Page 6 of Mafia Angel

“Maybe. I can already tell we think alike. You say what I would say.”

“Uncanny.”

I hope he can’t tell everything I’m thinking. Like how I want to run my hands all over him, taste him, and have him fuck me. Hmmm. Then again, if we think the same way, is he thinking that about me? I doubt it. Men like him don’t go for women like me. I don’t work out as often as I should, and he looks like he lives at the gym. They don’t go for women who’d rather read or watch TV than go out. He doesn’t know me, but I’ve seen him in the newspapers. He goes to the hottest night clubs and has the hottest women on his arm. And I doubt he’s into the same stuff as I am when I have sex.

“Sinead?”

“Yes?”

“Lost in thought? Worried about me?”

He flashes that grin again. My panties are soaked. Will this elevator never reach the ground?

“Yes. I’m already so late. I was thinking how much my fine will be.”

“That’s my fault. I will cover your fine.”

“I don’t need—”

“I can tell you don’t need me to. That’s not the point. I caused the problem. It’s my responsibility to solve it.”

He looks guilty. Like he’s embarrassed and is remorseful. It’s not pretend. Or if it is, he’s the most manipulative fucker alive. Given what I can guess he does for a living, maybe it really is the latter.

“I’ll be taking you wherever you need to go after you’re done with court. Tell me what the judge fines you, and you’ll have it by morning.”

“Seriously, though. If you’re protecting me and you think I should have other people assigned to me, who makes sure you’re safe?”

“My family.”

That’s a definitive answer that tells me not to push. Fine. I get the hint. At least I changed the subject away from me. The elevator finally stops. That was the longest ride down from the twentieth floor ever. How did no one else get on? He waits for me to step out, then angles himself, so he’s slightly ahead of me. His right shoulder’s a little in front of my left one, as though he could shift in one step and block me. I glance up at him and notice he’s looking around. His eyes dart down to me before he continues to sweep the surrounding area. When we get to the door, he stops for a moment. I spot a black sedan outside, pulled up to the curb directly across from the doors. A man steps out and walks around to the passenger side. He opens the door and stands beside it.

Now, Gabriele opens the door. He doesn’t want us waiting outside. His pace is brisk, but I easily keep up. Once we’re past the building’s shadow, he steps to his left enough for me to move past him with the next step. Now he’s protecting my back. It must mean he’s confident his driver can protect me from the front. When we get to the car, he steps close enough that I’m sandwiched between him and the door frame. I duck in and slide over. I hear him say the courthouse before he sits, and the driver closes the door. There’s privacy glass, and it’s up. When his hand rests between us, all I can think of is it slipping up my skirt. All the things we could do. I cannot fuck my client. It’s the height of misconduct and unethical. Besides, this is completely one-sided.

We ride in silence for two blocks before he looks at me again. His tone tells me I can argue if I want, but it would be pointless. Actually, his tone tells me not to argue at all.

“You will always know the name and face of the men assigned to you. I’ll make sure you get a photo of them with hair and eye color and height. If they aren’t the men assigned to you that day, you go nowhere with them. I’m serious. If the rotation changes, someone from my family or I will tell you. Never get into a car without your guard checking it first. Sometimes your guard will be your driver. Sometimes the man will only guard you. Never get out of a car before the driver or guard opens the door. Rap on the window when you’re ready. They won’t open the door before then. If you have even a moment’s doubt, call me or text me.”

He holds out his hand. I realize he wants my phone.

GPS: 914-555-8585

Westchester? GPS? He shoots me a text, so I get his number.

“Gabriele Porfirio Scotto.”

I look up from my phone screen and tilt my head. I’ve never heard that name before. Then again, maybe it’s common in Italy and not in America. There are Sineads all over Ireland, but the only one in America that I’ve heard of is Sinead O’Connor. And she was from Ireland.

“If you can believe it, I was a small baby when I was born. I was on time, but only seven-pounds, three-ounces. But according to my mom, I hit and kicked like a martial artist. Porfirio means ‘he who crushes.’”

“An angelic crusher?”

He laughs, and it goes straight to my pussy. I clench, but I ache. His hand could be up my skirt in two seconds if he wanted to. But again, men like him aren’t into women like me.

“Something like that. Apparently, I was an easy delivery and came out with chubby, red cheeks and already smiling. Gabriele hadn’t been on their list, but they said I looked like a cherub.”

He blinks a few times, and I can tell it surprises him he shared that with me. I doubt many people know that. It feels special that he told me.

“It fits.”

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