Page 71 of Bad Medicine
And we were. Rocco entered me slowly, holding himself above me while he moved within me, every stroke deep and powerful andbeautiful.
We learned each other. There in my queen-sized bed that was clearly too small for him, I learned that Rocco was strong, and steady, and dedicated. I learned that he could make me feel things, make me believe things about myself that I had never thought possible.
And when I finally came, it was with his name on my lips, and maybe—just maybe—something a little like love in my heart.
Chapter thirty-two
Rocco
Well,thiswasdifferent.
I had slept with a lot of women, but I hadn’t ever actuallysleptwith a woman. Like, curled up, big spoon, choking on her hair when I rolled over kind of sleeping.
And though I clearly wasn’t actually asleep, I had to admit, I didn’t hate it. It was new, there was no doubt about that. But, new was definitely fuckin’ working for me. There was something about having her there—the heat of her body and the curve of her ass all pressed up against me—that just satisfied something deep inside me. Some part of me that knew, without a doubt, that she belonged there, in my arms, all night long.
At least, that’s where she would have stayed, if my goddamn phone ever stopped blowing up.
Reaching blindly, I felt along the nightstand until I located the fuckin’ thing where it was vibrating along the wood like crazy. Mia must have been exhausted—pat myself on the back for that one—because she slept right through it.
Pressing the button on the side of the phone, I could see it was nearly two in the morning, and that I had a string of texts from Trick. Squinting at the bright screen in the dark, I struggled to make out the stupidly small words in the message, but there was no mistaking the photo he had sent me.
“Motherfucker,” I bit out, carefully extracting my arm from under Mia’s pillow where I had been cradling her to me. Pulling on my jeans, I smiled as she flopped back into my vacant spot, her body spreading out like a starfish and letting out a cute little snore in the process.
Fuck. I was really gone if I was standing here, smiling like a lunatic over her snoring, when I had some serious business to attend to.
Creeping out of the bedroom, I made my way down to the living room again, turning on a lamp and rubbing my eyes before taking a second look at the texts that accompanied the photo.
Holy shit, this was fuckin’ bad.
Not having the patience to respond by text, I dialed Trick, who answered on the first ring.
“Am I interrupting your beauty sleep, Rock?”
“Get fucked,” I said without humor. “What the fuck did you send me?”
“Well, I been following that Bratva douche like you said. First, he headed up to East Las Vegas and made a stop at theLonghorn,” Trick replied, sounding like he was a TV weatherman instead of a mobster. “Only spent about twenty minutes inside. From there he headed downtown, talked to a few guys up and down Fremont Street, making a few exchanges and shit, then he headed over to Anton’s brothel. Spent a good amount of time in there.”
“Alright, man. I want the info about the photo, not his fuckin’ diary entries.” I paced the small living room like a caged animal, scratching my fingers over my bare chest in agitation. “When did you take the photo.”
“About half an hour ago,” Trick replied. “I thought you’d be interested in seeing it.”
“Have you sent it to Enzo?” I asked hesitantly. The last thing I wanted was to interrupt Frankie and Enzo during her dad’s retrial. She deserved to stay in New York until it was done, and he’d never leave her alone.
“Nah,” he drolled. “Figured we could handle this one on our own. After all, he’s just a baby Bratva brat, right?”
“Right,” I said, not at all sure I believed those words. Gregor was beginning to be a bigger pain in my ass than I could have ever anticipated.
And I had a much higher stake in the game now than I ever had before.
“Alright, take off for the night,” I said to Trick, coming to a decision. “In the morning, I’m gonna arrange a face to face with Anton. I think it’s about time I called him to the carpet on this little game he seems to be playing.”
Trick hung up, and I found myself staring at the screen again. At the photo of a man I never expected to see again.
Because standing there, clear as day beside Gregor the fuckhead, was Ivan Sorokin, who was supposed to be very, very dead.
Not wanting to wait until morning, I called Anton, but he didn’t answer. Instead, I sent a text, letting him know I wanted to talk, right fuckin’ now.
Pocketing my phone, I resolved to try and get a few more hours of sleep before I had to dive into this pile of shit headfirst.
