Page 21 of Anti-Heroes in Love Duet
“Contrary to popular belief,” I drawled, “I do not have a death wish. If Alexander believed my love for his wife was anything but platonic, I’d be dead already.”
Tore’s laugh was full of praise for a man who’d once campaigned to murder him. If he could understand anything, it was possessiveness, and Alexander’s totalitarian ownership of Cosima pleased him because it meant she would always be safe in his company.
As a man with many enemies, this was reason enough to approve of a son-in-law.
“So, Elena,” Tore said, turning his back to the stone wall to rest his elbows on it, his dark gaze fixed to my face. “She intrigues you.”
“The way one villain might intrigue another,” I allowed. “Cosima thought she was doing me a favor in making Elena swear to take on my case, but I have this portentous impression she will do more harm than good.”
“Cosima says she is a very good lawyer, no?”
I inclined my head. “A good lawyer in general is not good enough for me. I don’t need a prudish, judgmental woman caught up in Family affairs.”
“No,” Tore agreed. “Get Frankie to dig up what he can on her.”
I was already shaking my head. “She’ll be as clean as a fucking whistle. No, she will be a consummate professional, I’m sure, hardworking and loyal.”
“Then I do not see the problem.”
“No,” I agreed uneasily, staring down at the illuminated wine; the very same glossy shade of deep red echoed in Elena’s unusual hair. “But you see, I amnota professional, and there is something about all that studied perfection that makes me eager to break her.”
Tore’s grin was a slicing movement across his broad face. He clapped a hand on my shoulder and chuckled darkly. “You are facing prison, Dante. I say, have fun with the girl. Hell, make her cry, get her to quit, whatever you want. Just don’t let it get back to Cosima, or she’ll castrate you herself.”
I smiled mirthlessly at the truth of his words, but I couldn’t quell the feeling like shaken soda overflowing inside my chest cavity. The feeling that was all itch and acid and not at all pleasant that had something to do with Elena Lombardi.
My fucking lawyer.
Tore had been right before. It was the way I felt when normally faced with a seemingly impossible situation and problem. The urge to break apart the pieces and glue them back together in a way that worked for me was nearly impossible to resist.
And at my heart, I was a hedonist.
So, I admit, I didn’t try that hard to resist.
“Bene,” I agreed suddenly, clapping my hands before I rubbed them together in anticipation. “I have little time left as a free man, so I better make good use of it. Are you coming?”
Tore’s mouth twisted wryly. “I thought the time when you needed hand holding to seduce a woman had passed.”
I snorted. “I was talking about going to the hanger to visit the first of our problems,vecchio. I just came from her house, Tore. I’m not some eager youngstronzo. I don’t want to fuck her. She doesn’t look like she could even take my cock, let alone enjoy it. I just want to fuck with her. I have a feeling she’ll be a challenge, and I haven’t had one of those in a while.”
“Not since Cosima,” Tore noted with faux nonchalance, but he was a cunning old man, and there was a glimmer of intrigue in the golden eyes he’d passed on to his daughter.
I didn’t respond because I wasn’t thinking about golden eyes.
I was thinking about a pair of steel ones as hard as armor and wondering just what kind of instrument I’d need to break that metal barrier in two.
Mason Matlock was strung up with rope from the ceiling of the airplane hangar we kept out near Newark Liberty Airport in New Jersey. He’d been there for a very long time, left to hang like a butchered cow being drained of blood. Mason too was being bled out, slowly and carefully by a thousand cuts from the blade of my right-hand man, Frankie.
I stepped through the cool pool of congealing blood as I crossed the asphalt to stop before Mason’s slumped head. His clothes hung off him in ribbons, some fabric saturated in warm blood, other pieces dried to his skin from past injuries. He was a beautiful tapestry of what could happen to a man if he fucked with the Camorra.
If he fucked with me or mine.
My leather-gloved hand snapped out to smash against Mason’s cheek, slapping him so hard he woke from his semi-comatose state. His head jerked back as a groan exploded from his pale lips.
“Wakey, wakey,brutto figlio di puttana bastardo,” I said with a sinister smile as he fixed those bloodshot eyes on me, his pupils dilated with pure terror. “You ready to talk to me yet?”
I’d learned early on that the two most powerful motivators in this life were fear and love. I’d grown especially talented at manipulating both in my enemies, even using one to heighten the other if necessary. Mason Matlock was a spinelessstronzowho had nearly gotten Cosima killed because of his capitulation to his uncle Giuseppe di Carlo’s desires, but he had no fear of bodily harm. This wasn’t unusual. Most men who grew up in the mafia were inured to violence.
I wasn’t deterred.
