Page 13 of Maddest Temptation

“Like you care.”

“Actually, I do, Francesca.” I tapped my fingers against the table staring her deep in the eye. “I can’t keep cleaning up your messes like that. You must have been pretty high to do something so stupid.”

She pushed the empty bottle and chip bag toward me. “I’m done here.”

Well, I wasn’t. Not even close. When I got that call from Francesca tonight, I thought it was some sick joke. Hearing her voice after four years had been a physical shock. Enough that I jumped from bed ignoring the woman beside me.

“Who gave you the blow?” Her eyes widen and her cheeks turn pink. Francesca looked around embarrassed and then glared at me for making her so.

“I’m not going to answer that,” she snapped.

“I highly recommend that you do.” I fisted my hands under the table. Aggravating woman.

“Or what? You’re going to treat me like one of your men?” She whispered that part. “I’m not going to answer because I don’t want to.”

I almost chuckled, when had she grown a backbone? Where did the sweet Francesca Manci go? The Outfit’s little saint. So poised and perfect.

“Who gave it to you?”

She sighed loudly looking at the ceiling. “Why does it have to be someone? Why can’t it be me?” She crossed her arms. “I bought it.” The worst part was that there was no trace of a lie on her face.

“That’s expensive shit.” I pointed, slightly shocked.

“I like expensive shit.”

I couldn’t help but provoke her, maybe it was to see how far she’d gone, or how far I was willing to go. “Is that why you married Paolo Biancini? For the expensive shit?”

“That and the sex, of course. Can’t forget that.” She offered me a sweet diabetic smile. “Or that bed we once broke.”

My fists were clenched so tight that my knuckles were numb and pale. I asked the question, so the fault was mine alone, and now I had to imagine her in bed with that old fucker. It twisted my stomach and left me wanting to break something.

I could stomach a lot of shit, my hands were coated in blood, and I had a spot in Hell with my name on it. Few things, if any, scared me. But talking to Francesca and learning what had happened to her in these past four years was not something I planned on doing tonight, in a diner at four o’clock in the morning.

We headed back to the car, and I drove her back to her place until she grew all stiff. “Where are you taking me?” She inquired.

“Your home.”

“That place is not my home, Cassio,” she said with such fierceness that it left me feeling like a fool. With all the bad memories that happened in that house, I wouldn’t call that place a home either.

She offered me—begrudgingly—the address to her new place. A neighborhood, I might add, was not to my liking, but I didn’t mention that. It wasn’t like we were going to see each other again. In fact, I had no plans of seeing her ever again. Tonight, had been a one-time deal. A necessity. A favor.

With her no longer living in Indianapolis, the only way to keep her away from me was avoiding her at all costs. Francesca was too much trouble and as my dick had proven tonight, when it came to her, I was eager for some action.

I couldn’t deal with the past right now, with what happened between us, and from her hostility toward me, it seemed neither did she. It was best to ignore it ever happened. Even if the thought of forgetting her didn’t sit well with me.

As I parked the car, I pushed aside all thoughts of the past and focused on her. Before she could leave, I locked the doors. Her vivid sapphire eyes flashed toward me, and I had the impression she was about to get on my nerves with her new attitude. “Don’t think this will ever happen again, Francesca. I let this one pass because you are obviously grieving, but the next time you are found with blow or any drugs on you, I will deal with you as I deal with my men.”

“Trust me, Cassio, I never want to see you again.”

“The feeling is mutual.” I unlocked the door. She stepped out of the car in a hurry, and I sped away from her building with a bitter taste in my mouth as if I had been running from something.

4

CASSIO

Arabella Moretti, beloved daughter, and loving sister the simple tombstone read. Bella wasn’t the kind of girl for flashy things or grand gestures. She had been a simple girl in a world of diamonds and gold. She had been offered a silver spoon but would have rather eaten with a wooden one.

That had been Bella, my little sister.

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