Page 21 of Rescued By the Mafia

When they reached the house Dante insisted she learn to think of as “theirs,” Iris opted to wait in the living room while he went upstairs to change. He’d gotten blood on his clothes, after all. Iris trailed her fingers over the low-profile mantle that offered a visual separation between the fireplace façade and the mounted television, then moved to the nearest cushioned sofa and let herself drop down.

Paul’s voice rose from the forbidden depths of her memory. “You worthless bitch.”

Iris rolled her lip between her teeth, her body tensing on instinct.

“The only thing you’re halfway good for is getting food on the table. You don’t even suck my damn dick unless you’re half unconscious, so why the fuck would I step up for you?” Paul had spit on her, as if for good measure, as he’d backed her into the wall, yelling his tirade in her face. “You should have stayed in the goddamn house like I fucking told you! You’re lucky I showed up to drag your ass back here at all!”

Lucky.

She’d known by then how lucky she wasn’t. Not there, in that house, with that man. But for whatever reason, she’d been more fixated on saving face and proving to her local acquaintances that she was still alive—still doing fine, even though it was a lie—than on escape. So when she’d had an opportunity to leave the house without her hovering boyfriend, she’d gone straight to a neighborhood birthday party Paul had opted not to attend.

Had Paul saved her from the birthday girl’s inebriated cousin’s heavy-handed advances? No. The drunk had groped Iris over her dress and ground himself against her until Iris had managed to shove him off—only to find Paul standing a few feet away, watching. Rage had colored his face and she knew she would take the blame for more than just leaving unescorted. But in that moment, her own adrenaline high, she’d messed up and talked back. Just one question.

“Why didn’t you help me?” If she’d had more clarity of mind, she never would have asked it. For a dozen reasons.

Iris drew a deep, stabilizing breath.

Paul had been charming when they’d first met. He’d been a perfect gentleman, with a touch of a flirtatious side that she’d seemed to have to pry out of him at times. He’d been gentle, well-mannered, and proud to show her off to his friends. Or that was how she’d felt about his behavior at the time, at least.

He’d also kept her at arm’s length in ways she’d failed to realize quickly enough. He’d lied so smoothly she wondered, in hindsight, if the Devil himself hadn’t taught Paul the skill. He hadn’t let her see the inside of his house for close to a year, and almost as soon as she was sweet-talked into moving in, she was informed that she wasn’t to leave without him. For her own safety, of course. He worked in law enforcement. He made enemies.

Iris stretched her arm around herself and traced her fingers over her elbow again. She couldn’t feel any pain from whatever wound had been inflicted anymore, but another thought had occurred to her.

If one of his colleagues had laid a hand on her and caused her injury, even accidentally, Paul wouldn’t have cared. More than likely, he’d have told the other man not to worry about it—that she was clumsy and used to pain, anyway. And in private, when they were alone, he’d have reminded her how much the small wound really didn’t hurt.

Iris released her arm and pressed her fingers firmly into her breastbone. Her throat had constricted again, as it often did when she got a little too lost in the ugly memories. So she pushed on herself, grounding herself, and made a conscious effort to remember where she was—and where she was not.

Couch. Hardwood floor. Fireplace. Mantle. Oversized TV.

She let her arm go slack and released an easier breath.

Dante was upstairs, changing into clean clothes and scrubbing blood off his skin. All because he’d done another thing Paul would never. And the thought of Dante, the memory of hands and his lips and the hunger in his eyes, pulled Iris to her feet. She remembered he still wanted to take her to his bank, supposedly to put her name on an account she would share with him.

But upstairs was too far away. She had to see him, had to feel his presence.

seven

Closer, Closer, Closer

Dante was buttoning up his third shirt of the day when a soft tap at the doorframe drew his attention. He turned, letting a little of his curiosity show in the lift of his lips, because he knew precisely who his visitor was. Only one person would dare. “Did you miss me already?”

A subtle hue of pink—never his favorite color, but one that was quickly growing on him—flared beneath the freckles that dotted the skin across the tops of her cheeks. Iris stepped properly into the room and pushed the door shut behind her before coming closer, her gaze dropping from his, watching his hands work.

He supposed she hadn’t seen the tattoo yet. He looked forward to showing it to her.

Iris reached up and brushed her fingers along the back of his raised hand, her touch so light it was almost nonexistent. “I didn’t thank you properly,” she said softly. Her gaze lifted back to his, the green somehow brighter in the low lighting of the room.

Dante left the last button undone and let himself touch her face, fingertips trailing along the curve of her cheek. “You don’t have to thank me,” he said. “A man’s job is to protect what’s his.” His hand curved behind her head, settling at the nape of her neck. “You are mine. No one will harm you again and not pay the price.”

She gripped his shirt. “No one’s ever … protected me, for the sake of it, before.”

He leaned in until their lips were a hair’s breadth apart. “Then the people of your past have failed you unforgivably.” And if they ever resurfaced in her life, he would end them the same way he intended to end her miserable ex. “But that is your past, Snapdragon,” he said firmly.

A single tear slipped from her eye and Iris pushed forward, pressing her lips to his. She opened for him immediately, allowing him to sweep his tongue into her sweet mouth and take control of the kiss. He growled low in his throat and held her tighter, his body roaring to life at the taste of her. At the feel of her in his arms.

All he’d wanted to do all day was pin her to the nearest flat-enough surface and show her what sort of passion she roused in him. The idea of still leaving this room for something as tedious as ten minutes at his bank made him want to burn the whole thing to the ground. Or perhaps that was the fire currently coursing through his blood.

When the kiss broke, both of them breathless, Iris trailed a hand down his chest, her nails scraping teasingly through the fabric of his shirt. Then she pulled from his grasp and dropped to her knees, her hands working on his belt.

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