Wicked Fame: A mafia stalker romance (Wicked Men Book 2)

She rejected me.

What did I expect? As if she was going to jump with joy at the grim lifestyle I was offering her—no dreams, no art, no joy, no fame, only fear and paranoia chasing her every day as she wonders which one of my enemies will put a bullet into her. It was unfair to dream that she’d ever want to be more than temporary lovers when she has so much promise and potential.

Yet my whole body aches at her rejection, burning up in a fever, alternating between rage and sympathy.

She wasn’t mean, cutting, or even direct about her rejection. But the way her shoulders sagged, the quiet but determined, “You’re right,” that she voiced after I’d listed all the obstacles standing in our way was enough to convey all her emotions.

Part of me prayed for her to say we’d find a way, that we’d fight the impossible odds because being together mattered more. Because what we had mattered more.

But she gave up, seeing there was no way out of this tunnel.

As I’m torturing myself over my heartbreak, my phone rings.

“Gabriele, it’s me, Angelo.” Don’s statement crackles through my phone’s speaker. “We have a date for your wedding.”

My heart that was already at rock-bottom plunged deeper into the abyss. I don’t want to think of Maria and the whole host of complicated factors in our situation right now.

But duty never rests, not for broken hearts.

“When?” I ask, shifting into a serious tone of voice. I’d segue with small talk but if I speak too much, the fissure in my chest is going to cleave open and spill all my anger.

How can this be happening? I was just starting to…hope for a different future. I admit it; my dreams were unrealistic. But I wanted to dream those dreams for a little bit longer. Because they made me feel like a better man. Whatever Francesca and I have feels right, even when it feels impossible.

“In three weeks,” my boss replies, dissolving the last of my hopes for a different outcome. “The fourteenth.”

“That’s soon. There’s no time to prepare–” To prepare for a goodbye. To prepare for the heartbreak that will follow.

Angelo cuts me off before I can make a fool of myself. “No need to fret. Maria’s handling all the planning. It’ll be a simple, intimate ceremony at her father’s house. You just turn up, okay?”

“Okay.” Agreeing to any demand made by that deep, aged voice is instinct to me.

“And Gabriele?” That one-second pause feels like an age. “Stop seeing that girl now.”

“Which girl?”

“Francesca Astor. Maria’s ex-husband betrayed her. I won’t see her disappointed again.”

The verbal punch comes out of nowhere, connecting straight to my heart, and igniting a visceral, inescapable pain in my body.

“Um…”

I can’t stop meeting Francesca. Admitting it, even to myself, is scary. It tilts my perfect, controlled world off its axis, and sends it spinning toward chaos.

But our connection has evolved into something beyond a casual physical attraction, beyond need, beyond addiction, beyond friendship. Hard as I try, I can’t make my life before her look appealing. Back then I merely existed. Now I live. Now there are colors in my world that she taught me the names of.

My lip must be bleeding from how much I’ve pulled at it with my teeth. I still have no answer for Angelo.

“You and Maria must have a successful marriage,” Angelo drones on.

I’m not stupid. Angelo isn’t suggesting I stop seeing Francesca; he’s ordering it. I have never disobeyed a single order before.

My throat thickens with guilt. Facts and memories tick by in front of me like a newsreel.

Our first electric time at the charity gala, her pained eyes coming to life when I touched her, the power coursing through my body when I managed to dissolve the sadness that hung around her like perfume.

The images grow brighter, and sharper, twisting into me like a knife. The idyllic landscapes of Como, Portofino, and Milan. The quiet cozy nights of staying in and talking. All the times she broke for me and allowed me to break her.

The nascent dreams of someday owning my own restaurant.

Everything collapses like a Jenga tower, taking a whole part of my life with it.

A storm brews in my chest, threatening to rip all the muscles and flesh around it. The struggle feels futile. I can’t betray Angelo. Not when his voice is so cheerful. He barely survived that attack. Which was my fault. This is the only way I can make it up to him.

A second passes. My protests pass with it.

“Of course.” The agreement is a wraith drifting from my lips. I’m not sure what question I’m answering or why. “Sure. Bye.”

My fingers feel icy as the phone drops out of my fingers. All of me is numb. Shocked. Empty. Conflicted.

Francesca barges into my apartment exactly at 6 pm. She’s very punctual for someone who drifts in and out of reality most of the time.

My nerves are burning at the sight of her looking so happy when her rejection is stinging holes into my heart. She is on something; she’s bouncing around like a ball. Far too much at ease even though it’s only a few weeks until Francesca’s thesis exhibition. The girl I used to know would be having an emotional meltdown.

