The Hitman's Dancer: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Snake Eyes Book 2) (20 page)

Chapter 19

Dante

I know a thing or two about grief.

There are few things in the world that can fill that void. The promise of vengeance and a deep dicking every night just so happen to work for her.

I’ll oblige. It’s the least I can do.

I twist her brunette hair in my fingers and pull back a little more, listening for the painful purr at the back of her throat. Instead, she giggles, turning her head back to steal a kiss from me. I let her have one before pounding her a little harder from behind and listening once again for any cry she may make to tell me I’ve gone too far.

Lucy’s tolerance for pain has certainly shifted. She’s always been strong but this is a different level entirely.

No matter how badly we get hurt, there’s always a little bit left over. There’s no such thing as healing to one-hundred percent. Scars remain, inside and outside. Viruses live on in our systems; dormant cells sitting there waiting to revive and cut us down again. But we learn to live with it. We bear the risk on our shoulders every day because each new sunrise brings a little more peace.

After a while, that pain becomes a part of us. Some of us don’t even notice it’s there.

My whole life, I believed I was a broken man. I’ve never experienced love — the bonds of my family excluded, of course. I’ve never touched a living thing in this world without crushing it in my palm.

Except her.

She looks at me like no one else ever has. She needs me like no one else ever will.

When I touch her, she doesn’t cry or bleed.

No, when I touch her… she likes it.

“Dante?”

I blink, breathing hard, realizing I’ve been staring at the wall. “Yeah?”

“Why’d you stop?” Lucy slopes down onto her back, gently rounding her cursed leg up and around my body in a perfect curve. Even with the brace, she’s the most graceful creature on this planet. She probably doesn’t even need it anymore but I haven’t let her take it off yet. I’m too scared that she’ll bite off more than she can chew. I fear her pain far more than she does.

“Come here,” I whisper, reaching out to her in the dark. She takes my hand and shifts closer, letting me pull her onto my lap and she straddles my waist. Her right leg stretches out while her good knee rings around me, locking us together. I take her face in my hands. “Let me look at you…”

Her angelic features glisten in the soft moonlight shining in from the window above the bed. The sweat on her brow drips down her pale cheeks and the darkness inside me fades as she smiles back.

Lucy Vaughn; an everlasting light. It’d be a sin in and of itself to let that light burn out.

She kisses me. I feel the electric passion twitching her lips like she just can’t get enough. She wants more of me — more of my dick, specifically — and I’ll give it to her, but first…

“I love you, Lucy Vaughn.”

Her eyes flutter and her lips curl. “More than a good kill?”

She’s joking, of course. The playful coo in her voice tells me that, but it’s a fair question all the same.

Before Lucy, there was no better feeling than marking a hit off my list. If I went too long without taking a life, I’d start to twitch for that endorphin rush.

An itchy trigger finger is bad for business.

My old mentor, Mercer, told me that after he recruited me into Snake Eyes. It’s why he sent me out here to infiltrate the Zappia family. There’s no shortage of people that need killing in the mob business. I’d be right at home there and I was — for a time.

The last thing I ever expected to find in the midst of bloodshed was a way out of it.

“Yes,” I finally answer, brushing my lips against hers.

“I love you,” she hums. “Dante Hart.” Her lips press against mine and a chuckle escapes her throat. “I’ll have to get back to you on whether or not it’s more than a good kill.”

I smile. In all of this chaos, Lucy hasn’t lost her warm wit and sense of humor. Good. She’ll need it.

I can’t let her go through with it.

She wants to feel secure in her own body again and I won’t deny her that. I’ll teach her how to defend herself and how to build strength and how to use the strength of others against them. I’ll do that no questions asked — but I won’t let her spiral out of control.

Marty Zappia will pay for what he’s done. I’ll make sure of that.

But it won’t be her.

I won’t let her bear that weight.

I pull her in closer, holding on to her so tight I can feel her heart beating against her ribs. Her fingers run down my body, sliding across my scars like a piano man tickles his keys. She takes my cock in her hand and guides it back inside her willing warmth, clenching her tightness around me because she knows I like it. I grunt with pleasure and she raises her left leg to hook over my shoulder. I push deeper inside, every inch slicker and warmer than the last.

“Fuck me,” she begs, submitting herself to me.

I hug her little body against mine, relishing in her flexibility as I round her onto her back and take her quickly against the bed. Her tightness never ceases as I pump away at her. Moans escape her as her lips curl and her eyes flutter closed. Her body feels as good as it always has, even better than I ever imagined it would be the moment I saw her photo.

It’s hard to believe that I’ve only known her almost two months. Just two months out of nearly thirty years in this world. I’ve met thousands of people. A few became friends, even fewer became lovers. A lot more than them became kills. But only one defined who I was and gave me a purpose.

Lucy Vaughn. The foul-mouthed dancer from Chicago.

She cries out one final time. Her back arches and her legs twitch from orgasm. I watch her face as it contorts and her teeth drag across her lips. Perfection personified.

I thrust deep inside, feeling my own climax take hold of me and she watches me come just as I watched her. I growl through clenched teeth as every muscle flexes to bring me down. My skin is on fire and my joints swell. Then I feel her hands on me, traveling up my abs and arms to hook behind my neck and guide me down to her humming lips.

I kiss her until I can’t anymore; until my body fights for rest and my vision fades.

***

I sleep like a damn baby.

When I wake up, she’s gone.

