Page 37 of My Dark Fairy Tale
She bit the bottom of her lip, gaze skirting mine before she made her way inside.
Mysoldatibarely waited until she was through the kitchen before bursting into laughter. Even Ludo.
“She is stunning, boss, I’ll give you that,” Carmine said through his chuckles, wiping at his leaking eyes.
“Evil,” I told them in Italian. “Swine.”
“Genius,” Martina quipped, pointing to herself. “Matchmaker. Just promise me when you marry the girl I can be your best man.”
“I believe you all have business to get to? I want to know who the hell this San Marco is by the time I return tonight. And Ludo? Did you find any of Guinevere’s things at Galasso’s residence?”
He shook his head. “Only a photo of her family, I think. Parents and sister.”
I frowned, surprised that thebastardohad sold or thrown out everything that wasn’t of value from her car but kept a silly photo.
“Did you take his hard drive?”
Ludo only blinked dispassionately at me, because of course he had.
“Tell me what you find tonight,” I said as I stood from the table. “He mentioned Leo’s name. Someone call him and find out how well he knew thestronzo.”
“Aye, aye, boss,” Martina agreed. “Now, you have fun on your date!”
I rolled my eyes and went into the cool depths of the house to get ready for my outing, ignoring the way they started gossiping about me before I’d even left earshot.
“Where is the Ferrari?” Guinevere asked when I took her to the garage and led her toward my matte silver Bugatti Chiron.
She eyed the Maserati, the two Lamborghinis, and the Ducati motorcycle almost suspiciously and muttered under her breath, “You could feed a starving nation with the money from these cars.”
“Unfortunately, I do not have an altruistic bone in my body,” I said, unashamed of my excess.
It was not something Italians were made to feel guilty about like they seemed to be in puritanical-leaning America. I worked hard for my fortune and ill-gotten gains. Why should I feel embarrassed about it?
“You helped me,” she reminded me as we got into the leather-scented interior. In the deep bucket seat, her dress rode up to scandalous heights, revealing that while she was short, she had long legs for her proportions.
I wanted to suck bruises into the tender, pale skin of her inner thighs like stepping stones leading toward her sweetfiga.
“Exception, not rule,” I said as the car rumbled to life and I pulled briskly out of the garage and through the open gate into gentle midmorning traffic. “As you seem to be for all my rules.”
“Is that a compliment or a complaint?”
“Both,” I decided, sliding a look at her to see the way she bit the edge of her smile.
“So the Ferrari. What happened to it?” she asked again, much to my annoyance.
“You, if you will remember that night last week when you hip checked it.”
She rolled her eyes so exaggeratedly I worried they would get stuck that way. “Har har. Was the damage really so bad? I mean, I did have a mild concussion, but I remember it looking fine, and we drove it yesterday.”
“Fine is not perfect.”
“And it’s perfect or nothing for Raffaele Romano?” she asked, pronouncing my name like a local.
It shouldn’t have been so attractive, the sound of my name in her mouth. But she rolled herr’s as if tasting fine wine, savoring the taste of each syllable.
“You say that like it is a bad thing.”
She shrugged in my periphery as I followed the direction system to the address she’d given me across the Arno for her rented apartment.
