Made for Him: A Mafia Baby Romance (11 page)

“She’s not hungry,” my wife announces. “She had a diaper blowout and it’s your turn.”

With a resigned sigh, but a secretly content heart, I accept the crying Elisa and kiss Jessica on the cheek. “How many babies did you say?”

“No more than three.”

“How about four?”

Jessica tosses a binky at me, which I easily catch. Despite the fussy baby, despite her rumpled hair and the nightstand cluttered with with burp rags and diaper cream, she’s never looked more queenly or beautiful. The moonlight turns the dark gold hair almost silver and highlights the high cheekbones and full lips. Maybe there was pain and bloodshed to bring us to this moment, but I can’t regret a single thing.

“Four babies with Matteo Moretti, infamous Mafia crime lord?” She cocks her head, considering. Then she gives me a wide, cock-hardening smile, and I know that out of all the biker gangs and rival mob bosses, I’ve finally met my match.

“Four.”

Her grin gets wider and my heart melts with pure happiness. “You’re on.”

T
HE END
.

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his book was previously published
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G
eorgios is a fish-faced bastard
.

He holds a package out to me with authority that terrifies and intimidates me. His icy expression has never changed in the time I’ve known him, never smiling or frowning. Always the same. He smells faintly of garlic, sour and pungent, and I now associate that scent with trembling quietly and trying not to show how the ice in his eyes has chilled my blood.

“Do you understand what I just said?” His fat lips pucker. Silently, I repeat the time and directions he gave me. I understand. Because my life depends on it.

“Yes.”

Seemingly satisfied, he thrusts the small, rectangular package into my shaking hands. He never said what’s inside and I don’t ask. I only care about one thing. After tonight, he promised me my freedom. But he’s known for changing his mind at the very last second. I’m not sure what he’s ultimately decided for me.

I open my mouth to ask, but the words stick in my dry throat. He doesn’t like to be questioned, and I’ve seen what happens to those who ask too much. He stands a good six inches taller than me, and the bulge of his weapon beneath his leather jacket is clear. If his gun doesn’t get me, his fists will. Still, I
have
to know.

“S—so, once I deliver this, the debt is paid, right?”

Georgios looks me over with watery blue eyes. My stomach rolls at the objectification in his gaze. His stare catalogues me piece by piece. The threat of his affection is there with each breath, and I’ve heard whispers of what he likes to do to girls.

“Yes, as long as you successfully deliver the package. Erica …” a vein in his forehead twitches as he draws out my name, and a suggestive gleam glosses his gaze. “It’s possible the client may want more than just the package.”

He tips his chin up like he’s daring me to protest. Of course I won’t. I can’t, even though the sick feeling inside pushes up and threatens to close my throat. A tiny bubble of relief that also floats up saves me from total panic because once this night is over, my debt will be cleared. Until then, I have no choice but to do whatever is asked of me.

“Since you look so nice, maybe he’ll overlook those little tits.” He laughs, but it’s just a noise and not mirrored in his expression. I feel demeaned and humiliated, my average chest size never having bothered me before. I try to hide my feelings, but the flash of triumph on his face tells me he noticed. Then again, he notices everything.

“Now go.” He takes out his cell phone and turns away from me. I’m dismissed and I hurry out of there like he might shoot me down any second. It’s happened before, to others, and so with every step I pray I get to take another,
pleasepleaseplease
screaming in my mind, until I’m finally outside.

Slipping the package into my leather bag, I call a cab. Night paints the city, twinkling stars brightening this otherwise drab and violent section of Detroit. I slink into the shadows to wait, trying hard not to overthink how this delivery may end. Anything could be in this package, and that uncertainty alone poses a huge risk for me.

But it’s the possibility the package won’t be enough that keeps the hairs on the back of my neck on end. Tears sting my eyes but I’ll never let them fall. I could end up another number in a growing statistic of rape victims in this city—or worse, like my sister, Nathalie.