She has been doing really well recently with her art even though she keeps using drugs as a crutch. Still, at least it’s not as frequent as it used to be. She finished her university project early and started on her second commission painting last week—which meant another opportunity for us to seclude ourselves in her studio for a weekend of mindless indulgence.

She’s using me as a model for her second piece. Says I’m her muse.

I don’t want to be her muse. I want to be her husband. Instead, I’m about to walk down the aisle with another woman.

In three fucking weeks.

A framed painting is nestled under her arm.

I’m not even curious. All my thoughts are wrapped up in what I’m going to tell her.

Tonight has got to be the last time we see each other. If this goes on, I’m the one who will be left broken. I can’t let Angelo down, not after he saved me and gave me a new life. I have to break off this sick, addictive, one-sided relationship we have.

My chest twists into a tight knot, but I tell myself I’ll be fine. I tell myself this is the right thing to do. We were a long shot anyway. It was meant to fizzle out eventually.

It’s time I admitted defeat. From the beginning, this was doomed.

I wished to help her, I wanted to show her the truth of her pain, I tried to take that pain away.

But she didn’t ask for the truth, she asked for an escape.

She doesn’t need my love, she needs the validation of critics.

She doesn’t want me; she wants to lose herself in an addiction that will consume her life.

Every single time, I’ve given her what she desires.

Tonight, I’ll give her the farewell I want.

Pink lips collapse into a frown as my silence stretches for minutes. “You’re so quiet today. Something wrong?”

“What’s that you have?” I tap the framed painting she’s carrying.

“For you. It’s my gift. Thank you for helping me get out of my own way. It’s the repayment I owe you. I’m surprised you didn’t demand it sooner.”

Air squeezes my lungs. I forgot about the photo I gave her. The photo of my brother whom I murdered with my own hands. I admit; I was simply curious to see what she would do. At that time, I couldn’t stand the horrible truth I had been hiding. I needed to get that burden off my chest. Part of me was hoping she’d turn away from me after hearing about that part of me. But she came closer instead.

I lay her painting over my coffee table where the light from the ceiling light bounces off it.

Now that I’m actually studying the picture, it’s mind-blowing. Where the photo was dark, dull, and filled with darkness, this painting is bright, alive, colorful, and filled with hope.

She used brighter colors. Added pink to his skin. Made his face luminescent. Drew sunflowers around him. Light hits his dark brown hair. His face reminds me of my friend, not of the hollow, desperate man I had to kill.

Francesca took my most guilt-ridden memory and turned it into a beautiful artwork. As usual, her talent astounds me.

I must hang the picture on one of the walls. There are too many bare walls in this apartment.

“Don’t look at it too much, okay?” she says.

“A painting exists to be looked at.”

“I’m afraid you’ll see the flaws if you study it too closely.”

“It’s mine now so I can do whatever I want with it.”

“Gabriele, honestly, do you hate it?”

“It’s pretty.” I make a half-assed attempt at flattery. The truth is that the beauty of her art is so profound my mind is still mining for the correct praises. “I’ll consider your debt paid now.”

An unknown sensation bursts in my heart.

“I prayed you’d love it.” There’s an ominous pause as she dips her head downward. “I wanted to give you something that would remind you of me whenever you look at it. Even if I’m not here.”

The mere suggestion that she’d be gone from my life one day incites a flurry of anger and hopelessness. I tell myself to simply accept my fate but my emotions have a mind of their own.

The lump in my throat expands to the size of a football. Excruciating pain lances through my windpipe. Breathing is labor at this moment because every breath I take reminds me of how much longer I’ll have to live in a world without her.

I lift my hand to caress her, but backtrack immediately, pulling it away. Tender caresses and false hopes have no place in a breakup.

“You want me to remember you?” A heavy exhale pushes the question from my throat.

“Always.”

“As the artist who drew this portrait? As a brilliantly talented painter?”

“No.” Her soft, tiny fingers knead her chin. A shaky, high-pitched note shoots out of her mouth but she swallows the truth she meant to voice, replacing it with, “As a girl who was special to you.”

Unsaid words and unspoiled emotions circle around our still bodies like a vortex.

“Will you remember me, Francesca?” The rasp at the end sharpens my question.

“There’s no way I can forget you.”

“As your muse?” My voice grows harsher. “As your addiction? As the best fuck buddy you ever had?”

A blush bruises her pale skin. “I…”

One second turns into two and then three. The words I expect to hear from her never reach my ears.

As the man I loved. 

As the man who changed my life. 

