Deep (The Pagano Family Book 4) (14 page)

“I know. Trust me, I know.” She didn’t know half what she thought she did, but he didn’t intend that she ever would. He was about to bring their talk back to Chris, when she grinned brightly. “But you know, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“C’mon. Please?”

He sighed and rolled his eyes. “
Gli farò un’offerta che non potrà rifiutare.
”

“God, that’s really hot,” her voice was low, her eyelids heavy with desire. “Say more. Say something sweet.”

She was completely open and trusting with him again, the fear gone from her lidded eyes. He felt the satisfaction of it like heat low in his gut, making his cock swollen and stiff. “
Dolce
means ‘sweet.’
Dolcezza
is something like ‘sweetheart.’” Feeling her arousal radiating from her, he shifted and leaned over, careful to keep his weight from her. The movement put her thigh hard against his erection, and he groaned. “
Cara
is ‘dear.’
Tesoro
means ‘treasure.’ My mother called my father
tesoro mio
—‘my treasure.’”

At the memory his words evoked, and the seism of grief that followed on the memory, Nick closed his eyes. He felt Beverly’s hand brush his cheek, and then the backs of her fingers passed slowly, softly over his mouth. He opened his eyes again and kissed her fingers. “My Aunt Angie calls me
carino
, which is like ‘cutie.’

A sweet, surprised laugh burst from Beverly’s lips. “‘Cutie’? Does she know you?”

Catching her laugh with one of his own, he nodded. “Since I was a little cutie, yes. She has a long memory. My Aunt Teresa called me and all her boys
cucciolo
—‘puppy.’” He slid his hand under her top and caressed the bare skin of her side and belly, warm and soft, trembling under his fingers. “
Sei bella
,” he murmured, “
Ti desidero
.
Ti penso sempre
.”

“Oh, shit,” she whispered as his mouth claimed hers.

He hadn’t meant to be anything more than soothing to her, to stoke the fire of her trust, but now that wasn’t enough. He wanted her on fire in every way. Still, he held back, kept the touch of his lips and his fingers light. He wouldn’t fuck her tonight, nor until she was without pain.

He’d been serious when he told her he wasn’t gentle. Gentle sex did little for him. Every other facet of his life required his complete control over his body and mind. In sex, he wanted unguarded, feral passion.

He could tell in the way she responded to him, moving much more than he was, moaning and whimpering with every brush of his fingers or sweep of his tongue, that she would be a fiery bedmate. He didn’t want to compromise that experience by rushing her.

That, however, didn’t mean he couldn’t get her off, see a preview show. He pushed his hand into her pants, between her legs. Just a narrow swath of soft, short hair brushed his fingers, then his palm. Oh, yes—she was slick and hot, and she arched her neck back as his fingers slid over her clit and back again.

“Oh, God! Wait—let’s go to bed!”

As he answered her, he pushed his fingers through her folds and into her. “No,
bella
. We’re not fucking now. But I want to see you come. I want to have you on my hands when I go back to my apartment. I want to be able to smell you, taste you, when I think about you.
Ti penso sempre.
” He curled his fingers inside her, and she took a deep, audible breath. It cut off abruptly at the end, and she cried out in pain rather than pleasure. He slowed, but he didn’t stop.

“Open your eyes, Beverly. Look at me. Take it slowly. I don’t want you hurt.” She opened her eyes and locked those blues on him. “Good. Just be easy and feel me.”

When she calmed, he kissed her again, moving his fingers and his tongue in time with each other, exploring the deepest, dearest parts of her, learning what she responded most to. He waited until he felt her breathing pick up again, her hands clenching and unclenching on his shirt. Then he pulled back again to watch her. Her eyes opened a little, half mast at best, and he knew the pain pills were at nearly full force, even as her body writhed under him, around his hand. She wouldn’t be awake long after he made her come—the combined effects of the Percocet and the serotonin would put her right out.

But the Percocet would blunt her pain, too, and he could work with that. He nipped at her lips, bringing a smile to them.

“I thought you weren’t gentle,” she whispered.

“I’m not.” He slid his free hand under her back, holding her tightly to him, and then he fucked her hard with his hand, using the knowledge of her body he’d gleaned as he’d kept her quiet and brought her slowly up.

Her eyes flew wide open, and her hands clawed into his shoulders. She came instantly, violently, loudly, keening as her body bucked under his. He held her, clamped to him, preventing her from doing more damage to her ribs. Finally, she went rigid for the space of a few heartbeats and then relaxed completely into his arms.

Lord, she was glorious. His hand was hot and soaking wet as he pulled away and straightened her clothes. Again he kissed her, and this time she barely responded. She was falling asleep already.

“That was amazing,” she muttered, her eyes closed and her lips barely forming the words.

“Sleep now. I’ll put you to bed.”

She woke a little. “No, I’m good here. This is just a nap. The day is young.” He stood, and she settled in. “Just a nap.”

There was a fluffy pink throw over a nearby chair. Pink. He laughed. The room shouted feminine good cheer—and it seemed to be contagious, a little. Nick covered her with the throw.

“You are Good Nick,” she muttered as she snuggled under the fluff.

“No,
bella
, I’m not.”

If he were good, he wouldn’t let someone so light get pulled into his darkness. But he was not good.