Or, I could be free from my debt and finally able to breathe. It’s a risk worth taking.

I’m lucky even to get a cab to come to this section of the city, but one arrives faster than expected. The cabbie doesn’t come to a complete stop, but slowly rolls along while eyeing me. He’s appraising me to see if I’m safe to let in. I stumble along, jerking the door handle until he finally unlocks it. The door swings open and I jump in while the wheels are still moving.

He takes off so fast I’m thrown against the seat, my head hitting the sidewall.

“Ouch!” I cry, grabbing the back of my head.

“I ain’t getting shot for a fare. Where you goin’, anyway?”

I give him the street address and hang on for dear life.

“You sure that’s where you want to go?” He’s looking at me in the rearview mirror, one eyebrow raised. I’m not familiar with the address, and his question only makes my anxiety worse.

“I have to.”

He shakes his head and eyes me through the rearview. “You one of them high-class hookers?”

Sinking deep into my seat, I ignore him and watch the buildings glide by out my window. Putting myself in a mental bubble is the only way to get through this. The minutes stretch out until the view fades from drab to brilliant, until the buildings become shinier, the streets landscaped and pretty.

Anticipation squeezes my middle as he pulls up to the Rock City Casino, one of the most glamorous in the entire city. A hotel of the same name is connected. It’s glittery and glamorous, and a place I’ve heard about but never dared step foot in. If this is the place the package is going, it may mean more trouble than I’d bargained for. And I’d bargained for a lot of fucking trouble.

I pay the cabbie, my hands trembling, and get out before I can overthink this. Inside, I don’t pause to look around but I catch glimmers of luxury from the corner of my eye. Afraid I might be stopped, I head straight to the elevators as if I belong here and check the room number.

An attendant greets me as the elevator doors open. Unsure what to say, I blurt out the room number with as much authority as I can. He doesn’t question me, though I feel transparent and anxious.

I’m dressed nicely.
Not
like a hooker, despite what the cabbie said, and my chest is modestly covered by the cut of my dress. I pride myself on not being like that. Like them. Like
her
.

A minute later, the elevator stops.

“The Presidential Suite, Ma’am.”

Oh, of bloody course. Someone wealthy enough to reserve this suite is rich enough to do whatever he wants with me. Money gets away with everything in this town.

Swallowing my nerves, I focus on my dress again. I don’t look like a hooker. Not that it really matters, not if

I barely realize I’ve crossed the hall and knocked on the door when it opens and I come face-to-face with a thatch of swirling dark chest hair. Stunned, I can’t look away from the perfect chest outlined by a form-fitting dress shirt with most of the buttons undone. He’s close enough that his warmth radiates the scent of man and musk toward me.

“Come inside.”

The silky tenor draws my gaze upward, to a face as perfect as the body but not nearly as warm. If George Clooney and Henry Cavill had a love child, this guy would be him. Sharp blue eyes raze into me, the set of his dark angel features stony. A thrill races through me and heads south, as if devils and cherubs are at war inside my panties. I want to squirm. I want to run. I want to throw myself into his arms and it shocks me.

I never react to men like this—especially to those who might kill me. Damn.

Suddenly, he grips my upper arm and pulls me inside. A gasp dies on my lips as I stumble to a halt inside the foyer. He slides the deadbolt home. I’m so scared. I’m so fucked.

“Do you have it?”

My eyes stray to the expanse of bare chest but I pull them away. His shirt is completely untucked and he’s not wearing a tie … or shoes. It’s hard for me to read him because he doesn’t give off a complete thug vibe, but he’s not dressed like a strict professional either.

“Of—of course.” Slipping the satchel off my shoulder, I grab the package and hand it over to him. He doesn’t hesitate to rip off the brown paper and toss it to the floor. I watch his strong, square hands as he lifts the top of the box. His fingers are long, sculpted—the kind that can bring pain or pleasure. Or maybe both, if you’re lucky.

