Lust for Danger: A Mafia Romance -- Book One: The Family [Erotic Mafia Romance Book] (5 page)

“Hmm,” she said out loud. There was a royal blue sleeveless dress that caught her eye, and she could pair it with that slim black belt with a gold buckle she’d picked up at a little boutique the day before. She had the perfect pair of black heels to go with it, too. Before she knew it, she was caught up in a flurry of activity, her bathrobe cast to the floor as she whipped the clothes over her head.

She spun around in the mirror, admiring herself.
Perfect.
The dress fit her gorgeously, and it showed off the curves of her hips in just the right amount to be suggestive while still keeping it classy.

“Jessica,” she said to herself, “you are one
foxy
lady.”

She dried her hair in a flash, still wearing the outfit but just kicking off her heels – she didn’t want to take the outfit off and risk having that euphoric feeling go away. She did her makeup in a hurry, just a smudge of light lipstick and a quick swipe of eyeliner – what she called her “no-makeup makeup” look. She was a woman on a mission, and suddenly every minute she spent cooped up in her hotel room felt like another minute wasted.

She grabbed a simple black purse and light jacket, did a final twirl in the mirror, and was done – lights off, door shut, and into the elevator within twenty minutes of leaving the shower.

And as she descended down to the lobby, she couldn’t stop smiling.

As she reached the lobby, she walked over to the concierge desk. “Excuse me,” she said, “where’s the best place to get a drink on a Thursday night?”

The concierge was a tall, muscular kid, maybe 20 years old, and she noted with pleasure that he was fighting not to give her a once-over as he spoke.

“Well, ah...” he said, clearly flustered, “It depends – are you looking for dancing, or…”

“Yes,”
she said emphatically, cutting him off. “For dancing.”

“Okay,” he nodded, “very good, ah… maybe you want something a little fancy? Or more relaxing?”

She looked at his nametag – Emilio.

“Listen, Emilio,” she said, leaning in a bit closer to him. “I just dumped my boyfriend, and I’m looking to go dance my ass off at the hottest club in town. You got it?”

He blushed a bit, but laughed.

“Okay, okay,” he said. “I know a good place. It’s close by… not more than ten minutes. I will call you a taxi.”

“Perfect,” she said. “What’s the name of it?”
“It is in Trastevere,” he said. “A club called Terrazza. It is the best place for dancing. You will love it.”

She smiled.

“I’m sure I will.”

Chapter Seven

Running his thumb over the stack of banknotes in his hand, Dominc Pirelli looked again at the screen of the television by his desk and watched Carlo Ambrosi exit through the main double doors of the club.

He sighed heavily before unlocking the drawer of his desk and shoving the wad of banknotes inside and locking it tight.

Forget it
, he thought to himself, as his eyes turned to the now half-empty bottle of Scotch. He reached out for it, but something made him pause for just a second.

Maybe he shouldn’t. After all, he never knew what kind of bullshit lay in store for him this evening – never knew when he’d have to clean up someone else’s mess at a moment’s notice.

But things had been pretty quiet this week, the Ambrosi incident notwithstanding. Dom ruled with an iron fist, and the whole town knew it. It had been a long and violent road to the top, but over the past several years Dom had reached such a position of power that no one was stupid enough to mess with him. He had the mayor in his back pocket, for Christ’s sake, and now even the Berlottis were trying to win his good graces.

And besides, if anyone tried to fuck with the Pirelli family, he had a whole army of loyal soldiers ready to keep the peace.

So after a minute’s hesitation, Dom grabbed the bottle and poured himself another double.
Fuck it.
He loved this life, it was true – but he’d had enough of the family business for one day. And besides, what was the point of being the most powerful man in town if you couldn’t let loose once in a while and enjoy yourself?

He took another long, luxurious sip of the whiskey, savoring the taste as it went down. “Ahhh,” he said in satisfaction.

It was good to be the king.

Standing up with a smile on his face now, he walked over to the en-suite bathroom in his office –
another perk of being the boss
,
he chuckled to himself. He took a look at himself in the mirror, scrutinizing the first traces of gray appearing in his jet-black, shoulder-length hair. He was only thirty-eight, but the men in his family had always gone gray early.

But Dom liked the salt-and-pepper look he had going on, and he had no hang-ups about getting older. With his full lips and high, muscular cheekbones, he knew he cast an imposing presence. And the chiseled muscles of his six-foot-two frame didn’t hurt things, either.

He splashed some water on his face, tearing off his navy-blue t-shirt and using it to wipe the water away – an action that would have sent his mother into a yelling fit. He smiled softly at the memory of her, and his eyes flicked to the tattoo on his left pectoral muscle, just above his heart.

Dom had a half-dozen tattoos, but this was the one that was most special to him – an ornate medieval-style cross with a rosary draped over it, and the date of her death written underneath. On a ribbon wrapped diagonally over the stem of the cross, there was a simple word written:
Madre.

He knew what Carlo was going through, and he could recognize easily that pained, dull look in his eyes when they spoke about his father. And what he always told Carlo was true: family comes first.
For a guy like Dom, family was all he’d ever had – the only thing keeping him off the street, the only people he could count on not to stab him in the back. Family wasn’t just first, it was
everything.

Hell, if Carlo had been a Pirelli, there was no question what would be happening to the Berlottis right now: a full-fledged fucking war, no question about it.

But Carlo wasn’t a Pirelli. And that made things much more complicated.

Dom knew what his mother would say about this, of course. She always considered their gang to be one big extended family. When the guys would come over, no matter what time of night, she’d put on a pot of coffee and make sure everyone was fed. She never gave much weight to the idea that only Pirellis were allowed in the inner circle – much to the chagrin of Dominic’s father. 