~oOo~

Nick closed the last Velcro tab on the Kevlar vest and started buttoning his shirt over it. At his side, Matty and Chi-Chi checked the loads on an array of weapons: AR15 assault rifles. A trove of shotguns, ranging from military-grade Remington 870s to old-school, sawed-off Mossbergs. And a dozen or so handguns.

His shirt closed and tucked in, Nick tied his tie. Brian came up behind him, holding his suit jacket out. Nick slid his arms in and shrugged it over his shoulders. “Thanks, man.”

Brian nodded, and their eyes met and locked for a second deep in meaning. Nick nodded. There was tension in the room, and Nick turned and scanned the men assembled. Pagano Brothers men, all of them. All but one.

For this offensive, size mattered, so all three capos and their main crews were here. They would be joining with similar groups from the other Council families. Ben, too old and important for work like this, had stayed behind. There had been argument that Nick himself was too important for this work, but an authoritative presence was key—and anything related to Church was his. The argument had been halfhearted and easily dismissed. He was in Kevlar, his one concession. He hated the vest—it weighed him down and got in his way—but he would likely be their enemies’ primary target, and so, never reckless, he’d conceded.

He was glad to have Brian at his side, worried as he was about his fitness. But his friend had insisted that he was solid and even demonstrated as much at the gym the previous afternoon. His back was still mottled with burn damage and likely to scar, but his shoulder had healed sufficiently well for motion and strength. And he had insisted he not be left behind, especially with a rat in their midst.

Nick had a file in his head of images he called up when he needed a certain mindset—the mindset that allowed him to do the darkest things he needed to do and still keep hold of his soul. Since Church had started barking, that file had filled out considerably. A row of bodies, dead or grievously injured, including his cousins, Luca and John, and Luca’s girl, trussed up and laid out in front of the warehouse. The crisped remains of an innocent man, bound to a steel beam in a burned-out construction site. Jimmy’s shod foot, alone on a Providence street. His pregnant cousin, Carmen, lying bleeding against a gravestone.

What remained of his father’s head, lying on a white satin pillow in his casket—that image he was saving for a particular occasion. His mother, curled on the floor of her bedroom the night after the funeral, weeping inconsolably.

His friend and trusted associate, Luciano “Chi-Chi” Rinaldi, in the parking garage at Neon, relieving Jimmy for a piss, looking around anxiously, and then opening the front passenger door. Right there on the security footage. The Feds were on him, too, though Ben and Nick had paid heavily to slow them down. This was Nick’s to handle.

Chi-Chi checked the last load and then turned to Nick. “We look good, boss. I think we’re good to go.”

Nick holstered his Beretta. He had another, smaller Sig under his right arm. He’d go in with his holstered handguns and his father’s stiletto in his pocket, and with an AR15 on his shoulder. If he needed more, he’d trust Brian to get it to him. The fight would be loud and bloody. Neither the Zapata cartel nor Jackie Stone was known for levelheadedness. They liked things big and messy. Winning this big and messy fight would, Nick and Ben both believed, give the Paganos and all the families their best opportunity to change the battleground and the whole war and frame it on their terms.

If they were wrong, they could well have trouble with the Council, but Nick thought his uncle had been right. Turning back the Zapatas and their drugs would cripple Alvin Church.

Having a rat had turned out to be the pivot of the plan. Once Nick had confirmation that Chi-Chi had flipped for Church, he had exploited that link. Jackie Stone was expecting a different kind of trouble.

And now it was time to catch the rat. But Nick needed to know if Matty was in on Chi-Chi’s side gig at all.

“Change of plan.” Besides Ben and the capos, only Brian knew that the plan had been a decoy. Nick scanned the other men’s reactions. Interest, concern, some disquiet—all reasonable for a last-minute game change. Matty’s reaction was similar. But Chi-Chi flinched hard. And he was the first to speak.

“What? That wise, boss? So late?” Reading body language was important in Nick’s line of work, and Chi-Chi’s body was an encyclopedia of anxiety. Nick knew then that Chi-Chi’s betrayal extended beyond the bomb. He’d informed Church, or Stone, about today’s events, too.

Even Matty noticed, scowling at his friend’s challenge. A soldier questioning the boss, crew or not, friend or not, in front of most of the organization—that was a dangerous move in itself.

“Take him.”

At Nick’s short sentence, Brian went immediately and clocked Chi-Chi with the butt of a Mossberg. Chi-Chi went down, dazed but conscious. Matty had been momentarily stunned by the turn of events, but now he helped Brian bind and gag Chi-Chi. Once the daze wore off, Chi-Chi struggled mightily, but then other soldiers came in on the assist, without question.

When he was subdued and thoroughly restrained, Nick squatted at his side. “Security cameras in the parking garage.” Chi-Chi stopped struggling completely at Nick’s words. “You’re not a smart guy, Chi. What you had going for you was loyalty. Now you better hope you know something helpful.”

Nick stood and looked at Matty, who was obviously stunned but still in. Good—at least the betrayal had not spread beyond one stupid guido. “Hood him and box him. I’ll deal with him after.”

Matty nodded, and Danny, one of Dom’s crew, helped him drag Chi-Chi away. No one spoke until they were back. When they were, Nick said to the men assembled, “There is no reward in treason. But there is retribution. Remember that. If you need a clearer lesson, then come to the docks tonight and see the retribution in its full flower.” He gave that a beat to sink in, and then said, “Now. The real plan.” And he explained it.

~oOo~