I know I should look away, but curiosity is a trait I have a hard time controlling. So I peek, just a little. It looks like a ring inside the box. He shifts a little and I see the ring clearly, the top set with inlaid rubies, though the wide band is a man’s style. He gives me a small glance as he takes photos from the box. My cheeks heat and a wave of dread starts in my stomach and rolls down my legs. I’m no longer sure they can support me.

Because when he glanced up, he saw me looking.

I’m as good as dead.

I can barely draw a breath as I silently curse my stupidity. The papery sound of him flipping through the photos fills the air. Determined not to show my fear, I stand straighter and wait. My eyes are cast down, but flick up again of their own accord. The backs of the photos say FOTO GOTO. I shouldn’t have looked, why did I look?

He shoves the photos back into the box and closes the lid. A small smile pulls at his firm, sculpted lips, but it disappears fast.

When he looks at me, he’s all icy coldness again. He’s gorgeous … so, so gorgeous. Women probably throw themselves at his feet to get a hard fuck before he strangles them to death.

I admit, the thought is tempting. If my world ends tonight, here, let me have one last moment of pleasure.

Taking a small step back, I clear my throat and pray for all the professionalism I can muster.

“Will that be all, sir?”

He regards me for a moment and I swear I can feel the touch of his gaze like hands on my skin. Goosebumps alight on my arms as he takes a step toward me.

“Almost. There’s one more thing I want.”

Here it comes.

Those hands—he’s either going to hold me down and rape me, or strangle me, or both.

His fingers dig into my arms, pain blossoming as he pulls me to him. My mind goes blank as he presses into me. Suddenly, he backs me into the door and his lips crash onto mine. His mouth parts and his tongue slides against mine, wrenching shivers out of me and momentarily killing my urge to fight for my life.

He feasts on my mouth, hard, the silken heat of his lips mating with mine until I’m boneless, breathless. Then, just as quickly, he pulls back and smiles at me—really smiles. The coldness of his face cracks, illuminating his beauty and stealing my breath.

I’m stunned by his expression, my nerves heating up as the shocking attraction I felt for him earlier flames to life. He’s hot … exquisitely hot. A thought flashes through my mind and I cut it off, but it comes right back.

Maybe being on my knees for a man like this wouldn’t be so bad.
I am immediately disgusted by the thought, and I hate myself for thinking it.

Shifting my weight, I look to where his hand still cups my arm and despite my still-shaking legs—perhaps even because of them—I hope that he won’t let go. I hope that he’ll grip me harder, that his hands will slide into my hair and pull as he orders me to—

“You may go.”

At first, I don’t process what he’s said. I’m reeling from how easily my lust is betraying my sense of self-preservation.
What the hell is wrong with me, thinking these thoughts? Do I actually want to die, or am I just trying to distract myself?
The adrenaline pulsing through my blood makes it too hard to think deeply.

God. I’m shaking.

“Did you hear me?”

He releases me and our eyes catch as he reaches over my shoulder and releases the deadbolt. Slowly, with catlike grace, he moves away, leaving me just enough space to get free.

I do. I yank open the door and barrel through it, racing to the elevator as tears at last begin to stream down my face. The doors open immediately, and to my relief, there’s no attendant this time. I sink down against the wall and cover my face with my hands as emotions pour of out me. His taste is full on my lips as I realize,
really
realize that it’s done.

It’s over.

And I’m finally free.

I
almost gave
these old guys heart attacks.

Standing up from my seat at the conference table, I revel in the pride pumping through me.
Take that, finance meeting.
I rocked it; had the geriatric stakeholders eating out of my hand. It’s only my first week as an account executive at the Detroit Rock City Casino and I’ve already corrected an error that saved them two million. Pocket change for a casino like this, sure, but priceless to my resume.

No wonder they love me.

I stand next to my boss, Donetta, as the room clears. She slips an arm around my shoulders and gives me a little squeeze.

“That was amazing.
You
are amazing!”

