Jack of Spades: A Mafia Romance Read online

  “Same rules as downstairs. Only thing different will be the minimum and upper bids, capiche?”

  I nod at Stefano’s clipped instructions.

  He produces a water bottle, which he places beside me. “This is for you. Leo will be here the entire time. If any of them give you trouble, just signal him.”

  “Where will you be?” I don’t know why I ask. It’s stupid. It’s not like I’m afraid without him.

  Maybe I am, just a little.

  “I have to run shit. With Nico gone, there are fires to put out. Don’t worry, no one’s going to touch you. If they do, I’ll have Leo break their fingers.”

  * * *

  Corey

  Mr. Donahue. That’s how the guy is introduced, and I get an off vibe from him right away. For one thing, he’s late. I’ve been dealing poker for two hours with three other guys who showed up tonight and they’re not pleased with letting someone new into the game.

  Two of them cash out. The third—Mr. Smith—stays but that’s because he’s down three hundred grand. He’s probably hoping to win something off Donahue.

  “Where’s Nico Tacone?” Donahue demands once he’s sitting and his chips are in front of him.

  “Mr. Tacone isn’t here tonight,” I say smoothly, dealing the cards.

  Donahue looks pissed. “Why not? He invited me personally. I was told I’d be playing poker with him.”

  My eyes narrow slightly. I doubt that’s true. I flick a glance to Leo, at the door. He’s not normal casino security or management. He’s an import from Chicago. Part of the Family, if you know what I mean. I’ve worked at the Bellissimo long enough to know the insiders.

  Leo’s upper lip curls like he wants to shove his fist in the guy’s mouth, but he just gives me a small shrug.

  “I don’t know who told you that, Mr. Donahue, but it won’t be happening. It’s your bet.”

  The guy looks pissed off, but he plays.

  “Stefano Tacone’s here,” Mr. Smith grunts after he places his bet.

  Donahue turns on him. “Oh yeah? Who’s he? Another Tacone son?”

  That should’ve been my clue—he referred to Nico and Stefano as sons, not brothers, but it doesn’t register as any more strange than the rest of the man’s behavior.

  “Nico’s brother. I met him when I came in. He’ll be back,” Smith sagely provides.

  Donahue sniffs and settles in to play. He’s a shitty player—distracted and impatient. Like Stefano last night, he doesn’t fit into the normal categories of big gambler, yet he’s betting thousands at a time. Is he just here to see Nico? Is that why he was so pissed he wasn’t here? Maybe he has some kind of Family business to take up with him and it has to be in person.

  He’s lost three rounds to Smith when Stefano walks in.

  “Ah. Here is Mr. Tacone now,” Smith says, pushing his chips across the table toward me. “I believe that must be my cue to take my winnings and go.”

  I count him in and return a stack of eight ten-thousand-dollar chips as Stefano saunters in, a cigar box in his hand.

  “Sorry I couldn’t be here for the whole game, gentlemen. I hope you enjoyed yourselves.” He offers a cigar to Smith, who takes one, but doesn’t stay to light it.

  And that’s when all hell breaks loose.

  Donahue knocks his tumbler of whiskey over and it rolls to the floor. He leans over to pick it up, placing the broken glass on the table as he stands. “So you’re one of the Tacone boys?” There’s malice in his face, and I realize his hand has been in his pocket since he stood up. I try to signal Stefano, but he’s already walking toward the man, answering him.

  Stefano’s signature charm is present, but he’s guarded. “Yes, I’m Stefano. Do you know my family?”

  Donahue pulls his hand from his pocket, holding a tiny pistol. “This is for my brother,” he says, the gun wobbling in his shaking hand.

  Two shots fire at the same time.

  I throw the table I’m behind forward. A scream leaves my mouth.

  Donahue goes down, a bullet between his eyes. Both Stefano and Leo have guns out, arms straight in front of them.

  My ears ring with the sound of the shots.

  For a moment, no one moves. I’m rooted to the floor, shock plunging through me like a bolt of lightning, rooting my feet to the floor..

