Page 5 of Scorned Beauty
“Kolya?”
“What do you know about Kolya?”
“Nothing.” That was the right answer, even when I knew something. You learned not to give direct answers that could come back to bite you in the ass when you were talking to anyone connected to the underworld. And Dom, despite his man-of-Wall-Street, trust-fund demeanor, was very much in the mob. “I probably don’t want to know why you’re bleeding out because of me.”
“Oh, it’s really because of you.”
“You defended my honor?”
A quiet beat of tension descended and I could feel whatever scrap of humor get sucked out of the van. In its place, a pulse of raw fury hit me from the side.
“Is there a reason to defend your honor from the Russians?” His voice was gravelly, his breathing more ragged. I was tempted to pull over and check on him.
“Well, you said it was because of me.”
He exhaled a hiss of air. “Later. We’ll talk.”
“How about we don’t,” I replied. We exited the tunnel and I made the turn toward Hoboken. “Look, I don’t know why you think I’m involved with whatever shit you have going with the Russians.”
“Stop talking.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your voice,” he muttered. “Your voice makes me hard.”
“What the fuck?” My cheeks flamed. “You did not just say that to me.”
“Shit.” Dom gave a pained chuckle again. “Blame the blood loss.”
“Shut up, then, so I will.”
He grunted and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. I clamped my mouth shut, irritated he had to remind me again of my disadvantage. Usually, I could regulate the huskiness by staying hydrated, but nights like this when I was exhausted, there was no disguising the natural raspiness of my voice which an ex-boyfriend once described it like I’d screamed myself hoarse while he was giving me an orgasm.
As if. Fake orgasm maybe.
I concentrated on getting us quickly to my apartment and prayed that Dom was telling the truth and he wouldn’t expire in my van. Also, I didn’t think I could haul his…what? Six-four, two-hundred-plus-pound frame up to the fifth floor.
It was just luck a Ford sedan pulled out a block from my building. I lived in a busy neighborhood and it was a Friday night…well, Saturday morning already. There were folks coming home from one-night stands or a booty calls.
I gave myself a mental shake at my jadedness.
I cut off the engine. “You need help getting out?”
“No.” He shoved his door open.
Still, I made it to his side before he fully cleared the van.
“I’m fine,” he gritted. “Lead the way.”
I held up my arms in surrender—for my own mental health and I’d practiced this enough with my brother. If a man said he was fine, he was fine. I never wanted to read between the lines, and I didn’t know Dom well enough to waste a brain cellwondering if it was his Italian machismo that made him resist my aid. I walked ahead of him toward my building. A rent-control ruling enabled me to afford it at a reasonable price. I was doing better financially, but I was by no means swimming in cash. Lost in my annoyance with my brother and the Russians, I failed to notice that Dom wasn’t walking in a straight line. Just as I turned to him, his right foot snagged at the edge of a step. It wasn’t a tall step, but Dom lost his balance and disappeared into the hedges.
My mouth fell open, blinking at the sight of one of the most feared mafia bosses in New York in an utterly undignified position.
Chest heaving, I tried to fight the laughter bubbling up my throat.
I failed.
Laughter erupted straight from my belly, the force of my amusement so huge, it was like the sight of Dom struggling to get up from the bushes sent a pin to a distended tension balloon that finally found release.
