Page 26 of This Thing of Ours

He’d spent the day chasing shadows, trying to get a lead on Ivan Volkov, but he’d come up blank. The guy was a ghost. Discovering the whereabouts of Derek/Dmitri had been a bust, too. He wasn’t sure how many heads he would need to beat, but he wasn’t giving up until he got his prize—both Volkovs six-feet under.

The Russians had been on their radar for a while. They’d slipped into town, trying to horn in on their gambling operations. So far, they’d been beating them back. Guess Ivan didn’t like having his ass handed to him and decided to up the game by taking Gabriella. Stupid on his part. You don’t fuck with the Conti Family and live to tell about it. And really fucking bad on Dmitri’s part that Marco took it personally. That fucker had signed his own death warrant the moment he’d laid eyes on Gabriella.

Marco checked his watch. Almost eleven. Too late to hope for a glimpse of Gabriella. Guess he was knocking on her door after all. He’d spent so many years purposely avoiding her it felt foreign for him to actively seek her out. He’d interacted with Gabriella more in the last few days than he had in the last few years, and it was playing havoc with his emotions—emotions no one thought he possessed. But he knew he had them. Discovered them on Gabriella’s eighteenth birthday. His reaction to her had unnerved him, so his words to her had been cruel. He’d broken something in her that day. At the time, he’d thought it had been for the best, and if he were honest, it probably still was.

He made his way to her front door. The lights were still on in the front room, so he knew she was awake as he rapped his knuckles against the wooden surface.

The door swung open, and he stood in shock for a few beats before stupidly yelling the first thing that popped into his head. “What the fuck did you do to your hair?”

And discovered blurting his thoughts had been stupid when the door slammed back in his face. His hand automatically reached for the handle, quickly pushing the door open before she had a chance to lock him out.

She was still standing in the entry. He wasn’t good with apologies, but for her, he’d try. “I didn’t mean that the way it came out.”

She made a noise in the back of her throat and rolled her eyes. “Yes, you did. It’s okay, I hate it, too.”

“Then why’d you slam the door in my face?” He didn’t understand the logic. Were all women so complicated?

She shrugged, giving him a non-answer that wouldn’t help him in the future and the movement caused her to jiggle something in her arms. He’d been so focused on her hair, he hadn’t noticed the puppy she held.

“You got a dog?” What the fuck? He’d seen her less than twenty-four hours ago.

“Olivia talked me into more than just changing my hair. I’m happy she got one out of two things right. I love him,” she said, dipping her head. Her and the pup’s noses brushed, and a little pink tongue came out, licking across her lips. Was it possible to be jealous of a dog?

Fuck, yeah, it was.

And then she said something that shook him to his very core. Looking up and giving him a hesitant smile, she said, “I named him Fred.”

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t speak. Something was burning his chest and choking his throat.

She must have read something in his expression because she quickly said, “I hope that’s okay. He doesn’t really know his name yet. I can always change it.”

He swallowed, opened his mouth but words still wouldn’t come out. He took a lumbering step forward, reached out, his large hand covering the entirety of the back of her head, and pulled her to him. His lips were on hers before he even realized what he was doing.

Soft—was his first thought.

Need—was his second.

He’d startled her, he could tell, because her lips parted on a gasp. He took advantage, needing to taste her, at least, this once. He slipped his tongue past her lips, encountering her heat and the soft velvet of her tongue as it tangled with his.

She moaned, and his hand fisted her hair, tilting her head back, gaining him better access. He was soaring, almost dizzy, as his heart rate increased.

His dick grew impossibly hard, and his head started screaming at him, telling him to stop.Pull back now before it’s too late. But it was already too late. He would never forget this moment. Never forget the feel of her lips. Never forget the taste of her on his tongue.

Never forget the single moment in time when he, Marco Bianchi, was good enough for Gabriella Conti.

Then the moment ended. The dog yapped, drawing their lips apart—his, still tingling, hers, plump and shiny. He took a step back, the hold in her hair loosening until he released it altogether, letting his hand fall to his side.

Her lids slowly rose, revealing glassy eyes as they locked with his. She took a breath to speak. Her chest rose, drawing his attention to her tits, and her lips parted, but he couldn’t bear to listen. Anything she had to say—good or bad—would break him, so he gave her his back.

He didn’t remember finding the front door and opening it. He blocked out her shouted, “Marco, wait,” as he stepped through it, shutting it behind him. Didn’t look back at her door as he got into his car, started it, and drove away. Didn’t look in his rearview mirror to see whether she watched him leave. And didn’t think of her once his entire drive home.

Okay, so that last one was a lie.

“So, what’s gotyour boxers in a twist?”

Marco looked across the table at Frankie. They were sitting in a booth in the VIP section of Club Con, the most profitable of Nico’s nightclubs. The club served two purposes, the usual “legal” club entertainments in the front, and the illegal poker games in the back. They’d stopped by to check on the latter. Frankie and Johnny had wanted to stay for a drink.

Marco reached for his beer and took a sip. He should have gone home—the loud music was giving him a headache—but the thought of his empty condo held no appeal.

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