Page 26 of Velvet Cruelty

Chapter Five

Elliot Morelli

January Whitehall. When you first see her, you think ‘yes, that’s a pretty girl.’ But the longer you look, the more the simplicity slides away to reveal a woman shaped by angels. Her skin isn’t smooth, it’s flawless. Her face isn’t lovely, it’s that of a goddess stepping off a seashell. Her body isn’t decent, it’s big-titted, long-legged perfection. The horniest fifteen-year-olds wouldn’t have the balls to dream it up. Soon she’s so beautiful it almost hurts. Then it does hurt. That sparking need to touch her. To make her yours. I have always had control. Always been able to wait for what I need.

Tonight, I offered Miss Whitehall a deal—stand and she could live in my house. Instead, she lay on the floor sobbing for home. I wanted to scoop her up and carry her to the east wing anyway.

“You gonna eat or what?” Doc asks.

I ignore him. He and Adriano are vacuuming up Japanese takeout, but I have no appetite. I can think about January Whitehall. Her round ass, her flat stomach, her gorgeous little face. If only she’d gotten up… but time in the basement will do her good. If she was to be mine, she’ll have to learn to behave properly. No tears. No tantrums.

Doc gestures at my Karaage chicken with his chopsticks. “Can I have that?”

I scowl, pulling the plastic container closer to myself. I can’t believe he gave the girl her first kiss. He must have forced her into it. Domenico wouldn’t know subtlety if he woke up to it sucking his cock. January Whitehall will kiss me of her own accord. I’ll coax her into the palm of my hand before I take her innocence.

It was not our original plan to kidnap her. We were going to plant a bullet in her head and try to get as much of her brains on Parker as possible. But after years of surveillance, killing her began to seem wasteful. Like smashing a glass case to seize a five-star dessert. You might prevent the true owner from enjoying it, but you ruin it all the same. We wanted the dessert—if only to taste it before tossing it on the ground.

It was a risk, of course, the Whitehalls are a powerful New York family. But January is a relatively insignificant member. The youngest daughter of a third son. Her unimportance is the only reason Parker was able to buy her hand in the first place. It was worth the risk to abduct her. There would be bad blood, but the Whitehalls wouldn’t go to war for one teenage girl. While no single act could ever erase what Parker has done, I thought watching his fiancée get tag-teamed by the men coming to kill him was a promising start.

Tonight I walked into my entrance hall, and I was ready to give her to Doc and Basher to play with, then Adriano to kill. Until I saw her.

For centuries, my mother’s family has dealt in precious stones. January Whitehall is una perla rara. A once in a lifetime gem. Identifying her potential is the only intelligent thing Parker has ever done.

When I rubbed my wingtip between her legs, I expected to see fear, but when my shoe brushed her panties, Miss Whitehall’s eyes went wide and her nipples turned to stone under that ridiculous gown. Her shame was as delicious as her arousal.

I’m going to humiliate her with her own desires. Watch her grind herself on my cock, crying while she comes all over me.

“You sure you’re going to eat the chicken?”

I glare at Doc. The table around him is a mess. Loose paper, scraps of wire, tablets, discarded scalpels, and textbooks. The polished oak floorboards are caked with dirt, and the side tables are covered in an inch of dust. This house is more than two hundred years old and in less than five, my brothers have turned it into a truck stop restroom. My Nonno’s houses were always immaculate, not a fingerprint on a mirror or a speck of dust on the mantelpiece. If he saw this place… “This place is a fucking mess.”

Doc shoves another dumpling in his mouth. “Why are you bitching at us about it? Hire a cleaner.”

“I did. She saw your workroom and ran away.”

Doc smirks. “Oh, yeah. So, hire someone else.”

“While we’re keeping the daughter of one of New York’s most prestigious families in our basement?”

“Well, if you’re too paranoid, we can’t have a clean house, can we?”

“We have a live-in staff of five. One of them—”

Doc points his chopsticks at me. “You wanna tell the boys to stop making us money and surveilling the people trying to kill us so they can sponge the carpet, be my fuckin’ guest. Personally, I’m gonna live with the mess.”

I pick up my chopsticks and dig into my karaage chicken. Domenico Valente is as disrespectful now as he was at sixteen. Worse. He used to be at least a little afraid of what would happen if he ran his mouth to the wrong person. Bullets would bounce off his arrogance now. Before I can tell him so, Bobby strides into the room. “I’ve sent the file. Parker’s already seen it.”

I lower my chopsticks. “He’s watched the footage?”

“A couple of times.”

I feel a sweet, almost giddy sense of release, and smiles spread across my brother’s faces, even Adriano’s. I stand and walk to the bar to collect the bottle of grappa I brought from my wing. It was distilled by my Bisnonno and I’ve been saving it since I turned eighteen. It’s surreal to crack the seal and smell the sharp-sweet liquor. I pour triple measures and bring the tumblers over.

“Congratulations,” I say, raising my glass. “May all our plans succeed, and our lost ones be avenged.”

We drink and for a moment no one speaks. We’re all lost in our own world. No matter how much time passes, the memories of what led us here never fade. When you’re young, things have a freshness you can’t reclaim. Your first taste of wine. The first time you know a girl will let you kiss her. The first time a man raises a gun to you and your blood turns to ice.

These days you could strap me to the side of a train, and I wouldn’t feel that bright, all-consuming fear. A good thing. But there’s something about the old days, the four of us running wild through the boroughs, hatching our first schemes, convinced we were kings. Now my brothers and I are kings, but we’ve fought for every inch of our sovereignty with blood. We’re tired, and we don’t laugh like we used to.

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