Page 46 of Wicked Mafia Beast
"The Syndicate." I lick my lips, tasting salt. "How did you all come together? What binds you?"
He pulls out slowly and I wince, bracing against the desk. The clink of his belt, the rasp of his zipper. Then his hands are pulling my jeans up with surprising gentleness. He turns me around, lifts me onto the desk, and stands between my thighs. His expression is guarded, but something in his eyes has gone soft.
"In the simplest term, trauma." He says it simply, the way you'd say water or air. Something elemental. "Each of us carries wounds. We found each other at our lowest points and chose to become family." His thumb traces my cheekbone, oddly tender after what we just did. "Rafael found me in Moscow, half-dead and feral. Drake saved Luca from a Colombian drug lord. Massimo walked away from a legacy that would have destroyed him. Rowan..." He pauses. "Rowan's story isn't mine to tell."
"And that's enough? Shared trauma? That keeps you loyal to each other? That’s hard to believe. Shared DNA and blood couldn't keep my family loyal."
"DNA and blood isn’t always what makes a family. We'd kill for each other. Die for each other." His hand drops from my face. "There's nothing I wouldn't do for my brothers."
The conviction in his voice twists a longing so sharp between my ribs it steals my breath. My family was a cage. His is a fortress.
I cock a brow and my fingers involuntarily go to the ink on his forearm. "Same time tomorrow?"
From the smirk etched at the corners of his lips he thinks he’s won. "Will that become a daily question?"
"Is that a no?"
"That's a 'we both know I'll find you before tomorrow.'"
A shiver rolls down my spine. He steps back and I slide off the desk on unsteady legs, straightening my clothes, running fingers through my wrecked hair.
"I need to work. Review my files."
"Eat first." He nods toward the kitchen. "You barely touched breakfast."
"I was a little busy getting bent over your desk."
"Multitask."
I snort. Actually snort. "Did you just make a joke?"
"I've been known to." He's already walking toward the door. "Use my office. I have calls to make."
"You sure? I just..." I glance at the scattered evidence.
"I'm sure." Something warm and possessive flickers behind his eyes. "I like knowing you're close."
My ribs squeeze tight around a warmth that has no business being there. Six words. Six stupid words and my whole chest goes soft, the way it does when you hear something you didn't know you needed until someone said it out loud.
No one has ever wanted me close. My father kept me at arm's length. My uncle wanted me gone. Every editor in New York wanted me to disappear because, yeah, who the hell wants a mafia boss’s daughter hanging around. Short-minded prick.
And this man, this beast who bought me at auction four days ago, wants me in his chair. In his space. Close.
I shove the feeling down so hard it bruises my tender heart.
"Noted." That's all I can manage. I nod, gather my dignity, and settle into his chair while he disappears down the hall.
The leather is still warm from his body. I try not to think about how much that pleases me.
I open my laptop for the first time since Kon handed me my bag yesterday morning. The screen blinks to life. I put in my biometrics and password. Five seconds and my old files stare back at me, exactly as I left them the night everything went sideways. Preliminary Malone research. Shell company names I'd traced through public records. The warehouse photos and guard schedules I'd backed up to the cloud weeks ago, before Seamus figured out what I was doing.
It's a skeleton. The bones of an investigation without the meat. The real evidence, the shipping manifests, the financial records, the witness statements, all of it is sitting inside the wall back at my father’s mansion. Months of work I can't touch.
But skeletons can be rebuilt. Especially when the man down the hall is feeding me intel no journalist could get on their own.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. Then, before I can talk myself out of it, I create a new folder.
SYNDICATE RESEARCH.