Her praise means a lot to me. Taking a chance on someone like me was risky for her. I worked in a small accounting office before applying here. Not much to credential me for a job like this, but Donetta saw something in me that she liked. I like to think it was the gritty, all-American backstory of me putting myself through college by bartending and cleaning other people’s toilets.

But I think she was mostly impressed with my grades and the glowing reference my old boss dished up.

Energized, I’m ready to go back to my tiny office and keep combing through five years of financial documents, looking for more errors. The guy who had this job before me focused more on the whiskey hiding in his desk drawer than on dollar signs. To say he left a mess behind would be a massive understatement. But I’m on it.

I know full well people don’t expect it from a girl who looks like me, but I’ve got a brain and a penchant for sorting big numbers. Right now, I’m hungry to get back to work. I promised the stakeholders a report by the end of the week, which leaves me three days to get it done.

It hits me, not for the first time, just how far I’ve come. My chest gets a little tight as the thoughts roll through my head. A handful of years ago, I was doing what I had to in order to survive. That included things I really didn’t want to do. But I stuck it out, and graduated at the top of my class. I didn’t want to just survive, I wanted to thrive.

I managed to save a little, and spend a lot on things that mattered. Like a car, and a nice apartment, and the color-blocked Anne Klein shift dress I’m wearing with Italian leather pumps. For the first time in my twenty-seven years, I feel completely in control of my life.

Nailing this job just made it all come together.

“You’re looking pretty pleased with yourself.” Donetta nudges me as she pours a glass of water from the carafe on the table and takes a sip.

“I suppose.” I smile. I
am
pleased.

My life could have easily gone another way. I experienced my share of bad neighborhoods and shady men. I made deals with killers, resulting in deliveries that could have gotten me hurt or killed. I recall the last delivery that I made … the package, and the man. My lips begin to tingle at the phantom feel of his mouth claiming mine. Absently, I touch my lips, shocked and a little embarrassed that I can revive a reaction to him after all these years.

This isn’t the first time my thoughts have strayed to that kiss. It’s part of working here. What a strange twist of irony that I’m working in the very place where I was finally freed from my old life.

From Georgios.

Nausea burns the back of my throat, my good mood completely gone. Why did I have to think of him now? The crushing relief I experienced that night after he let me go has stayed with me. It’s there every day, quietly reminding me how far I’ve come. I try to recall that sense of lightness, to buoy myself back to my earlier cheer.

“Well, I’m going to get back to it.” I say. If Donetta notices my mood change, she doesn’t let on.

“Oh no, you’re not.” She slides over to me and loops her arm through mine. She might be my boss, but Donetta and I have forged a friendship in the past couple of weeks. Like a magnet and steel, we just sort of clicked and I have the sense that she’s the real deal, a real friend. I’m not sure how to process that, seeing how I’ve never had a close girlfriend before. But I’m working on it.

“The boss had a catered meeting this morning. We have meals waiting for us. That is, if you like French cuisine?”

I shake my head no and then yes because I have no idea if I do. I don’t want to look unsophisticated, so I nod. “Ye—Yes! Sounds good.”

Donetta side-eyes me with a grin that says she knows damn well I’ve never eaten anything French beyond the day-old croissants I sometimes get at the discount grocery. She makes small talk as we leave the corporate offices and head down to the casino level. I had a tour when I was first hired and haven’t been down here since.

It’s opulent and magnificent and looks like some lost Greek city revived from the bottom of the ocean. I only get a peek at the main floors before we move to a series of back hallways that feel very covert and hush-hush. Goosebumps rise on my forearms, along with that little prickle at the base of my neck. I don’t get time to ponder my reaction, as Donetta opens a pair of grand floor-to-ceiling doors and leads me into a private dining room.

You’d never know there was a meeting in here. It’s immaculate, right down to the silk tablecloth and fresh beeswax candles adorning the single round table in the middle of the room.