  Stefano swears in Italian and puts his pistol in a holster under his arm. “How did he get a gun in here? Wasn’t he searched for weapons?”

  My body shakes—teeth chatter. I can’t tear my eyes from the dead man. “I-I think he pulled it from his boot, or pant leg,” I provide, remembering he had ducked under the table.

  “Who is he?” Leo asks.

  “No idea.” Stefano stoops and removes Donahue’s ID and wallet. “Get Sal and Tony up here to help you rid of the body.”

  Leo lifts his chin in my direction. He still hasn’t put his gun away. “What about her?”

  Ice cold shoots through my veins like daggers. What about me? Oh God, I’m a witness. Is he asking if he should kill me, too?

  Stefano examines me with an inscrutable look that seems to last a millennia. I don’t breathe. “I’ll take care of her.”

  “Yeah? You sure?”

  Stefano doesn’t take his gaze from me. He gives a single nod.

  Leo mutters something and tucks what appear to be zip-ties in Stefano’s jacket pocket.

  The room swoops and spins.

  I am so fucked.

  * * *

  Stefano

  Vaffanculo. Why in the fuck did I let an outsider deal a private game? Bringing Corey Simonson up here was the worst mistake. Now I have a witness to murder on my hands.

  Corey’s smart enough to understand the position she’s in. She takes a step backward, her normally shrewd blue eyes wide with shock. “W-wait. Why don’t you just call the cops?” Her voice squeaks, a higher pitch than usual. “It was self-defense. I’m your witness.”

  “That’s not how we’re doing this.” I keep my voice smooth, my face expressionless. I haven’t figured out what in the hell I’m going to do with her yet. “Come here.” I beckon to her with what I consider my take charge command.

  She takes another step back, glancing around for exits. There aren’t any, except the one I’m blocking.

  Leo barks coded orders into his comms unit.

  I don’t want Corey to see any more of our men implicated in this scene.

  “Corey, now.” I make my voice sharp and urgent.

  It works. She skitters forward, around the table she so wisely upended. Amazing reflexes.

  I catch her elbow and propel her out of the suite, moving swiftly toward the elevators. I don’t really have a plan yet, other than to get Corey away from the scene of the crime.

  When we get in, we both stand facing the doors, like we’re strangers. “I don’t understand why you don’t call the cops.” She’s pulled herself together enough that her voice almost sounds normal.

  “And I’m not going to explain Family business to you,” I tell her curtly. Which is the only answer I have. Yeah, it was self-defense. But that stronzo who pulled a gun on me wasn’t some wacko off the street. He had a beef with the Family—probably my father. I’m not going to open that can of worms with the local cops and trust them to sort it out with me coming out on top. No fucking way.

  So it turns out Corey’s not as pulled together as I thought because she suddenly lunges for the elevator control panel, smacking buttons.

  I catch her wrist and wrap it around her waist, pull her back against me. “Stop. You’re panicking.”

  Her body trembles against mine. “I won’t tell anyone. I know it was self-defense.” Her voice wobbles at the end and I curse, realizing she’s crying.

  And of course, the elevator has to stop at that moment and let people on.

  I release her wrist and cup her nape, turning her to face me, so her face is angled away from the people who get in.

  She stares straight ahead at my chest, eyes
still swimming with tears. I pull a silk handkerchief from my suit pocket and slip it into her hand. That’s when I notice the blood—tiny splatters stain the smooth column of her neck.

  When she’s finished wiping her tears, I take the handkerchief back and dab at the stains, using the moisture of her tears to get it off. If possible, she goes even more pale, probably realizing what I’m rubbing at.

  The elevator stops on the first floor and everyone gets out, but I keep my hand at Corey’s neck, not allowing her to move. I hit the button for the parking level.

  I don’t know what my plan is, really. Drive her home, have a talk. Make sure she knows bad shit’s going to happen if she ever opens her mouth about what she saw. It’s not really well-formulated yet. I’m just responding to the sense of urgency to get her away from the dead guy.

