Page 12 of The Woman in the Garage

Luca looked at Dante, then back at me, a light in his eyes. “Is the new owner a woman?”

“Yeah,” I admitted. “Her name is Dasha.”

“Let me guess. Blond and curvy?” Dante asked. Sometimes, your siblings just knew you too damn well.

“Alright,” Luca said, leaning back in his chair, a ghost of a smile toying with his lips. “Look, I’m fine with you giving her a week to sort shit out. But don’t go letting your dick make Family decisions with this woman.”

“Got it,” I agreed. “It’s not gonna be a problem,” I assured him, even if another image of her flashed across my mind, dress hiked up, round ass out toward me, begging me to fuck her.

“Alright. Well, this is yours,” Luca said, shaving off some bills and handing them back to me. “Anything else you need to talk about? Any new jobs going on?”

“Nope, that’s it,” I said. “Why are you here?” I asked Dante.

“Pitching a new job,” he admitted.

“You? Leading a job?” I asked.

“I’ve led jobs before,” Dante said, shrugging it off.

And, yeah, he had. We all had. But the brother I knew didn’t go out of his way to find new ones. He liked hitting the gym, then using all that bulk of his to walk the docks looking all intimidating.

I couldn’t help but wonder why he was taking on more responsibility now.

“Well, if that’s all, I have some work to get back to,” Luca said, rising from the desk.

Dante and I walked out of Famiglia together.

“Hey,” Dante called, standing beside his SUV.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t fuck the Dasha chick. No matter how hot she is.”

“Really? You’re giving me advice on decorum?” I shot back. “Didn’t you once fuck the girlfriend of a rival Family?”

“To be fair, I didn’t know who she belonged to. And she was hot,” he added with a devilish smile as he slid into his truck.

I had no intentions of getting myself into the world of trouble like Dante had after that whole fiasco.

I was going to be smart and keep shit professional. Even if my cock started to get hard each time I thought of Dasha.

Save for the next meeting where we had to discuss the arrangement, I’d probably only be seeing her once a month for two minutes as she handed me an envelope of cash.

Or that was what I thought as I got in my car and started to head in the direction of a furniture store.

Only to find Dasha’s shitty little hatchback sitting on the side of the highway with its hood open.

Dasha herself was leaning back against the trunk in a yellow and white floral sundress, her head lowered, looking defeated.

She was probably waiting for one of the guys from her garage or AAA. There was no reason for me to pull over and offer assistance.

But, you know, what would my mother think? She raised me better than that.

Or, at least, that was what I was telling myself as I pulled up behind her and put my flashers on before climbing out of the car.

“Mr. Grassi,” Dasha said, brows raising as she looked at me.

“Santo,” I corrected. “Car crap out on you?” I asked.

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