“Ah, perfect.” Donetta smooths the back of her pencil skirt and sits. An array of metal dome-covered dishes are arranged on the table. I feel one. It’s still warm, as if some ghostly waiter had been waiting just for us.

I’m struck again at my good fortune. A little giddy, I listen raptly as Donetta lifts off covers and explains the various dishes. We serve ourselves, and to my surprise, she pours us dark red wine in huge goblet glasses.

“Cheers!” She clinks her glass against mine, and I’m whirling with the knowledge that I’m having wine with lunch in the middle of a workday—and it’s sanctioned.

Hell. Yes.

I have it so good, I feel like I might burst.

Donetta looks smug as she takes a huge bite and savors it. “He never does anything second best.”

I know she’s talking about the boss and my curiosity is immediately piqued. Especially when an almost dreamy look crosses her face. It’s the same look she had yesterday when she off-handedly mentioned that he’d been away from the casino on business a lot lately.

It’s pretty clear that someone has a crush on the old guy. Well, if he is old. I wonder what he’s like. Portly, probably. Old, but trying to hide it with expensive tanning cream and hair implants. Yet Donetta doesn’t strike me as the type to fall for someone just because he’s rich, and let’s face it, if the boss is how I imagine him, money is the only thing he’s got going for him.
There’s no such thing as an ugly rich man
, my sister Nathalie used to say.

“What’s he like?” I blurt. I stuff cabbage in my mouth before I spout anything else.

“Well, he’s driven and intense.
Very
intense.”

I pause mid-chew. Driven and intense are code words for
asshole
.

I swallow. “That’s it?”

“Oh no. It’s just … he’s hard to get to know, actually. He’s sort of domineering and bossy … and, you know, just …really …”

Her cheeks flush and I smile at how flustered she is. The seasoned professional has melted away into pathetic schoolgirl. An odd, charged kind of tension sparks between us as she tries to regain her composure. This is fun, though, and I’m not done with her yet.

“Hot?” I venture.

She laughs and it breaks the weirdness. “Mr. Masters is very handsome, yes.”

“So, you’ve dated him?”

“Ha!” She shakes her head. “No. No. He doesn’t date. I mean, he takes women to important functions, but none that he identifies as a girlfriend or whatever. In fact …” She crosses her arms and leans in. Her voice drops to a whisper.

“I think his tastes are very
particular
.” She makes eyes at me as if I know exactly what she means.

“Oh … so, like, he has a goat wearing a tutu tied up in his office,
particular
?”

We clink our glasses again and laugh.

“Maybe not quite that, but I sense he’s into some kind of kink. Prostitutes, maybe.”

Yuck.
I don’t say that out loud, though. I mean, to each his own. But I’ve had enough history with prostitution in my past that it’s something I can’t see past without disgust.

“You know, there was this one girl. She accompanied him to a few events, which was odd. He never takes the same woman twice. She had, like, marks on her wrists.”

“What kind of marks?”

Donetta shrugs as she leans back in her chair. “I’m not sure. She apparently tried to hide them with bracelets, but a couple pics were taken at one event that showed the marks clearly.”

I got the sense that she had a theory, so I push. This gossip is too good not to push.

“Spill it, Donetta.”

“Okay, rope burns. Like if your wrists got tied together too tightly, or for too long.”

“He tied her up.”

“Maybe. I told you. Kink!”

My stomach sinks even as a flutter goes through me. I know exactly what she means. Being bound can be both a nightmare and a delicious fantasy. I’ve encountered both, not that I’m telling her. New friend or not, certain things stay behind brick walls.

Those things stay behind walls when I’m alone, too.

My mind runs rampant with some fictional image of Mr. Masters tying up a faceless woman, the cuffs of his dress shirt turned back, the muscles of his forearms flexing as he works a knot.

My face goes hot and I drain the last of my wine.

She rises from her chair and I quickly follow suit, eager to get back to work and away from my thoughts.

