Page 7 of Ruthless Lord
There are a thousand reasons why this is stupid. My family would literally kill me if they knew I was doing this, for one. But worse, they’d probably kill Stefano, too.
He has no idea how much trouble he’s in right now.
And I don’t care. I doubt he would either. That’s the sickest part of all this.
I reach up and lightly move his hand from my arm. He seems disappointed, but doesn’t try to push.
I surprise both of us when I step forward, reach up, and brush my thumb down his temple.
“Still have some blood on you,” I murmur, wiping it away.
“Looks like I owe you now too.”
“I’m a lifesaver.” I shiver as my fingers graze the stubble on his cheek. He’s so much bigger than me—twice my size, maybe more—and he could break me in half. I watched him squeeze a monster nearly to death. Imagine what he could do with me. “How far is your place?”
His eyes brighten with excitement. His lips press into a suppressed smile. “Ten minutes.”
“You really live around here?”
“Beats Center City. Less traffic.”
I honestly can’t tell if he’s serious, but he doesn’t wait for me to figure it out. I have to hurry to keep up again as he strides away without checking to see if I’m following.
The area ten minutes north of here isn’t that much better, but there are more cars and lights at least and the houses aren’t boarded over. We’re deep in South Philly, in territory I don’t recognize. I try to remember who controls these streets, but I’ve only ever half paid attention to my grandfather’s lessons. I’m pretty sure they’re Italian, and it’s not until we’re approaching a nice, updated corner house that I remember their name.
The Marino Famiglia.
Stefano heads up the stoop. He punches in a code and holds the door for me, eyebrows raised like he thinks I’m going to chicken out. Beyond is a very nice place, a glimpse of hardwood floors and modern furniture, but not much else.
I’m in deeper than I thought. If this guy is who I think he is, there’s no way in hell I should ever step foot inside that house.
Bad enough I followed a street fighter home.
Worse that he’s part of the Marino organization.
Technically a rival family.
“Do you have any wine?” I ask, slipping past him. My hand brushes against his rock-hard stomach and another thrill runs down my spine.
“Plenty,” he says, closing the door and snapping on the lights.
His house is surprisingly nice. I expected a bachelor pad with sports memorabilia on the counter and crumbs on a cheap old carpet. Instead, there’s a beautiful leather couch against one wall, mid-century style chairs at a gorgeous repurposed wooden table, and tasteful art over light gray walls. The place reeks of taste and money without being extravagant.
“I moved in here a couple years back,” Stefano says as he heads into the kitchen. “Redid most of it myself. The floors were a real nightmare.”
“They’re gorgeous,” I say and really mean it. “All original?”
“Hand-sanded and stained.” He takes a bottle of white from the refrigerator, twists off the top, and fills two glasses. “You’d be surprised how much work these old Philly homes are.”
“Not a surprise. They were built so long ago.” I take a long sip. Then I take another. He’s looking at me, completely at ease, while I’m a nervous wreck. “Can I admit something to you?”
“I think we’re past asking.”
I nearly laugh. God, I hope not. “I’ve never, you know, gone home with a guy from the warehouse before.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“I don’t think so.”
