Page 14 of Wicked Sinner
"Are you on birth control?"
"Yes, thank God. I've been on the pill for years." I press my hands to my face. "But still. How could I be so stupid? I don't even know this guy, and I let him come inside me without protection. God, I should have made him use a condom. A guy like that would have one on him. What if I caught something?"
"But you're on the pill, so you're probably fine," Jenny says reasonably. "For pregnancy, anyway. And you said it was incredible, right? Sometimes when something feels that good, you don't think about the practical stuff. Make an appointment and get checked out, maybe, but I’m sure it’s ok."
I glare at her. “Would you tell a patient that?”
“No,” she admits. “But you’re my friend. I’m trying to make you feel better. Definitely make an appointment with your gyno, but as far as pregnancy, I’m sure you’re in the clear.”
"I guess." I take a deep breath, trying to calm down. "You're right. I'm on the pill. I take it at the same time every day. I've never missed a dose. I'm fine."
"Of course you're fine." She reaches across the counter and squeezes my hand. "And honestly? This might be exactly what you needed. You've been so focused on work and keeping the shop running that you've barely dated anyone since… since your father passed. Maybe having one incredible night with a hot stranger will remind you that there's more to life than carburetors and oil changes."
"Maybe," I say, though I'm not convinced. "But it's not like I'm going to see him again. And even if I did, what would be the point? He's not exactly the kind of man I want to get involved with."
"No, probably not," she agrees. "But you can still enjoy the memory, right? Not every sexual encounter has to lead to a relationship. Sometimes it's just about the experience."
She's right, of course. I'm overthinking this. It was one night. One incredible night that I'll remember for the rest of my life, but it's over now. Caesar is gone, back to whatever world he came from, and I need to move on.
"You're right," I say, forcing a smile. "It was fun. I'm glad it happened. And now I can get back to my normal life."
"Exactly." Jenny grins. "Though I have to say, if more hot, mysterious strangers show up at your shop, you have my permission to fuck them senseless. Just maybe use protection next time."
"There won't be a next time," I say firmly. "I'm done with mysterious strangers. From now on, it's back to boring, predictable guys who don't make me do crazy things."
"Boring is overrated," she says, but she lets it drop.
We finish our lunch talking about other things—her job at the hospital, my upcoming bills, the weather. Normal, safe topics that don't make me think about pierced cocks and Italian endearments and the way it felt to see a man like that hungry forme.
After she leaves, I throw myself back into work. I finish the oil change, start on a brake job, and tackle the paperwork that's been piling up on my desk. By the time I close up shop, I'm exhausted but feeling more like myself.
I shower again, make dinner, watch some TV, and try to forget about Caesar Genovese and the way he made me feel.
I almost succeeded.
6
CAESAR
Three weeks later
A blondein an expensive-looking red silk dress is talking about her charity work, something involving literacy and fundraising galas, but I've long since stopped listening. Her voice has that particular cadence that screams expensive finishing school—every word perfectly enunciated, every syllable dripping with the kind of polish that comes from a lifetime of being groomed for exactly this moment. I’m willing to bet for all her talk of kids reading, she’s never actually sat with one and helped tutor. Just thrown money at problems and charged thousands of dollars for gala dinner plates while she and those around her preen over howgoodthey are.
"The annual gala raised over two million dollars last year," she continues, her perfectly manicured hand resting on my forearm. "Don't you think it's important to give back to the community? Especially those of us who've been blessed with so much?"
"Absolutely," I reply automatically, taking another sip of my whiskey and scanning the room over her head. "Your work sounds very… fulfilling."
Isabella Torrino beams at me like I've just declared her the most fascinating woman alive, and I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes. This is the fourth woman I've spoken with tonight, and they're all variations of the same theme: beautiful, well-bred, perfectly acceptable, and boring as hell.
The party is being held at Konstantin's waterfront mansion, the kind of sprawling estate that has old money built into every stone and tile. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over marble floors, and the sound of a string quartet mingles with the gentle crash of waves against the private beach outside. It's a lavish affair designed to look like a casual social gathering, but I know better. This is nothing more than a sophisticated meat market, and I'm the prize bull being paraded in front of potential buyers.
I never would have pictured Konstantin Abramov as a matchmaker, but he’s really gone all out on this. Maybe it’s just the power of putting barriers up to my re-entry into criminal society, but he seems to actually be enjoying this.
The guest list reads like a who's who of the most eligible mafia princesses from the middle of the country to the East Coast, each one more eager than the last to catch the eye of the newly returned Caesar Genovese. Their fathers control shipping companies, construction firms, restaurant chains, and judicial connections. Their mothers have been grooming them since birth for exactly this moment—the chance to marry into power and secure their families' positions in the hierarchy. None of them are from a family that can rival Konstantin or Tristan in power, but several are a little higher on the food chain than my father was. A way for Konstantin to remind me of his power and my lack of it—he’ll want me to pick a bride that can raise my station, but not above his.
"I'd love to show you the children's wing of the hospital sometime," Isabella continues, her blue eyes bright with practiced enthusiasm. "We've just finished renovating the playroom, and the children are so excited about it."
"That sounds wonderful," I say, though the thought of touring a children's hospital with this woman fills me with a strange sense of dread. Not because I dislike children or charitable work, but because I can already see how it would play out. She'd guide me through the halls with her perfectly practiced smile, introducing me to staff members who would gush about her dedication, all while photographers from the society pages captured our every move. All the while, it would be clear that she hadn’t gotten her hands dirty in the slightest.
