Page 7 of Wicked Mafia Mistake
I want to feel like Cinderella at the ball.
Reality seeps into my thoughts. I don't know who this is. It could be anyone in the world. Do I care? I should delete the message. Wrong number. Some woman meant this for a boyfriend or an ex and I have no business reading it, let alone doing what my hands are about to do.
My fingers are already moving before I've fully made up my mind. I guess I'm letting my heart do the talking tonight. I crave the feel of flesh under my hands and the softness of a woman. Desire settles deep inside me and forces a fire into my veins so strong my hands shake with need.
Tesoro, come to my penthouse. No names. No panties. My rules. Penthouse 106, Redthorne Holdings. Let me make your darkest birthday wishes come true.
Send.
I put the phone face-down and stare at it.
"What the fuck did you just do?"
I push to my feet. The chair scrapes across the wooden floors. I drag both hands through my hair and grip the back of my neck. The empty penthouse doesn't answer. Helpful as always.
I don't do this. I have never done this. Not in forty years of disciplined existence have I invited a stranger to my home. And I sure as hell don't throw around the wordtesoro.That word carries weight. It's reserved for something precious, something worth protecting, and I just handed it to a woman whose name I don't even know.
I cross to the windows. Press my palms flat against the cold glass and lean into the chill, letting the bite of it cut through theheat crawling up my neck. Chicago glitters below, full of people touching each other, laughing, doing all the ordinary human things I negotiate on paper and never get to have.
"Forty years old and acting like a teenager who just slid into a stranger's DMs." I huff a laugh at myself, but the humor doesn't stick. The truth is, my hands haven't trembled like this in years and the ache behind my ribs feels like it's been waiting for permission to surface with how it’s clawing.
My phone screen lights up and I'm across the room in four strides.
It's not a response, only three pulsing dots dancing on the screen. She's typing. The dots appear, disappear, appear again. Writing and erasing. Writing and erasing. My thumb hovers over the screen. My jaw is locked so tight my molars ache. The dots cycle through three more rounds and I realize I've stopped breathing.
The dots vanish. Nothing comes.
Yeah, but she doesn't say no, I remind myself.
Something twists in my gut. Nerves. When was the last time I had a woman over? Never. That is what Scarlet Thorn is for. And the last time I took a night off…fuck. I can’t remember that far back.
But this doesn't feel like just a possible roll in the sheets, and someone needs to make that make sense for me. Maybe I’m just too damn horny to see through the fog, but the excitement I feel for a possible one-night stand has me rethinking my life either way.
I set the phone down. Loosen my tie, pull the silk through my collar, the fabric warm and smooth against my fingers, and toss it on the chair. Unbutton my vest, shrug out of it, drape it over the back of the sofa. I roll my shirtsleeves to the forearms, fabric bunching above my elbows, the tail of the red viper tattoo visible where it curls to my right wrist. I drag a finger over the old ink. I've given a lot of myself to the brotherhood behind the symbol. And it's cost me almost everything I wanted in this life.
And I'd do it again.
But tonight...tonight I wish things were different for just a few hours where I could focus on what I want instead of the needs of all those expecting me to protect them.
Being celibate while your friends land beautiful wives seriously skews a man’s brain. I knew I wanted a wife and kids early in life. I wanted to correct everything my family got wrong. But the older I get, the further the plan slips. At this point maybe random hookups are all I can aspire to.
I’m just not husband material and I need to come to terms with that. If she comes, she's not getting the Syndicate's fixer. She's getting whatever's underneath, and I haven't looked at that man in a long time.
I pour another glass of Macallan for myself and grab another from the shelf to set beside mine. Two glasses. One full, one waiting.
Twenty minutes. I shift my weight against the island for the third time. Tap the granite with my thumb. Take another pull of whiskey that has lost all its flavor. My shirt is wrinkled from a twelve-hour day and my sleeves are shoved above my elbows. My beard needs a trim, the close crop I keep it at lost to a twelve-hour day. I drag a hand over the rough grain and check my phone again.
Nothing.
The intercom chimes.
My hand stills on the counter. Heat floods my chest and drops straight to my gut.
"Mr. Santoro, there's a young woman here for you. She says she's expected at Penthouse 106."
I inhale deeply through my nose and let it out slowly. "Send her up." Not knowing her name, not knowing a single thing about her, tightens every nerve in my body.
My voice comes out steady, which is a damn miracle given how hard my heart is pounding.
