Page 56 of Her Dark Salvation

“I get it. I imagine it’s jarring if you’ve never been exposed to this world.”

And she had?

“Like I said, be careful with Marco. I know this is all new to you, and I don’t want to see you get in over your head.”

The front door opened, and Mr. Balistreri strode into the club followed by two men wearing telltale shades, one of whom I recognized as Mr. DeVita’s driver. Mr. DeVita himself appeared next, his familiar, dominating swagger causing a rush of adrenaline that threatened to knock me off my stool. Two expensive suits filed in next. The first, shorter than Mr. DeVita and stout, his face shadowed by a fedora. The second, taller with features like a hawk. A final sunglassed security guard brought up the rear, and the seven men stood in the doorway like a scene out of theGodfather.

“I think that’s our cue,” I whispered.

She laughed, and the musical lilt drew Mr. DeVita’s attention, but his eyes landed squarely on me.

He said something I couldn’t make out, and the group strode through the club to the spiral staircase at the back while he and his driver made their way to where Siobhán and I sat at the bar.

“Ladies,” Mr. DeVita crooned, peeling off his gloves one finger at a time. “Did you enjoy your night?” His eyes never left mine, and I sat frozen, unable to speak, held captive by the conflict of danger and desire.

“The new Super Tuscan is fabulous, Marco. Excellent buy,” Siobhán said and stood from her barstool. “I could have done without seeing Luca, but an otherwise lovely night. Thank you.”

His eyes darted to Siobhán. “You two need to act your age around each other,” he grumbled.

She snorted. “Tell him that.” She took her coat off the chairback. “Anyway, we were just leaving.”

His dark, sensuous eyes returned to me, and the air between us hung heavy with anticipation.

“Anna.” Mr. DeVita held out his hand, never breaking eye contact. A spark zinged through me when our fingers touched and made my body rabid for more.

“Thank you,” I said in an awe-filled whisper.

“Paulie. Take the girls home.”

“You got it, boss.”

“Oh, that’s really not necessary.”

“I insist,” he commanded in his executive voice.

Siobhán’s focus drifted to where my hand still rested in his. “Come on, Paulie.” She shoved her arm into the crook of his elbow and pulled him toward the door.

Mr. DeVita released my hand and fetched my coat. He held it open, and I threaded my arms into the sleeves. He settled it across my shoulders, stepping closer as he wrapped it around my body. His powerful frame was a furnace pressed against my back, and his breath tickled my ear, sending a frisson of heat straight to the apex of my legs. I tilted my head to bring my face closer to his lips.

He hummed, a satisfied sound. “I changed my mind.” He ran his hands up and down my arms. “Wear something low-cut to the office. Something tight that shows off your ass and those gorgeous tits. You’re having dinner with me tomorrow night, and I want to engage in some sexual harassment.”

A strange sound escaped me, something between a groan and a yelp, and my cheeks flared at the ridiculous noise. His chest rumbled with laughter, deep and sinful, and he squeezed my arms before releasing me and took quick strides to the winding staircase.

I walked out of Vesuvio in a daze, unable to process what had happened or the torrent of sensation attacking my body. Mr. DeVita’s driver opened the backdoor of the Range Rover, and I slid into the seat. The door slammed shut.

“Girl.” Siobhán gawped at me, her eyebrows approaching her hairline. “You are in so much trouble.”

* * *

I threwoff the covers and picked my phone up off the side table. 3:00 a.m. “Ugh.”

I swung my feet over the edge of the bed and slid them into my slippers. Sophie lifted her head and glared at me with the profuse judgment only achievable by cats. I didn’t blame her. I’d go back to sleep if I could, but images of Jeff’s bruised and swollen face and topless women serving drinks at poker tables plagued my dreams. I needed answers.

I pulled on a pair of jeans and an oversized sweater, threw my hair into a ponytail, and threaded it through the back of my Red Sox cap. Boots, coat, gloves? Check. I locked my front door and started the long walk to MIT.

Even if Marco DeVita wasn’t currently a member of the Mafia—doubtful given the illegal club and the shakedown at city hall—I’d be hard-pressed to believe he hadn’t been at some point. He wouldn’t have been able to negotiate with Pádraig Shaughnessy otherwise.

My breath came in short puffs of steam against the cold black night. Heightened awareness kept my mind busy and my eyes searching, nervous I was being followed. Whether by one of Mr. DeVita’s men or someone keeping tabs on Mr. DeVita, I didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. It freaked me out all the same. I picked up my pace until I was safe within the walls of MIT’s main library.

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