Page 121 of Thorns of Lust
My eyes darted to Illias to find his jaw had tightened, his tall frame focused on Marchetti, along with his sharp gaze.
“I see we’re having a graveside meeting.” A calm, deep voice came from the side, and I followed it to find the familiar beautiful face. His amused gaze lingered on me.
“Hey, you again,” I exclaimed then realized how ridiculous that sounded. By his bemused expression he thought so too. “I kind of know you.”
God, he wasn’t that good looking to get me tongue tied.
“Nice to see you again. Although circumstances could have been better last time.” Wryness touched his last sentence as he flicked a look at Marchetti and Illias, his face the picture of polite impassiveness.
Why did it feel like there was more at play here?
“Just in case you forgot, I’m Amon,” he introduced himself. “Amon Leone.”
As if I could forget his name or that face. Lordy. I could stare at him day and night, and never tire of his face. But Amon’s handsome face wasn’t the important thing here. It was distinguishing who was who here.
My brain cataloged through names I’d heard in the underworld. Leone wasn’t one of them. Nor was Marchetti. Yet, that darkness and ruthlessness that marked every mafia man I knew was clearly part of their DNA.
In slow motion, or maybe it was just my slow brain, I turned to Illias to find a muscle ticking in his jaw. His dark, unforgiving gaze full of something terrifying was on the two men. His eyes were a dark, violent storm and his face etched with lines of anger.
“Marchetti. Leone.”
Without a second look their way, he led me to the car and out of the cemetery. I couldn’t help but notice his body vibrated with tension.
Yet his embrace was so strong and reassuring it eased the warning signs of the storm to come deep inside me.
I should have known it would implode.
THIRTY-EIGHT
TATIANA
The ride to Konstantin’s place in the heart of the New Orleans’ French Quarter was silent. The city still slept after the late night parties.
It didn’t matter what time of year it was, parties always went on in this city.
I wasn’t born here, but I loved it. Warmth. Jazz. Beignets. Jambalaya. Even the stupid drunks.
As soon as I parked and hit the cracked sidewalk of a familiar block of the French Quarter, I inhaled a deep breath, then slowly released it. There was something about this city that always appealed to me.
“Thanks for the ride home.” Illias finally broke the silence as he came around my little red Audi R8, then slid his hand down to my lower back. The heat of his touch seared through the thin material of my designer dress, wishing I’d feel him on my skin.
Yan was already behind us as we entered the large courtyard of Konstantin's residence.
“How is it that you own this place?”
“It’s been in my family for centuries.” My eyebrow shot up in surprise. “My father let your father take over this territory. My mother’s family ran it before the Nikolaevs.”
How did I not know that?
“I thought your family prefers the ‘freeze your ass off’ motherland,” I remarked quietly.
His step halted and tension dampened the air for a second, an unidentifiable emotion passing over his face. He turned to face me, his gaze burning into me.
“What?” I asked when he gave me a strange look.
“I spend most of my time in California.” Surprise washed over me, immediately followed by a memory.Jesus Christ.
“I remember where I’ve seen you before,” I murmured, my brows scrunching. It was a very brief moment. At the Constantinople restaurant. “I met you at the restaurant there. How could I forget?”
