Page 16 of Velvet Cruelty

I grin. “I’ve changed my mind. She can call me that all day.”

Morelli puts a hand on Basher’s shoulder. “And this is—”

“Bobby,” Basher interjects. “Just Bobby.”

Morelli pauses. Usually when people interrupt him, he has Adri break their fingers, but he loves Basher, treats him like a baby brother. He gives him a small nod. “Fine. Miss Whitehall, this is Bobby. Sometimes we call him Basher.”

January tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Good evening, Bobby.”

Basher goes bright red. He thinks an anglicized name makes him her type. He’s deluded. She doesn’t have a type. She’s a pretty little girl who doesn’t know her asshole from her elbow. The irony is, the only one with an Anglo name is Morelli. His dad called him ‘Elliot’ after a business partner. Word is, when the epidural wore off and Morelli’s mom saw the birth certificate, she went for his eyes.

A current is passing between January and Basher. She’s still screaming at him to rescue her. Makes sense. She’s spent the most time with him and now that we’re all together, she trusts him the most. It’s high time someone took a shit on that.

I whistle. “Hey, Whitehall. Did you know we call Bobby ‘Basher’ because his real name’s Roberto Bassilotta?”

January’s eyebrows pull together.

“Also, his parents farmed pigs in Ohio and his Nonno fought for Mussolini.”

Adriano lets out a snort of laughter. Basher looks like I stomped on his puppy. I shoot him a wink. “Sorry, Bash, but you need to have more pride in your heritage.”

“Puttaniere psicotico,” Morelli mutters. Psychotic whoremonger. He flicks a finger at January, who’s risen to her knees. “You. Get back on the floor.”

She obeys, lowering herself down onto her ass. “Mr. Morelli, can I ask why I’m here?”

“You’re questioning me?”

He says it as though it’s a throwaway line, but the undercurrent zaps her. “No. Not at all, I just…”

He walks toward her, studying her face, her body. He’s fussy, Morelli. His taste in pussy is more expensive than his taste in clothes. And unlike the three of us, this is the first time he’s seen January up close. Unless you count her sliding around the van unconscious.

He takes her chin and turns her face this way and that. “Why did you have security guards, bella?”

January seems dazed by his attention and his touch. “To… keep me safe?”

“No. Lie back on my carpet.”

January’s eyes scan the room for an escape that isn’t going to come. Finally they land on Bobby. He jolts like an electric shock’s gone through him, but he doesn’t move. He’s not stupid. Even in his crushed out little heart, he knows January might come out of this evening a corpse. It would be revenge for him as much as any of us, but he looks fucking miserable all the same.

January’s gaze drifts back to Eli. “Mr. Morelli—”

“Is there a reason why you’re not doing what you’re told?”

She recoils and I’m sure she’s going to break—scream or jump to her feet and try to run. But then she lies back like a snow angel on the carpet. I head to the side table and pull out a chair, ready for the show. Adriano posts himself by the fire and Basher stays near Morelli, as though he still might be able to stop what’s about to happen.

Morelli studies the girl before him. “Since you’re determined to be helpful, Bobby, pull Miss Whitehall’s hem to her thighs.”

Basher’s mouth twists. I can practically taste his dilemma. He wants to protect January. He wants to obey his boss. He wants to see January’s body. He hesitates, before kneeling at her side, turning his face away as he tugs up the lace of her gown. I lean forward as January’s long legs are exposed.

She lets out a soft whine. The sound heats me through like whiskey. For years I’ve run strip clubs and pussy palaces, handled thousands of gorgeous women, but none have had this one’s palpable innocence.

I want to ruin her.

“Move away,” Morelli says.

Basher retreats, his face shadowed. He’s angry, but I’m pretty sure he’s hard behind his chinos too. How could he not be after finally laying hands on the girl he’s panted after for years?

Morelli steps between January’s legs. “Are you going to misbehave?”

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