“You know, if you’re brave, you could ask him yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

She leads me down another hallway. “After this morning’s performance, you’ve earned an introduction.”

I falter a little. No. No way do I want to meet the boss now. Not after the gossip and especially not after the sexy things that just twisted through my mind.

“I really should get back to work.” Maybe it’s the wine, but my body suddenly feels hot all over. Plus, I really do want to keep working, considering the time crunch I’m under. I’m obligated to over-deliver at this point. I’m about to protest again, but Donetta waves me off.

“Really, I think he’ll be very impressed with you. He has a knack for nurturing exceptional talent within the company. Trust me when I say that you want to be on his good side.”

I realize she’s leading me up to the penthouse. I’m having a feeling of déjà vu, of a lack of control. I know it’s just because I was here before, the night I made my last delivery. But it wasn’t this side of the hotel. I don’t recognize anything around me.

“He can seem intimidating, but don’t let that bother you. He’s like that with everyone.”

Great. My mental image of him is as muddled as my head.

I turn my attention to the opulence of the hall. Crystal chandeliers sparkle down in a vertical row from the ceiling. Billowing ferns in oriental urns line the wall. I half expect a fluffy Persian cat to saunter out with a gold-dipped mouse in its mouth.

We stop by the only door at the end of the short hall. Donetta speaks into an intercom and a moment later, a click sounds as the door unlocks. She walks in with familiarity while I get more nervous by the second.

Something about this feels off to me, but I can’t place it. Goosebumps skitter down my arms, despite the warmth of sun streaming in through huge windows.

The penthouse is sectioned in two. We take an immediate right into a wide hallway, and I realize one area is living space, and the other an office. A middle-aged receptionist sits beside glass doors. She stands when she sees us and opens the doors, revealing a huge, airy office.

Light from a row of floor-to-ceiling windows floods the room, glinting off white walls that are tempered by the dark mahogany furniture.

A sun drop glimmers off a golden nameplate on the desk. BRENT MASTERS. I spot him then, standing with his back to us as he faces the windows. My unease grows as I realize how obviously
not
portly he is … probably not old either, unless he works out, because damn. The tightness of his muscles is apparent by the way his suit perfectly cradles his body. Broad shoulders, a lovely tapered back that leads to a narrow waist.

My hands start to shake as my palms go damp. Startled by my reaction, I discreetly wipe my hands on my skirt. This is the boss? My imagination isn’t even capable of creating such perfection.

“Mr. Masters,” Donetta calls warmly.

It hits me then, why I’m uneasy. It’s not just that the last time I was on this floor in this hotel, I went lip-to-lip with the stranger who still haunts my dreams. He creeps in whenever he wants, leaving me breathless and wanting. When I wake, I can taste him as if he’d truly been there. It’s because the last time I was on this floor, in this hotel, I was expecting not to leave it.

“Good morning, Donetta.” He replies, not bothering to turn around. Instead, he shoves his hands in his pants pockets like he has all the time in the world and we’re an inconvenience. He might be hot, from the back anyway, but I don’t like him. Somehow, the impression is firmly rooted in my head and it won’t budge.

I hope that my meetings with Brent Masters will be infrequent.

“I’m sorry we missed you at the finance meeting this morning,” Donetta continues. “We’re happy to give you a verbal update until the printed report is done later today.”

“Fine.” He clears his throat and it irritates me that he won’t turn and face us. Does he have some horrible facial deformity or something? My mind suddenly goes wild with images of elephantitis or a third eye. I stifle a nervous giggle, knowing it’s just my nerves.

“Our new account executive just identified and recovered a two million-dollar error. She’s already found several other smaller errors on past accounts, and will have a full report for you by week’s end. I’d like to introduce you, sir.”

My mouth goes dry at her praise, but I have to wipe my palms again. I’m sure he neither cares nor appreciates my work. Hell, two million is just not that much in this industry, shocking as that is to laypeople. Mr. Masters probably has that much under his couch cushions.