alert, that each time I was risking him turning that blazing stare on me, shrinking me down to nothing in the heat of his gaze. I didn’t want to draw his attention. I didn’t want him to cut me down for daring to look at him.

Now my eyes are fixed on him like I’m seeing him for the first time.

It’s too much.

He fills my brain.

Maybe it’s the adrenaline of the moment, but I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.

His jaw is a straight, sharp line beneath those ridiculously full lips. His mouth is perfectly shaped—pouting, cruel, mobile, sarcastic. And yet soft, and infinitely enticing. He looks the most Italian of any of his brothers, his skin almost as brown as mine. It’s smooth and clear. His broad nose is strong enough to balance those lips. And then you have his eyes . . .

God almighty, why did you give the man with the blackest soul the most heavenly eyes?

They’re long, narrow, and light gray in color. Lighter than his skin. The gray almost looks silver, shot through with darker bands that radiate out from the pupil like a starburst.

He turns those eyes on me, sparing a glance from the road. It feels like a spike driving into my chest. For just a second, I wish that I were beautiful, so he’d want to look at me the way I’m looking at him.

He fixes his eyes on the road again.

The sirens are just a little more distant now. Maybe two streets over.

Nero checks the rear-view mirror once more, then jerks the wheel to the right and turns into an underground parking garage. He takes us down to the second level, pulling into a tight spot between a van and a truck. He cuts the lights.

“We’ll wait here a minute,” he says.

It’s only in the sudden silence that I hear my blood rushing in my ears, and I realize how fast my heart has been beating all this time.

I sink back in my seat, gasping for air.

I cover my eyes with my hands, trying to block out the car, the garage, and Nero, so I can breathe.

The weight of all the trouble I’m in is pressing down on me like a block of stone. Victor, my dad, Schultz, Levi . . . I can see them all circling around me, all needing something. Now I don’t even have my car, and I’m stuck in here with Nero, about to be arrested any second.

My heart is seizing up in my chest. My breath comes faster and more ragged. I feel like I’m dying.

Nero grabs my hand and peels it away from my face. He presses hard on the flesh between my thumb and index finger.

The jolt of pressure cuts through my racing thoughts. It focuses all sensation on that one point in my hand.

Nero keeps squeezing, his strong fingers as relentless as a vise.

Right when the pressure is turning into pain, he starts kneading his thumb into my palm instead. He’s holding my hand between both of his, massaging the exhausted muscles of my fingers and palm.

I never realized how tired my hands get, working all day long. The massage is agony and ecstasy. It gives me relief so powerful I can barely stand it.

My breathing slows. I’m sitting up straighter, focused only on my hand.

Nero drops the left hand and picks up the right. He does the same thing, rubbing all the tension out of my flesh.

He seems to know exactly where to touch, as if he can read my aches with his fingertips.

I never imagined that Nero could have a gentle touch. I’ve seen him get in more fights than I can count. He’s like a walking weapon—violent, unpredictable, wreaking destruction on whatever he touches.

I’ve seen him with girls, too. Even then, he’s always been rough and aggressive.

This is different.

Maybe because he doesn’t see me as a girl.

He’s touching me the way he’d touch a car engine—with a desire to fix it. He diagnosed me, and he’s making me run smooth again.

I pull back my hand. “Thanks,” I say. “I’m good now.”

“Good.” Nero nods.

He faces forward once more, scrolling through his phone. He puts on some music, quietly, in case any cops are trolling through the parking garage looking for us.

“Here,” he says.

He passes me a bottle of malt liquor, about a third drunk already.

I almost laugh. “This is what you drink?”

“I drink whatever’s handy,” he says, unsmiling.

I take a swig of it. It tastes spicy and foamy, without the bitterness of beer. It burns on the way down, spreading warmth through my chest, helping to calm me down a little more. I take another drink.

“That’s actually . . . not bad,” I say.

Nero takes the bottle and drinks several heavy swallows. I see his throat moving with each gulp. He passes it back to me, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

I drink again, trying not to think that we’re sharing more than liquor, our lips touching the same glass rim.