As the one, I want to be with forever. 

I wanted to give her a second chance to overturn that rejection, to change the course of our futures. Once again, she picks the same path.

I let out a savage grunt, combing my fingers through my hair. All my organs vibrate with disappointment. If she had said the words, even if they were lies, I’d have given up everything for her—my job, my home, my status, the promise of a stable marriage. That’s how much she means to me.

I should be glad she isn’t trying to actively ruin my future. I should be glad she’s shallow, that she will never give up on art or her material security for me.

It ends better for both of us if that’s true.

Francesca suddenly comes barreling toward me, wrapping her arms around my back, the force of her action pushing us both onto the sofa. “I’ll remember you as my dear friend, Gabriele.”

It’s not good enough for me. Not at all good enough.

“I’ll remember you as the light that destroyed my darkness,” she continues. “And the most talented guy I’ve ever slept with.”

I crack a bitter laugh. Then pull her down to my lap. If she’s so determined to see me as a great lay who revved up her inspiration and freed her from her dark days of unproductivity, that’s what I’ll be

The most talented guy she ever slept with? She can be certain of that after tonight.

Her ass fits snugly between my legs. It feels far too cozy with her like this. Too domestic. It scares me. Domesticity was something I’d reserved solely for my future wife. The wholesome, sensible, well-connected woman I’m supposed to tie the knot with. But this hotel heiress has been living rent-free in my head for too long.

I clear my throat. “Too bad I won’t remember you as the most talented girl I’ve slept with.”

“Oh please.” She clicks her tongue. “You know how many guys I’ve given BJs to in college? Every single one came back for more.”

Guys? Plural. I could tell she was no nun, but the scale of this is unexpected. Also, I suddenly have the urge to maim every one of those bastards who touched her before me. Obviously, they were useless, which is why she turned to alcohol and drugs.

“Really?” I drum my fingers on her bare thighs, loving the way she curls into my chest. “Give me their names. And addresses.”

“You’re planning to strangle them in their sleep, aren’t you?”

“I make no promises.”

“Do you hate that other men have had sex with me?” Her tiny fingers burrow into the hollow above my collarbone. “Because I don’t like double standards.”

She’s right. I have no business being possessive. I’ll be marrying someone else in three weeks. She’s undoubtedly going to end up with someone else too.

But dammit, even the idea gives me rashes.

I shrug. “It’s in the past. But if any of them touches you now…they’d better pick out their coffin first.”

Francesca cackles. I don’t join in. There’s nothing funny about it from where I’m standing. “That was a joke, right?”

I choose to not answer. Silence is undoubtedly the best path here.

“You have a wacky sense of humor sometimes.” Sunshine-blonde hair spills over my chest as she leans in closer to taunt me with her maddeningly gorgeous aquamarine eyes. The heavy-lidded, sensual way she rakes her gaze up my face settles in my stomach like a slow-acting poison.

It’s only a matter of minutes until she has me right where she wants me—on top of her.

She’s art, her beauty made up of more than her actual physical form. I may not be a man of culture but even I can appreciate refinement when it’s licking its tongue across my lower lip.

When her rosy lips fit over mine as naturally as a lock fitting into a key, I brush away the flint of protest that burns my heart. Resignation washes over me. I’m worse than an addict when it comes to Francesca Astor. One whiff of her and I’m ready to sell my soul for another hit.

My future used to be so clear. The sane, sensible wife. The modest home. A promising career path in the mafia.

Yet with the swipe of her tongue over mine, Francesca pulls me hopelessly into a tornado of chaotic passion, warping me into a world woven from beautiful illusions. I stay, despite knowing that this ends in ashes, blood, and destruction. The higher we fly, the harder we’ll crash.

Get a grip, Gabriele. 

My inner voice blurs between the waves of heat and pleasure rising and falling in waves. The need to feel pain, to cause pain, magnifies into a compulsion. I bite her lips hard, drawing blood, before licking it away with a caress of my wet tongue. She’s too lost in the mindless dance of our tongues to notice or complain. We suck each other’s lips until it’s the only taste left in our mouths. Even oxygen becomes a luxury when pitted against the unending daydream of this soul-sustaining connection.

“You’re energetic today,” I remark as we part.

The cut I made on her lip is a purple line, a brutal mark I never meant to leave. But part of me is proud of giving her something to remember me by, too. Even if it’ll fade in a few days.

She bounces on my lap. “I feel great.”

“Did you snort before coming here?”

“I painted, Gabriele.” Her brittle laughter is full of confidence. Her skin radiates happiness.

I almost believe her.

