Page 60 of Hexed
She laughs and reaches into her bag, pulling out a magazine. “I don’t think so.”
“No aunts or uncles or anything like that?” I press.
“I mean, I’ve got an uncle, but we’re not close.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah, Uncle Frankie, but I’ve only met him a couple of times. He’s out in New Jersey, I think.” She flips a page in her magazine. “Why?”
My heart stops in my chest.New Jersey.“Just curious. You don’t talk about your family much.”
She giggles. “Well, after we’re married, what’s yours is mine anyway.”
Her words feel like a noose around my neck, but I shove the feeling away because it isn’t Aria’s fault I suddenly can’t keep my shit together.
“So this uncle of yours, Frankie…what’s his last name? How come I’ve never heard of him?”
She gives me a weird look. “Why would you have heard of him?”
I lift a shoulder. “I thought I knew everyone in Jersey.”
“Bianchi.”
My hackles rise.
There’s only one Frankie Bianchi I know of, and he’s a low-grade loan shark who calls himself “Shark Daddy.” He’s not a made guy, but if we were in a room together, he’d be introduced as a friend of mine, meaning he’s connected but not part of the family.
I’ve never met him myself, but I’m wondering if that needs to change immediately.
Especially if he’srelatedto my future wife.
I pick up my phone and shoot off a text to Giovanni.
Find out what you can about Frankie Bianchi and why the fuck we didn’t know he was related to Aria.
FOURTEEN
VENESA
His hands are rougherthan I thought they’d be. Larger too, and when they skim up my sides, heat flares deep in my stomach and spreads until it’s pooled between my legs.
I’m nothing more than a marionette, dangling from strings he’s controlling.
I moan when he reaches beneath my shirt, those calloused fingers skating up the length of my stomach until he’s cupping one of my heavy breasts in his palm, creating a friction that has me seeing stars as he manipulates my flesh.
There’s no guesswork, no hesitation. Only strong, sure caresses.
It’s beensolong since a man has touched me this well.
His mouth follows the trajectory of his hands, brushing kisses up my abdomen and then along my collarbone, and as he moves, a piece of his black hair falls forward, tickling my skin. I laugh, and when he nips my flesh, that laugh turns into a moan, my own hands reaching out now, grappling to find purchase somewhere onhim.
I’m not sure how we got to this point, but I don’t really care.
The roots of his hair are just as soft as I always imagined, my fingertips running through the silky strands and tugging harshly when his teeth sink into a sensitive spot on me. He groans, and the sound resonates—vibrates—like my body was made to be a conductor for the noise.
“Enzo,” I moan, trying to physically force his head down.
The scruff of his jaw grazes the side of my neck, and his hands slip farther until his fingers tangle with mine. He maneuvers my arms above my head, pressing them firmly into the bed. “I love the way you say my name.”