  When the elevator opens at the garage level, Corey panics again. She grasps the handrail inside the elevator and hangs on, digging her heels in when I try to escort her out. I tug her waist, but she doubles over. If I’m going to get her out, it’s going to take some serious manhandling.

  Which under different circumstances might be appealing.

  “I’m not getting in a car with you! I know what’s going to happen.”

  “Calm down. What do you think is going to happen? I’m not going to kill you—is that what you think?”

  “Just let me go!” she splutters, pitching away from me and then whirling and kneeing me hard in the nuts.

  I’d like to say I kept my cool. I don’t hit women—ever. My ma raised me better than that.

  But I’m not above spanking a girl’s ass. Especially when it belongs to a beautiful woman. I yank one of the zip-ties Leo put in my pocket out—which I’d had no intention of using. Wrangling her wrists together, I cinch the plastic strip around them and tighten it up.

  “You need to calm the fuck down,” I grit through clenched teeth. I pin her hands against the elevator wall and bring my hand down to smack her ass.

  I don’t hold back. My balls are throbbing and each spank satisfies the part of me she unmanned with that low blow. Of course, now my cock starts swelling, renewing the pain.

  The elevator doors close and it lurches into motion. I put my keycard in the elevator and hit the floor with my suite without releasing her wrists from the wall.

  Then I resume her punishment. She gasps and twists as I lay down slap after slap.

  “Okay!” she cries.

  “I’m sorry I kneed you in the balls, Stefano,” I prompt with another slap.

  “I’m sorry I kneed you in the balls, Stefano,” she mutters.

  I turn her and slam my lips down on hers.

  She freezes for one moment, probably taken aback by my change in tactics, but then she responds. Her lips move against mine, body softens. I hold her nape with one hand, her ass with the other.

  The elevator doors open.

  “All right, let’s try this again. You will walk out of this elevator nicely this time.” I propel her through the door.

  She allows it. “Where are you taking me?”

  “To my room.”

  Her footsteps stall and I have to tug her toward my door. “Why? What are you going to do with me?”

  The truth? I have no idea.

  I key open my door and thrust her through, following and shutting the door. She immediately turns around and tries to tug the door handle back open despite the limited movement allowed by her bound wrists.

  I reach around to catch the knob and she shoves her ass back. My cock goes rock hard at the contact.

  “If you keep rubbing that sexy ass against me, you’re going to be in a different kind of trouble.”

  She freezes, breath catching and holding. But when she speaks, scorn laces her words. “Are you saying you’re going to rape me?”

  It’s meant to shut me down, but her bravado turns me on even more. I cup her throat with one hand, not squeezing tight enough to scare her, but enough to hold her head in place against my shoulder as my other hand slides down the front of her short dress. I don’t hesitate—it’s not in my genes. I find the skin of her thigh and trace it up under her dress to cup her mons.

  “Soaking wet,” I breathe against her ear, triumph punching my cock out against my pants. “Is it rape if you want it?”

  “I don’t want it,” she lies.

  I slip my fingers under the gusset of her miniscule panties and stroke along her honeyed slit. “Then I won’t touch you,” I lie right back to her.

  She bites her lip against a moan when I dip a finger into her ready entrance. “No,” she says, but it sounds more like a yes than anything.

  “No?” My finger slides out, drags up and circles her clit. Her hips jerk against me, and my hand closes tighter around her neck. “You want me to stop, baby?”

  “Yes,” she pants.

  I stop moving my finger but keep it there, her clit pulsing against my digit, giving her away. But I’m not going on.

  I don’t force women, and she told me to stop.

  Regrettably. I would love the privilege of getting Corey off.

  I pull my finger away. “You tell me when you want it, baby, and I’ll give it to you good.” I don’t release her throat.

  * * *

  Corey

  My hips writhe in a circle like I’m seeking out his hand again.

  Traitorous body.

  I’m so fucking confused right now, I can’t think straight. A minute ago, I was sure Stefano planned to throw me over the Hoover Dam. Now I’m in a different kind of trouble, as he so eloquently put it.