But I know her too well.

She’s fidgety. Excited. Her whole body crackles with electricity, shimmering with an invisible euphoria. She’s acting too secure, too carefree, and out of character. Certainty hardens in my chest.

Francesca slides her palm up my chest. Her nail catches on my button and then she pops it from its hole. She is grinding her ass against my already-hardening length and it’s not helping anything.

I grab her wrist.

Whatever we’re doing can’t go on. I have to make it stop. Before it messes up my resolve to break up with her tonight.

“What are you planning on doing next once you’ve finished your degree?” I say, hoping we can focus on something other than the throbbing desire that has acquired a life of its own after that kiss. It smokes the air and floods my bloodstream with arousal.

“Right now, I’m planning on seducing you.” Her fingers press against the bulge at the front of my pants. “All I think about these days is having you inside me.”

My cock is rock-solid and her stroking is only making the torture more excruciating. Francesca flashes me a naughty smile.

She knows my weakness. She is my weakness.

My windpipe closes as desire settles in my throat like a ten-pound rock. My voice sounds like the mewl of a dying cat. “I meant what’re you going to do with your art, Francesca.”

“Let’s not talk about that.” She shakes her head. “I’m getting sick of it.”

The knot behind my ribs pulls tighter. “What do you want from me, baby?”

“I already told you what I want.”

Heat fills my bones. My erection threatens to make a hole in my pants if I don’t indulge in it soon. “I love hearing such filthy words from that pretty mouth.”

“We both love it.”

I begin to reconsider if I should even be fucking her, given that my orders are to end things with her as soon as possible. But my hands have already settled on her breasts. I’m palming them through her floral blouse.

I lay my head in the valley between her boobs. “They should ban you. You’re more addictive than a Class-A drug, Francesca Astor.”

“So are you, Gabriele Russo.” She places a kiss on the top of my head. “I want everything you can give me. Especially the pain.”

This sofa is starting to seem too small. I haul her body against my chest, every cell going soft at how intimate this feels.

Kicking down the door, I carry her to my bedroom and throw her on my bed. My teeth find the soft flesh of her neck and sink in, eager to taste that softness.

Her soft moan travels down my spine, making me hard instantly.

I grab her skirt to pull it down, revealing the killer curves underneath. Her body is flesh carved to perfection. A treat for the eyes and a feast for my hands.

Flipping her over, I trace her perfect ass cheeks that are exposed by her thong, molding them to fit my palms. When my finger dips lower into her crease, she arches her back with a ragged gasp.

The exquisite sound does me in.

I pray to every deity in heaven and all the ones in hell, too. Let this be the last time I touch this girl.

Angels and devils alike desert me at once when Francesca pulls her blouse over her head. The creamy swells of her breasts are right in front of me, hard nipples barely hidden by the lacy pink bra. Lust blinds my conscience once more. I wait for some divine sign, some godly act of self-control. Nothing happens. Guess being a killer means my prayers were never going to be answered anyway.

I nip her wet sex with my fingers, rubbing her clit slowly. Her moans become heavier. She surrenders to my touch. Just the sight of her pink, moist flesh is enough to torture my dick into spilling precum.

Ache pulses inside me. It won’t last long. I need to be inside her now.

Moisture leaks out of her opening. She’s a wet dream under my fingertips. So responsive. So beautiful. So easy to please and easier to get lost in.

“Want me to be gentle tonight?” I ask. “I can go slow.”

“Don’t care.” She spits out an audible exhale. “All I want is you.”

Frustration beads on my back. She doesn’t give a shit whether I’m soft or rough with her, only that it’s me. It’s what I love about her.

“You never disappoint.”

I free my erection, unable to hold out any longer. All my control has been eaten up by her eagerness.

Her breath exits in a shaky exhale as I enter her in an unforgiving thrust that will hurt. But Francesca doesn’t make a sound. I push aside the strands of hair stuck to her cheeks, noticing she’s flushed.

In a split second, the truth I’ve been avoiding freezes over my heart. Disturbing images of vacant eyes, fingers clawing for packets of powder, irritable arguments, paranoia, and emotion slowly being washed from her features flits through my head. She’s spiraling. She didn’t quit. I can’t leave her alone.

I can’t abandon her now.

Her pliant muscles stretch to accommodate my length until I have every inch buried inside her. She’s tight and wet and the million and one things a man hopes for. She rocks her hips up. Pleasure zaps through my body.

“Gabriele.” The air from her mouth feels like electricity crackling against my jaw. “You didn’t use protection.”