There’s not a sound in the whole house. I can’t sense her feet shuffling across the old floorboards or her crutch tapping along beside her. She’s gotten pretty good at hobbling from room-to-room without me but I still get nervous with her on the stairs and she’s always —
always
— lying next to me when I wake up.

But not this morning.

“Lucy?”

I sit up and scan the floor for my slacks as panic sets in. A blitz of worst case scenarios tease my head. What if she fell? What if she passed out and hit her head? What if she took off with my car again?

Oh, fuck.
What if she took off with my car again?

“Lucy!”

My bare feet tap hard against the stairs as I rush down. I’m wide awake now, scanning each room with knowing eyes for her usual lounging places. She loves to relax on the couch with a book and the kitchen chairs are the perfect height to rest her foot on but she’s nowhere to be found.

“Lucy!”

I shove the front door open and the tension crashes from my shoulders.

“Shh…”
she whispers from the porch floor.

I tilt my head. She’s balanced on her left leg with her left hand planted in front of it. The rest of her is in the air. Her braced knee is stretched out parallel to the floor with her other hand shooting high above her. A perfectly straight line from her fingertips to the floor. “What are you doing?” I ask.

“Half moon pose,” she replies, calm and steady.

I heave a sigh as my eyes scan the pale skin of her limbs as they travel out from tight shorts and a tank top. “I see that.”

Lucy rises out of it so quickly my heart lurches but she keeps her balance the entire time. “You’ve seen my morning routine before.”

“Once.
It’s been a while.”

“I felt really good this morning,” she says. She plants her left foot onto the floor and raises her right to hook her fingers in her toes before extending it out to the side. “I didn’t want to waste anymore time.”

“You’re not wasting time, Luce,” I say. “You’re healing.”

“I’d argue that I’ve
healed
,” she says with her eyes closed and her balance on form. “Now, it’s time to start training.”

“I don’t think you’re ready yet.”

“You mean
you’re
not ready yet.”

I bite my cheek. “I don’t think you should start training until you can, at the very least,
stand
on your knee.”

She brings her right foot down and lays it flat against the porch. Her eyes slide open and she stares right at me as she lifts her left ankle off the floor, putting all of her balance into her busted leg.

“Lucy…” I warn, waiting for the moment pain crosses her eyes and her leg collapses beneath her.

It never does.

“Trust me. I can handle a bit of morning yoga, Dante,” she says, her voice solid as stone. “I know my limits.” She lowers her foot and I exhale the breath I’ve been holding since she raised it. “You know… I’ve done this every morning this week.”

I blink. “You have?”

She smiles. “You’ve been sleeping so well, I didn’t want to jinx it.”

My heart flutters even more in my chest. This goddamn woman. She’s somehow managed to be weaker and stronger than me at the same time.

I step towards her and cup her cheeks, drawing her magnificent face up to kiss her. Her hands settle on my bare skin as I pull her closer to me and hold her there.

She laughs as she looks up. “You seem a bit high-strung, Mr. Hart,” she teases. “Maybe
you’re
the one in need of some yoga.”

“Maybe.” I stare down into her fearless eyes and she fills me with her strength. I pinch her pink cheeks, shaking my head to scold her. “Get inside.”

“Yes, sir…” She plants a playful kiss on my cheek and snatches her crutch from its place leaning against the house. It’s obvious she doesn’t even need it anymore but she tucks it under her arm for my benefit, smiling back at me as she goes.

Lucy
walks
inside.

She’s walking again.

She doesn’t need me to carry her anymore. She doesn’t need to wrap her arms around my neck and hold on tight while I do the work. It stings for a moment, then the warm pride sets in.

The world tore her down. Ripped her to shreds. Laughed at her and tried to burn her alive. But here she is. Walking. Smiling. Thriving.

She’s ready.

Chapter 20

Lucy

My father never taught me how to defend myself. He was never much of a fighter to begin with.
If anyone tries to mug you, just give ‘em what they want. Your life isn’t worth the cash in your purse.

He wasn’t wrong but I can’t help but wonder if he’d still be alive today if he knew a little something about disarming an attacker.

There were only four gangsters in that auditorium, Marty Zappia included. There were twelve dancers, myself and my father included. We outnumbered them by a large margin. We were all physically fit with trained bodies and spirits but not a single one of us walked out of there.

Dante raises his gun and points it at my face.

It’s taken a bit of time but I’ve managed to push aside my fear response so I don’t shudder or cringe away from it anymore. It’s not loaded. I’ve known this since the first time he did it when we started training but the reflex remained.

I stare down the barrel and a new reflex kicks in.

I snap forward with my left hand and grab the top of the gun, squeezing it tight between my fingers before tugging back and down, forcing him to bend in my direction. My right hand becomes a fist and I jab forward, stopping less than an inch away from his jaw without hitting him.

“You’re still too slow,” Dante says. “I should be disarmed already.”

“I’m trying.”

“Not hard enough.”

I release him and step back, feeling a dull ache in my knee. It’s manageable but I shouldn’t ignore it. I lower myself into the armchair by the corner to give myself a break and Dante takes my cue to grab his bottle of water off the shelf across the room next to the pile of ottomans and throw cushions stacked on the old sofa. We pushed all the furniture out of the way to give ourselves enough space for our training. The place looks nothing at all like it did when we first arrived but I guess I’ve changed, too.

Dante twists the cap off his water bottle. “You don’t have to hold back anymore either,” he says. “Hit me.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” he chuckles. “Lucy, you’re a performer. Do you rehearse one way and do something completely different on opening night? Or do you practice how you’re going to perform?”