We’re silent. The only noise is the slosh of liquor in the bottle, and the music Nero’s playing.

The steady rap beat is interspersed with a pretty chorus—melancholy and wistful. I remember how Nero switched my radio station. He must like this kind of stuff. It’s not what I usually listen to, but I’m liking it now, with the warmth of the malt liquor spreading through my body, and the darkness of the underground parking garage cocooning us.

Nero’s car smells good. I mean it really, really smells good. Like expensive leather, the spiced liquor, engine oil, and the masculine scent of Nero himself. I don’t usually sit close enough to him to notice it. There’s a warm, enticing scent rising from his skin: hawthorn and nutmeg, no hint of sweetness.

It’s intoxicating. Or something is. My head feels light, and I get a flush of honesty. Like I should just say what I’m thinking. I never do that, usually. I keep my thoughts locked down tight.

“Why did you do that?” I ask Nero.

“ ‘Cause fuck the cops,” he says.

“No. I mean, why did you take me with you?”

He takes another swig, giving himself time to think.

“I don’t know,” he says at last.

“Why’d you leave the money in my shop?”

“Because I used your tools.”

“You left too much.”

“Who cares?” he says angrily. “I don’t give a fuck about money.”

I don’t ask him what he does care about. The answer is obvious—nothing.

I’m trying to puzzle through this.

Nero isn’t kind. He doesn’t do things to be “nice.” Especially not to women. He’s got a trail of scorned hearts a mile wide behind him. There isn’t a pretty girl in this city who hasn’t been caught up in the flame of his charm, only to burn like a paper flower.

The only reason I can think of is that Nero doesn’t view me like one of those women. He’s not interested in me, or he’d take me and use me up just like the others.

No. I’m like a starving puppy in the street. He tossed me a scrap because it was easy, and it cost him nothing.

“I don’t need your pity,” I tell him. I’m glaring at him, anger burning out of me. I may not rage out loud like Nero, but I have bitterness inside of me, too. I could be dangerous. If I wanted to be.

Nero looks at me with those cool gray eyes. He’s picking me apart, taking in my every flaw and blemish. The frizzy curls escaping from my bun, the dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep, the grease embedded under my fingernails and in the lines of my knuckles. My chapped lips and my shit clothes.

“Why are you mad?” he says. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want to know why you’re not acting like you usually do.”

“Is that what you want?”

His voice is low, and his eyes are fixed on my face. His body tenses up like he’s going to hit me.

My lips part. I don’t know what I’m going to say.

I don’t get the chance to say anything.

Nero closes the space between us in an instant.

His lips crash against mine. They’re soft, but also hungry. He kisses me wildly, like this is the last moment of our lives. His tongue thrusts into my mouth and his taste is as intoxicating as the liquor, rich and warm and head-spinning. His hands are locked around my face, fingers like iron. The music is still playing:

“Sober” – G-Eazy (Spotify)

“Sober” – G-Eazy (Apple Music)

He’s sucking the breath right out of my lungs. He might be pulling my soul out, too, if he really is a demon that feeds on the lust of women.

I don’t care if he is. My heart is pounding, my whole body is aching with need.

I want him, I want him, I want him.

Then he lets go of me, just as abruptly.

He sits back in his seat. “There,” he says.

I’m shocked and reeling, lips still throbbing.

He’s still as a statue, feeling nothing at all. That was just a joke to him—giving me a taste of what he can turn on and off at will.

I can’t turn it off. My thighs are clenched tight together, my whole body screaming for more.

“We can go,” Nero says. “Cops probably gave up by now.”

He starts the engine, still not looking at me. Probably because there’s desperation all over my face, and it’s embarrassing to him.

“Are you sober enough to drive?” I say.

“Yes,” he says, putting the car in reverse. “I’d have to drink that whole bottle to feel anything at all.”

He’s right. Malt liquor isn’t that strong.

I wish I could blame this on being drunk. I wish I could blackout and forget it all in the morning.