“I know you have an IUD, Francesca. You got it at the university health center along with a clean sheet for STDs. Antonio’s research on you is pretty extensive.” I press my knuckles into her wet sex. “And I’m clean, too.”

I’ll buy her the morning-after pill tomorrow, just in case. The last thing I need is complications before my marriage to Maria.

“If I wasn’t so turned on by you, I’d be scared of you.”

“I thought you were addicted to me.”

Colors paint her cheeks as she drops her gaze. “That I am.”

“Addictions are easy to replace with other addictions,” I say.

She’ll find a substitute for me. Maybe it’ll be meth. Maybe it’ll be a more dangerous man.

“Don’t be mad.” I plant a kiss on her knuckles. “But this is the last time.”

“What?”

“I’m getting married in three weeks.” It sounds so plausible when I say it. As if I can actually make it happen. Like I can have a life where I won’t turn my head every time golden blonde hair swishes past my vision. “We can’t do this again.”

The faraway look on her features transposes to irritability. She bites her lip. “Gabriele, your dick is inside me.”

“I don’t want to lie to you or hide things from you just to get off. That’s beneath my dignity.”

She sighs. But no anger. No sadness.

“Will you invite me to your wedding at least?” she says.

I smirk. “Not a chance.”

“I thought we were friends.”

We’re more than that. 

“I still keep an eye on you. Did you forget?”

“Are you going to stalk me even after you’re married?” The seductive tone of her voice makes it less a question and more an expectation. “I don’t have a problem with it.”

“Being a drug addict not enough for you?” I press my knuckles between the valley of her breasts. “You want to be a homewrecker, too?”

Francesca falls silent. Maybe it’s the single thread of sense and humanity that hasn’t been devoured by her addictions. Her elbows fall flat at her sides. She presses her lips into a hard line, not opening her mouth even when I pound her so hard tears slither down her cheeks.

I thrust in and out of her. She’s heaven wrapped around my cock.

But there’s no chance I’m coming tonight. It’ll be easier to forget her if the sex is mediocre. Bitterness sticks more when it has bad memories attached to it.

So I can’t allow myself to climax under any circumstance.

I’ll let her have her release, though. I want to give her paradise, a brilliant and dazzling finale to this sordid affair with me. Because there’s nothing else I can give her—not the validations she needs, or connections, or inspiration, or whatever’s required to sate her demons forever.

My body was what I offered when I first said I’d help her at the gala.

And my body is exactly what I will offer to her now.

Francesca’s breaths tear. Her skin tightens over her features. She’s close. A flush envelops her cheeks.

Please don’t forget me. Please don’t forget tonight.

It’s a vain hope. Her world is full of glittering things and I am nothing but a spot of darkness.

I grind my thumb on her clit, rubbing to hasten her along.

Fresh tears drip from the corners of her closed eyes. Either the sex is intense, or the news of this being our last time has crushed her. Yet she holds everything inside her.

Until the end, when it all unravels and bleeds from her body.

A pained shriek explodes from her mouth. Her sex spasms around my erect length.

“Gabriele.” She pleads my name when she orgasms.

Though I swore, though I promised myself I wouldn’t give her this, I can’t help myself. She takes away my last triumph from me, and milks every last bit of pleasure from my cock. Until I have nothing left to give.

There’s nothing except the deep wound of ending left when all light has faded from my vision. It swirls around our naked bodies like toxic smoke.

Silence ticks by, endless like a funeral.

Francesca wordlessly reached for her clothes. Begins drawing them over her body. Her face is turned the other way so her expression isn’t visible.

Not that I’d want to see it. I don’t need the stain of guilt on my conscience.

Rotating on her feet, she sashays over and hugs me. The unexpected warm gesture shakes me to my core. I push her away.

“Don’t come here again. If you see me outside, don’t attempt to talk to me or get close,” I bellow. “Understood?”

“I’m not going to destroy your marriage, Gabriele,” she whispers. The enthusiasm from before has vanished completely. She’s like another person altogether. The shell of her previous self. She wipes her tears away. “I wish you happiness.”

“It’s useless for me to say this.” Shut up, Gabriele. “But I hope you get the success and fame you’ve always chased and you don’t lose yourself in the process.”

A small smile puckers at her swollen lips. My teeth marks have bruised the lush, pink skin. Did I go that hard? I wanted our parting to be sweet and innocent, a beautiful memory just for her. But I’m too much of a mobster to not break something fragile and precious without meaning to.

This can’t get any worse, I think to myself.

As usual, I’m wrong.

Because the moment Francesca leaves my apartment, a gunshot pierces the air.