Page 42 of Corrupted Queen

Alexis’ eyes are as wide as dinner plates. “What happened?”

I think back on that cold night just over two years ago, locked in my bedroom like a petulant child. I ripped the room apart. It was the last time I let go of my emotions like that, the last time I let my rage consume me. The place was in tatters by the time I was finished.

“A few of my father’s men were unsure of their loyalty,” I reply. “Especially having heard that he was down in the basement torturing a Walsh. They knew that he’d taken it too far, and they released me.”

I remember Dom Rozzi’s face when he opened the door and found me inside shredding my mattress with a penknife. I’m sure he wondered if I was the less crazy Belluci after all.

“I went down to the cellar,” I continue. “But I was too late. Damien had bled out, and my father and yours were sitting opposite his corpse having a drink, toasting their success.”

Alexis’ features twist with revulsion, skin paling. I don’t blame her. I remember the grisly scene vividly, the stench of blood and fear that filled the damp air.

“Then what happened?” she asks in a small voice.

“They pulled their guns when they saw me come down the stairs,” I say. “But I shot first.” I lick my lip. “I didn’t want to do it, Alexis, but I had to. I know how hard it must be to hear this, like losing your father for the second time.”

I had hoped at the time that maybe my father’s death would be enough to stop Andrew Walsh from declaring war. It wasn’t. The rest is history.

Silence thickens in the small gap between us. I can see she is processing everything, can practically hear the gears clicking in her head. My chest tightens, and I wonder if she is only seconds away from spitting in my face and storming from the room.

I know already that I will not be able to handle her rejection after finally laying out the truth for her. And so I heed the impulse that sweeps over me and lean over the chair, crashing my lips against hers.

If I am kissing her, she can’t call me a monster.

She stiffens, and at first I think she will push me away, but then she starts kissing me back feverishly. She stands from the chair and presses her body flush against mine, threading her arms around my neck. Her kiss is fervent, greedy. She kisses me like she needs to, or else her whole world will shatter. I wonder if our passionate embrace is the only thing keeping her from crumbling at my feet.

I cup my hands on her ass, plump and pert beneath my fingertips. Alexis sighs against my lips. I swing her around and push her onto the desk, wedging myself between her thighs. She groans appreciatively, and that wicked sound sends a bolt of electricity straight to my balls. My cock stiffens against the zipper of my trousers and I grind it into her, letting her know how fucking hot she makes me.

I tilt her head back, kissing down her chin, over the soft flesh of her throat. Alexis gasps and sighs. I brush the strap of her tank top down and kiss over the curve of her shoulder. Heat gathers in a tight knot between my thighs and I crush my hips into hers, needing even that slight release.

Suddenly, there is a knock at the door. I still, listening.

“Gabriel, are you in there?” It’s Vito.

I sigh and push away from Alexis, and she hurriedly rearranges herself.

“Yeah, come in,” I call.

Vito opens the door and Alexis scurries past him. Just like that, it’s back to business.

16

Alexis

“I really wish you would play something a little less shite in the background,” Debbie complains.

A poppy tune fills the room with electronic beats and a raspy voice promising all manner of earthly delights. I find myself bopping my head to it from where I sit in the chair by the window.

“I like it,” I defend. “Besides, nobody is going to suspect that I’m having a covert conversation under the cover of this song. If I put on some jazz or classical music, that would be another story. I’d be outed right away.”

Debbie sighs. “Whatever you say. I suppose as long as you’ve got good news for me, it doesn’t matter what kind of drivel you play in the background.”

I stare out the window, where the sky has darkened to a cobalt blue, with streaks of pink painted over the few lingering clouds. It’s a gorgeous evening, though some of the chill sneaks in the open window and snakes around my bare ankles.

“Not a lot,” I say sheepishly. “It’s hard when there are guards around twenty-four-seven. I know that Gabriel has been attending a lot of meetings, but that doesn’t exactly incriminate him. I’ve reached out to a couple of people on the outside via email and I’m hoping to get statements from them soon.”

This isn’t exactly true. The other night I spotted Gabriel walking down the hall to the dining roomcumboardroom with a group of unfamiliar men, including one who shared a remarkable resemblance to Andrew Walsh. I couldn’t pass up this golden opportunity and so I followed them and performed my riskiest eavesdropping session yet.

I couldn’t hear much of their conversation, but what I did catch solidified some of my assumptions. The Irish are not workingwiththe Italians—it’s almost as though they are workingforthem. Neither side likes this arrangement from what I can tell.

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