And if she were alive, she would have treated Giorgio Ambrosi’s murder like a crime against her own flesh and blood.

Damn it
, Dom thought to himself, cursing as he pulled away from the mirror and stormed back into his office, still shirtless. He was thinking of work again. Sometimes he was like a machine without an off switch.

But it wasn’t mere workaholism weighing on his mind tonight: it was guilt, plain and simple. And as he gently placed his fingers of his left hand over the tattoo on his chest, Dominic realized what he had to do.

With a look of combined rage, disgust and resignation, Dominic turned back to the sink and spat out the whiskey in his mouth, then poured out the remainder of his glass. He grabbed the bottle from his desk and overturned it above the sink, not stopping until every last drop had drained out.

Peace offering, my ass,
he thought to himself.

As he let the empty bottle fall into the trash bin, Dom immediately felt better, even though he knew his decision to follow his conscience was about to make things very complicated for him. Trastevere was about to see a war the likes of which it hadn’t witnessed since the seventies.

But that was a matter for tomorrow. Tonight, he planned to enjoy himself – and to drink his own fucking whiskey, not what the Berlottis had offered to him.

Grabbing a charcoal gray T-shirt from the bureau in his office and pulling it over his solid frame, Dom gave himself one last look in the mirror before heading out of the office and down to the club. He liked what he saw, he had to admit. And he noted, with no small satisfaction, that he could look himself in the eye without any guilt or reluctance. He was doing the right thing – he would have made his mother proud.

Yes, it was good to be the king.

And tonight, Dominic Pirelli was going to celebrate.

Chapter Eight

As she stepped out of the cab, Jessica took in the sight of the gleaming, neon-lit megaclub in front of her. Pink and blue floodlights danced across its exterior, and a muffled bass beat could faintly be heard thumping relentlessly from inside. Two surly-looking bouncers flanked the main doorway, and above their heads a single word was lit up like a firework in impossibly bright white lights, made to look like a handwritten scrawl:
Terrazza.

She smiled to herself.
Oh, yeah.
This was exactly the type of place she’d been looking for.

The bouncers took notice of her immediately, straightening up almost imperceptibly as she approached. And why wouldn’t they? She was dressed to kill, and she strode towards the club with all the swagger of a woman who was on top of her game – and knew it. As she stepped up the stairs to the doorway, one of them pulled the door open for her, and the music from inside leapt out all at once like the sins from Pandora’s box.

“Good evening, miss,” said the bouncer, in heavily accented English.

Jessica decided to fire back with some Italian.
“Buona sera,”
she replied.

The bouncer smiled, and turned with his body to gesture her inside the door. “Please,” he said. “This way.”

“Is there a cover charge?” she asked, in English this time.

“For you? Of course not,” he said. “Would you like a table?”

She blushed a bit, relishing the princess treatment she was getting. “No, thanks,” she said. “I just need a glass of Champagne and the dance floor.”

The bouncer smiled. “Yes, please. Right this way.”

He escorted her through a short foyer and past an interior door, and immediately the pulse of the music grew again to a louder volume. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, Jessica saw a mass of writhing bodies on the dance floor, wrapped in faint wisps of fog that curled around their bodies like ribbons. Everywhere she looked, she saw beautiful men and women dressed to the nines: talking, laughing, dancing, or leaned up against the bar surveying the scene. The walls seemed to stretch on forever in each direction, and when she looked up, she could barely see the ceiling above her head. Around the perimeter of the club, on the second floor, she saw secluded balconies set all around the main hall with what she assumed were VIP tables.

The club reminded her of the weekend she’d spent in Las Vegas, at a friend’s bachelorette party, except that this place seemed less crowded and somehow classier. The music sounded great, and it wasn’t loud to the point of being obnoxious – the perfect level for dancing, while still allowing for some level of conversation. The atmosphere was alluring, sensual – and beneath it all, she felt a distinct sense of eroticism swirling in the air, something powerful and enigmatic, like this was a place where anything could happen.

She turned to look at the bouncer, but he had already slipped away from her and went back to his post at the entrance. She was alone amid all the chaos, and for a brief second she felt the slightest bit unsteady on her feet. She wanted badly to partake in all of this, but first she needed a drink to steel her nerves. Tonight was a night for the ‘old Jessica’ to come out: the sexy, confident woman she’d always been, before her recent string of bad relationships had thrown her for one loop after another. Tonight, she was going to remind herself who she could be.

The bartender noticed her instantly as she stepped up to the bar, and came over to take her order.
“Che cosa le porto?”
he asked, but she waved her hand to signal she didn’t understand.

He smiled. “What can I get you?”

“I’d like a glass of Champagne, please,” she said, and he nodded.

With a slight chuckle, he leaned forward across the bar so they could hear other better. “Miss, you are in Italy! May I suggest Prosecco instead?”

“Ah, of course!” she said, laughing. “One glass of Prosecco.” He smiled again, and she watched him as he turned away and knelt down to take out a brand-new bottle from a mini-fridge. She appreciated the fact that all the staff were speaking Italian, even though they could easily switch to English. It was a sign that this wasn’t just some overhyped club for tourists. And the bartender, just like everyone else in the place seemed to be, was impeccably dressed – and gorgeous.

He brought the bottle up to the bar and set a Champagne flute out in front of her, and with a slight flourish he popped open the bottle of Prosecco with a sound audible even over the music. The cork flew up into the air, and the bartender followed it with his eyes until he caught it in his left hand before it fell back to earth. Laughing, Jessica gave him a slight clap, and he bowed slightly in acknowledgment while filling her glass up to the brim.

Placing the glass in front of her, he bowed again. “First one’s on the house.”