Page 7 of Corso DeLuca

Truly the rich-rich haven’t a clue how the rest of us waste half the damn day in a clinic’s waiting room for a five-minute appointment with an inattentive jerk in wrinkled drab green scrubs.

“Your under-paid government worker sensibility is offended.” He chuckles. “My father was a mechanical engineer, special agent. The Governor is a self-sufficient city capable of sustaining its occupants and defending its position.”

“Whatever,” I shoot off, wondering what other surprises are hidden in these four city blocks under Corso’s control. Time to work on getting answers regarding The Governor’s key players, