Page 51 of Mafia Target

He ate a bite of risotto. “How many languages do you speak?”

“Seven. Eight, if you count my limited Scotch Gaelic, which I learned when I knew I was coming here.” I ate a forkful of the mushroom risotto . . . and almost died, it was so delicious. Creamy, with just the right amount of bite. “Fuck, Giulio. This is good.”

“You’re welcome.”

I elbowed him gently. “Thank you.”

“So, Sasha the Assistant. She’s . . . a former lover? Current lover? Fuck buddy?”

I focused on my plate and tried not to laugh. “No, nothing like that. Only an assistant. And she’d cut off my balls if I ever made a pass at her.”

“How long has she worked for you?”

“Almost three years. She’s former Russian intelligence.”

“Ah. That explains the Russian.”

We ate in companionable silence. I was used to eating alone, sleeping alone. Not since the army had I been around another person so much. Were Giulio and I capable of tolerating each other for four weeks?

Probably not. And there was the matter of his father’s assassination attempt. Giulio would resent me the minute he learned who took the shot. Maybe I would confess it at the end of our time together, as a guarantee to earn his hatred. It would make killing him easier.

I finished off another piece of bread. “What do you plan to do once you learn who is responsible for the car bomb? Will you go alone, or will you tell your father?”

“Back to my father,” he muttered. “Why are you obsessed with Fausto?”

Obsessed? I’d asked a reasonable question. “Giulio, your father has resources and manpower. Guns. It would be smarter—and safer—for you to ask for his help.”

“You are the one who said these were low-level associates at best.” He pushed his empty plate away. “Besides, I’m not telling you anything about what I’m planning four weeks from now.”

“It won’t make a difference,” I said quietly. “You can’t hide from me.”

“You think this month is just about orgasms?” He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and leaned closer. “You spent months studying me. So I will use this time to learn everything about you. Your weaknesses, your habits. I will know you better than you know yourself.” Then he nipped my earlobe with his teeth. “And you will never find me.”

A shiver went through me, a rush of anticipation that settled in my balls. Cristo, this man. Never had anyone affected me like this.

And he wanted to know my weakness? All he had to do was look in the mirror.

I didn’t want him to discover how much I liked this idea of his. So I made a dismissive hand gesture. “All I need to do is follow the trail of cocaine and find the new dealer in each town. Or I could wait in the gay nightclubs for a very good-looking man who doesn’t like to give blow jobs.”

He shoved me then stood up, and already I missed the warmth of his body. “Oh, yes. I hate giving blow jobs.” He went around the island, collected our plates and took them to the sink. “Which is why I’ve given you two just today.”

“And you’ll soon give me a third.”

Over his shoulder, he gave me a challenging look. “Is that what you think, assassino?”

Rising, I stalked across the old pine floor until I had him backed up against the sink. His fingers were clutching the old porcelain, eyes locked on mine. I could see the amusement dancing in his bright blue depths. He liked goading me. Fighting with me.

An idea occurred. “Do you want me to force you? Hold you down and shove my dick down your throat?”

“Absolutely not.”

But I could see the way his pupils dilated, the pounding pulse at the base of his neck. He didn’t hate the idea.

In a flash, I spun him around until he faced the sink and I was pressed to his back. I licked his neck, my dick suddenly liking the feel of the firm muscled globes in front of me. “Maybe I will hold you down and fuck you.”

“I don’t bottom, Alessio.”

I began kissing Giulio’s nape, down his spine. “I would make it so good for you, principe. Lick you and stretch you. You’d be begging me for it.”

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