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

“What’s your position? Capo? Don? Just a soldier?”

“You’ve been researching the mafia,” I say, cutting a silencing glare at Francesca as she whistles beside me in my car, all giddy that I’m driving her to school instead of her personal chauffer who apparently doesn’t exist even though her family has enough money to drown themselves in. Apparently, her mother prefers to drive by herself since she doesn’t originally come from wealth.

“I know all organized crime families have some legal business interests as well,” she continues, her ballet flats sliding up and down the mat on the floor of the car. “What exactly are you into? Casinos? Money laundering?”

“Mostly I break people’s necks.” The tires squeal as I hit the break suddenly when the light turns red. “Fuck. Are you okay?”

Francesca points a fork speared with a slice of kiwi in front of my mouth. “I’m fine. Eat your breakfast.”

The correct response here is to scowl. But my pride takes second place to my hunger. I gobble up the fruit she’s offering quietly.

“Is it good?” she asks.

I nod, cringing inwardly when she offers me another piece of melon and I devour that, too.

I gave Antonio shit for acting like her father. Now look at me doing exactly what he did. It only took two fucking days of Francesca Astor silently coaxing me with those doll eyes. When she brought me breakfast that her personal chef had made this morning, I caved.

The thing is, I don’t like owing people favors. So I obviously asked her to hop in when she told me she needed to get to school.

“You sure all your screws up there are tight? Why’re you being so generous to a mobster?” My fingers are still on the wheel. “Unless you laced the food with poison.”

Francesca puckers her wet lips. “I believe in being kind to all people.”

“Christian charity?”

“I’m not religious. But I think charity is good for the soul.”

My acidic scoff betrays my sentiments too well.

“Not all people have souls, though,” Francesca adds, a naughty glint in her eye. “A pity.”

“If you’re trying to convert me into a religion, you can quit it now,” I say.

“I’m not trying to convert you to anything.”

I’m thinking it’s a relief when she stops talking, but a mile later, the silence in the car begins to feel oppressive. The best course of action here is to turn on the radio which eliminates any further possibility of conversation but I’m full of self-loathing these days. So I say, “Can’t you drive?”

“Not in the city. There are too many cars.”

“You can do it if you practice.”

“I’m busy with art. Once I’m a world-renowned painter and my art sells for millions—”

“You can’t be serious. You’ll be fifty years old by the time you become famous.”

Her tiny laugh is like a pearl rolling over my skin. “I’m hoping it’ll be sooner than that.”

“So until then, you’re going to charm mobsters into offering you free rides?” I shake my head emphatically, attention diverted from the road to her beautiful, vulnerable face for a moment. “That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”

“I think it’s a solid plan,” she retorts, playfulness bubbling up under her tone. Smiling, she glances out of the window.

I relax a fraction at the thought that she isn’t sad today. Her eyes sparkle with brightness and hope instead of being darkened by the usual shadows. Clenching and unclenching her fingers, she shifts restlessly in her seat. I know for a fact that she did drugs yesterday at the club she was at. That might explain the sudden lift in her mood.

Her sunshine frame of mind is definitely not due to a wellspring of creative inspiration suddenly popping out of nowhere. The nervousness that whispers around her like a ghost is still there, visceral enough to prick the hairs on my arms. When I slide my thumb up her wrist, her pulse is hammering away like an endless wave crashing against rocks.

She narrows her eyes even though I barely touched her for a second. “Can’t keep your hands off me, I see.”

She’s almost as good as me at covering her feelings with sarcasm. Almost.

“If you’re scared just say so.”

“I told you before. I’m not scared of you.” The worst part is, I think she actually means what she’s saying. I’m supposed to make her shake in fear at my presence. Instead, she’s feeding me fruit like I’m her sweet little pet dog. I swear, I have no idea how this happened.

I remove my thumb from her wrist.

“Hot and cold.” She clicks her tongue in mock disappointment. “Mr. Russo, I’m still young so don’t give me false hope with your mixed signals and break my heart. I’ll never forgive you.”

A strange emotion wrestles against my ribcage. If I didn’t know myself incapable of feeling it, I’d say it was guilt.

I don’t intend to involve myself with Francesca so why are my intestines twisting themselves into painful knots over a simple statement?

Don’t give me false hope with your mixed signals and break my heart. I’ll never forgive you.

My breath breaks into a silent sob when Francesca goes one step further and runs her thumb up my arm casually, leaving a trail of fire over my nerves.

“How you like that?” she adds in a low, quiet voice. “That’s how I felt, you know. Like a weird slimy thing was crawling over my skin.”

The air thumps with an invisible heartbeat as the suggestion in her tone coils around my neck like a collar. A low buzz of heat echoes in my groin. Damn it. It’s been too long since I got laid. But that doesn’t mean I’m tempted by this slip of a girl.

Not one bit.

Strangely, her touch doesn’t feel weird or slimy as she thinks. It feels warm and inviting.

“You need to watch that mouth of yours.” I curl my fingers tightly over the wheel and turn it hard, shaking off her touch. “It’ll get you in trouble someday.”

“Am I not in trouble already? I’m in a car with a Mafioso who stalks me all day.” Alluring. Condescending. Her breathy, smooth tone is far too sexy for a twenty-one-year-old.

It’s an invitation to my starved body. A softly whispered promise that will haunt my dreams the same way her perfect face has haunted them since the day I met her.

I put my foot on the pedal, accelerating. Where the fuck is the building with her studio? Why aren’t we there yet?

Francesca’s breath hitches like she’s about to say something else, but the ringing of her phone interrupts her. I silently thank whoever decided to call at this crucial moment.

She heaves an exasperated sigh at the screen. That alone tells me it’s someone she doesn’t like. So I’m surprised when she answers the phone.

“Stop calling me. What part of ‘we broke up’ don’t you understand?”

A string of frantic noises breaks free from the other end. Though I can’t make out the words, annoyance heats up Francesca’s features.

“I don’t care,” she screams. “Bye.”

Throwing her phone on her lap, she presses herself to the back of the seat. Her eyelids draw down, exhaustion creeping out of her mouth in a frustrated groan.

I turn on the radio. Piano notes from a somber ballad fill the space. How appropriate for the mood. But when Francesca’s chin dips and she releases a small, frustrated groan, I decide to turn the music off.

“What does your ex do?” I ask, wondering how the hell I ended up making small talk with an heiress. “He seems to have a lot of free time.”

“Nothing. His parents are rich.”

I snort. “Sounds like you two would get along great. Why’d you break up?”

“I hate how he always assumed I’d never become successful. He kept mentioning working at the various charities his family supports after graduation when he knew I’d have to be painting. It irritated me.”

“Don’t like people underestimating you?”

“Do you like it when people write off your dreams as impossible?”

“I don’t have any dreams. Only orders.”

“So much for sympathy.” She sighs.

“But I get it. You don’t have anything if you don’t have respect.”

She blinks at me. “Never expected to hear that from a criminal. Is there some traumatic childhood backstory you haven’t told me yet?”

I’m saved from answering that question by the GPS navigation’s end. Meaning we’re at our destination.

 “Get out.” I reach past her and open the door. “The ride’s over.”

“Thank you very much for not getting into an accident with your driving skills.” She hops out, her gaze lingering on me disturbingly long. “I’m sure that took a lot of self-control.”

She doesn’t rush off to the building, glad to get away from me as I hoped she would. Instead, the heiress waits around. I’d have thought she’d love to get me out of her hair after that heated…whatever that moment in the car was. It certainly has glued its memory into my nerves.

I twist up an eyebrow, rolling down the window glass. “You need something?”

“If you come with me, I can let the security know that you’re with me so they don’t ask questions,” she says.

I scoff. Look at her being all polite and considerate. To her stalker.

She doesn’t realize that the security guard will let me up anyway. He’s a smart man who understands how the world works. And I’m a pro at threatening.

“No thanks. I’ll be in my car.”

I’m thinking I must have imagined the way the shoulders sag in disappointment, but she confirms it with her next word. “Don’t you always observe me painting like a creep?”

“I’ve decided to be less creepy starting today.” I don’t understand why she’s still hanging around. “Unless you’re missing my creepiness?”

“As if.” She snorts.

Then swivels hard and vanishes, leaving me with a heavy ache in my stomach.