  It’s a much preferred trouble, despite my protests.

  “Come here.” Stefano hooks his index finger through the zip-tie holding my wrists and tugs me further into his suite like a farmer leading his cow. It’s the same style suite Sondra’s been staying in here, with a kitchenette and living room area.

  He doesn’t bring me to the bedroom, but to the kitchen, leaving me at the table while he gets a bottle of water from the refrigerator. I lean my butt on the table because my legs are too wobbly to stand. Stefano returns and cracks open the bottle, holding it to my lips.

  I lift my bound hands to take it myself and drink. “You got anything stronger?” I ask after I’ve downed half the bottle.

  Stefano gives me that lazy grin and walks back to the kitchen, returning with a bottle of Glenlivet and two tumblers. He pours us each a couple fingers of scotch and holds one out for me. “Saluti.” He clinks his glass against mine.

  I throw the scotch back, hoping the burn will scorch the memory of what happened upstairs right out of my mind.

  “So, basically, I’m an accessory now.” It hits me like a concrete block on my toes.

  Stefano shrugs like accessory to murder means nothing to him. “That would never hold.” He crowds into me, pushing my knees apart to stand between them. I still can’t figure out if this is seduction or a scare-tactic.

  “So you’re not planning on killing me.” He already said so, but I guess I don’t believe him.

  He reaches out to cup my face, his thumb brushing my cheek lightly. “Cara, if I was going to kill you, you’d already be dead.”

  I try to ignore the warmth his touch produces, the urge to nuzzle into his hand. It’s just because I’m in shock and I’ve lost my mind. “Why let me live? Because of Sondra?”

  Stefano shakes his head. “I don’t want you dead.” He drops his thumb to my lips and traces them. I hold still because despite his assurance, I’m still his captive. The zip-tie on my wrists prove it. “I don’t kill innocents.” Something flickers behind his dark eyes. “Despite what you may think about me.”

  I find my cheeks heating, which annoys me. “I don’t think about you.”

  He smiles because we both know it’s a lie.

  I wet my lips with my tongue and he tracks the movement, hunger flaring in his chocolate brown eyes. “So what are you going to do with me?”

  He tilts his head to the side. “I’m figur
ing that out, bambina.”

  “Th-there’s something I better tell you.” I don’t want to bring this up—I really don’t. But if he finds out another way, he may shoot first and ask questions later.

  He arches a brow.

  I lick my lips again. “I don’t talk to my dad. Like, we’re totally estranged, and that’s a good thing.”

  Stefano’s eyes narrow. I’m sure he’s wondering where in the hell I’m going with this.

  “But he’s a fed. An FBI agent,” I blurt.

  Stefano curses in Italian, a long string of words I don’t understand but get the meaning. He tugs my ass off the table and starts searching me in quick, pissed off movements, running his fingers along the neckline of my dress, around the insides of my bra.

  If I weren’t more than a little afraid of Stefano Tacone in warrior mode, I might remark at the similarity of my situation with Sondra’s. This was how she met Nico, after all. He strip-searched her for a wire when he found her cleaning his bathroom.

  Stefano drags his large palms up my thighs, around to the back, sliding a finger over the G-string through my crack. He checks the gusset of my panties, sparing me any comments about how wet I am this time.

  And yeah—my panties are damp again. I shouldn’t be turned on by Stefano’s rough and thorough search, but I am. He lifts my dress up to my waist, hikes it up to my armpits before he realizes it’s not coming off. Not unless he removes the zip-tie.

  He pulls me across the kitchen, where he grabs a pair of scissors from the drawer.

  I think he’s going to cut off the zip-tie, but instead the fucker slices through the fabric of my dress.

  I shove at him, even though it’s too late. “Jesus! You don’t have to cut it, asshole. This is my favorite dress.” The dress falls in shreds at my feet. I’m standing there in a black lace bra and matching G-string, a pair of black thigh-highs and my stilettos. It’s quite an outfit, but he’s apparently unaffected.