Page 35 of Unholy Union
That “other business” being the Falcos.
But I’m ignoring them both. I’m more focused on the buzzing in my pocket as I withdraw my phone and check the alert on my screen.
It’s a notification from the surveillance app, letting me know what Sabrina’s up to.
Speaking of my beautiful little bride…
She has no idea I’m tracking every single moment of her day. She’s aware of thescheduleI’ve had the staff put her on. But she’s unaware of all the other things about the Valente estate, like the hidden cameras and microphones in almost every room, directly linked to my phone so I can keep an eye on her at all times.
Then there’s the tracking device inside her wedding band that’s so minuscule it makes a tic look like fucking King Kong.
My staff goes where she goes. They make sure she stays busy. That she doesn’t get herself into trouble.
And I oversee it all from afar, the heir of the family and man she belongs to.
Sabrina Corsini can’t be trusted. Her beauty is almost of another world and her sense of wit is frustrating. She can turn her grace and charm on and off like a light switch, and the other night in our hotel suite, she proved she could play the seductress role better than any woman.
If I let my guard down at any moment, the girl could really pull a fast one.
I’d put nothing past her.
So I’ve been keeping her occupied with busywork. I’ve been keeping a very close eye on everything she does, everywhere she goes, damn near every fucking thought in that curly little head of hers…
Right now, as I stalk down the halls of Valente Luxura with Lazaro and Harper behind me, I look at my phone and find Sabrina dripping with sweat. She’s come from her morning jog around the estate.
She pauses to suck down some water from her hydro flask, but it’s not her damn water consumption that almost makes me stop halfway down the hall.
It’s her messy dark curls piled at the top of her head, showing off her slender throat and the delicate bone structure of her face. It’s the rosy color of her flushed cheeks, the smattering of freckles dotted across both sides. How her lips look parted and so fucking plump as she heaves air into her lungs and then returns to her water bottle for another drink.
I zero in on the droplets of sweat glistening on her skin. It gives her a dewy radiance that’s almost maddening. That drives a spike of anger inside me as I track a single bead sliding between her tits in that sports bra.
Suddenly, my hands ache to reach through the phone screen and rip it off her.
Take one of those tits in my mouth, then run my tongue up her chest and throat, licking up the salt of her.
I’d have her pressed against that wall in seconds. Fingers twined in her hair. Legs banded around my waist. Dick buried deep in that little cunt as she gasped and I pounded away.
The fantasy unravels in a matter of seconds, before we’ve even reached the end of the hallway.
Harper’s still yammering on about the fucking sit-down I don’t give a shit about. Lazaro’s a little more observant—or maybe being a man of few words, he’s used up his daily word count.
It doesn’t matter either way.
As we pivot down a new hall, I tell Harper to reschedule the meeting with the art collectors. Lazaro knows that means we’re going with his option instead.
Family dealings come before Valente Luxura, which means we’ll address the Falcos first.
It takes us five minutes to make it down to the ground floor where the Escalade is waiting for me. Another five to make it from Hudson Yards where Valente Luxura headquarters is located to Pier 62 by the Hudson River.
Rudy Mancini and two of his guys are already waiting for us. A capo in the Falco family, Rudy’s in his mid-forties, with beady eyes that don’t stop shifting side to side and a tire for a gut that melts into the rest of his skinny-fat build. He’s got dark, receding, slicked-back hair and always wears a club jacket as long as I’ve known him.
As we approach, he tosses a couple ulcer pills into his mouth from an orange pill bottle.
“Jesus Christ, it’s hotter than the Devil’s nutsack out here, huh? I woulda left the jacket in the car, but y’know—sorta partof the uniform. You see that seagull nail that poor schmuck by the bike rack? Had doodoo oozing all down his face!” Rudy rambles. His beady eyes flick over me before he grins toothily. “And look at you—Cato Valente in his suit and tie! All pressed and polished like you’re ready for some GQ shoot! You showing off or something?”
Rudy holds out his hand for a firm handshake.
The Falcos have never been friends of the Valentes. But they’ve never been enemies of ours either. More like we’ve been… mutually neutral to one another.
