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)
“But it is—it’s my car, and it’s my life. What favor are you going to demand in return?”
Ouch. Damn, that hurts. Can’t I just be helping to be a gentleman?
Fine. I’ll play her game. “Three dates.”
She blinks. “What?”
“I pay off your car, and you go on three dates with me.” I was going to say one date, but then I decided that wasn’t enough. Sophie’s going to take a little finessing, and I want to be sure I give myself enough time to win her over.
I throw her a challenging look.
I already decided–even before she got frisky with me in the treatment room–I decided the moment I walked in today and saw how beautiful that gangly teenager turned out—Sophie Palazzo is mine.
She may not know it yet, but she will. Soon.
I know I have some barriers to overcome.
Judging from her tepid reception and long absence from family events, Sophie has a beef with the Family. No surprise—her mother, who was not Sicilian, always hated La Cosa Nostra. Sophie seemed almost afraid when I showed up, like she thought she had something to fear from me. And like any good Sicilian (or half Sicilian in her case), she covers her fear with piss and vinegar.
Which I fucking love. Sophie’s a spitfire, and one with a little complexity. The challenge of winning her holds a fuck-ton of appeal. There’s something about her that is both familiar and exotic. She grew up in the culture of the Family but rejected it. She, like her mom, seems to think she’s better than us. So despite the fact she’s working a service job and almost had her car repossessed, she gives off the vibe that she thinks she outclasses me.
Which is exactly what makes me determined to get her under my thumb.
Her mouth opens and shuts once without sound. “I don’t date clients.”
I tip my head toward the treatment room. “You just screw them?”
It’s a low blow. I wouldn’t have said it except the idea that she has done that with another guy suddenly turns me into a jealous beast. I want to hunt down every male client she’s ever touched and shove his balls up his ass.
“That wasn’t supposed to happen!” she protests, her face flushing.
I spread my hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I know. And I take partial responsibility. But I didn’t come here to bend you over that table and get my dick wet. I really came for my back. Which is worse now, thanks to your little cocktease in there.” I’m not actually such a pussy; I’m just pushing her buttons.
It seems to work because guilt flitters across her face. “Yeah, I noticed your muscles tensed back up. I’ll give you another massage, no charge.”
“No deal. I asked for three dates. Your car paid in full for three dates with me. Is that such a hardship?”
She exhales. “I’m sure you can buy sex from someone else for a lot cheaper than that.”
I inch closer, invading her personal space and loving when she doesn’t step back. I slide a hand over her hip. “Well, I didn’t say anything about sex, but I’m thrilled it’s on the table. You’re a hot fuck, Soph.” I watch another shade of pink bloom under her olive skin. “The bargain was just for the dates, though.”
“Three dates—no sex?” Her voice wavers. She looks at me under long lashes, her eyes pale green, the color of cash.
“The first one, tomorrow night.”
“That’s it? Three dates, and you’ll pay off my car.” She sounds like she doesn’t believe me.
“I swear on the life of my mother.”
She blinks. Her eyes are dilated like she’s turned on by the way I’m holding her up against my body. “Well.” She swallows. “Okay.”
My inner celebration is tempered by the fact that I hate how nervous she seems about it. As if she committed to dating a viper rather than a guy she just gave a happy ending to.
“Seven o’clock. I’ll pick you up. Text me your address.” I pull out a couple hundred dollar bills for the massage and hand them to her, pressing my cheek against hers for a kiss.
“Thank you,” she mumbles as I leave, strutting to my BMW like I just scored a date with the prom queen. Sophie Palazzo is all grown up. She was hot as a teenager, but now she’s the proverbial brick house.
If I’d known she turned out this hot, I would’ve come to claim her sooner.
My older brother Al calls me as I’m driving home.
“What’s up?”
“Meet me at Angelo’s,” Al orders, referring to the Italian coffee shop that’s been a Family haunt for the past forty years.
Fuck. “Be right there.”
I drive to Angelo’s and plop down across from Al at an outdoor patio table. Valentina, the old woman who runs the shop, brings over a double espresso without me asking. Like most of the old haunts in our neighborhood, the LaTorre’s own the place on paper, although Valentina and her husband still run it. This is one of the many businesses I launder our cash through.