Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 60550 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 303(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60550 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 303(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
When I walk back to the car, Joey’s still leaning up against the hood of his car, watching me. He offers no reaction to the state of my bedraggled clothing, nor the fact that I will now be climbing into his expensive car with a few gallons of seawater trapped in them.
He just pulls a packet of cinnamon Trident from his pocket and unwraps it, then holds it out to me. “Gum?”
I take a piece. “Thanks.”
Just for a moment, because of the kindness of the mafia prince, it feels like I might not drown. Like I might get through this and come out the other side. Like I might, someday, be able to breathe again.
Chapter One
Thirteen years later
Sophie
He’s here.
The bells jingle on the door handle of the massage studio I share with three other practitioners, and I dart out to the reception area, heart hammering.
I’ve only seen Joey LaTorre a few times in the years since I was newly-fatherless, and he was the dreamy young mafia prince driving me away from the funeral. There was his father’s funeral a few years later. The one we had to attend to show respect to the Family. I brought him a pack of cinnamon gum–a silly, childish gesture that makes me cringe now to remember.
Seeing his name show up on my schedule this afternoon turned my stomach to knots. My hands are clammy now as I turn the corner and take in his broad shoulders, the expensive suit. Shiny, thousand-dollar shoes. He must be in his thirties now and is as gorgeous as I remember. No–more. And he radiates far more power.
He gives me an appreciative once-over that makes my skin flush with heat.
I have to remind myself that I’m not happy to see him again. I don’t know what reason he has to come here, but it can’t be good.
“Mr. LaTorre.” I sound as breathless as I feel. “Wh-what can I do for you?”
“Sophie.” He steps into my space, clasping my shoulder with his large hand to lean forward and touch his cheek to mine in a lipless kiss. He smells faintly of cinnamon, conjuring up every foolish romantic fantasy he’d starred in during my youth.
“Since when do you call me Mr. LaTorre?” He’s opting for casual, like we’re still family.
I mean, Family, with the capital F.
“Um, never, I guess.”
God, I feel like a teenager again–my pulse tripping, my inner thighs squeezing in his presence.
I try and fail to swallow. My mouth is so dry! “Why are you here?”
Oops. That sounded rude. Never disrespect the mob boss. I had that drilled into me from a young age. I may want nothing to do with him, but I also need to be careful not to offend.
Joey arches a brow. “I thought it was obvious. I’m here for a massage.”
I blink. “What?”
His brow furrows. “Al told me you’re a masseuse.” Al is his half-brother, the ruling don of the LaTorre mafia family. I had no idea they were still keeping tabs on me. That they knew what I was doing or how to find me.
And wait…seriously? He’s here for a massage?
“I don’t trust strangers to touch me, but you’re family.”
“I’m a massage therapist,” I correct him. When he lifts a brow, I say, “Not a masseuse.”
“Yeah? What’s the difference?”
“Masseuse is the name for unlicensed practitioners. The kind who give massages with happy endings.”
Joey’s eyes darken and lips twist into a smirk. “I see.” Sexual tension floods the room.
My face gets hot. Great. We are both thinking about me giving him a hand job right now.
“Well, that–” He scrubs a hand across his face as if to swallow whatever lewd thing he was about to say. “That’s ah, not why I’m here. I hurt my back lifting weights. It’s been a month, and it hasn’t improved. I was hoping you could fix me up.”
“I will try. Come on back.”
While I’m not thrilled about interacting with any member of the LaTorre family, at least I know how to fulfill this request. They’re not trying to suck me back into the fold or tangle me in their crime web.
Maybe if I weren’t afraid of offending him, if I had the guts my mom did when she pulled me out, I’d tell him I want nothing to do with him or his family. But not only do I not want to piss off the LaTorre family, I need the money.
He’ll probably leave a huge tip, which I could definitely use, since I can’t make ends meet being self-employed like this.
I lead him to my tiny treatment room. “Have a seat.”
His large frame and even larger presence fill the room, making it feel even smaller. He looks around in surprise, and I point to the chair up against the wall, taking a seat in the one beside it with my clipboard.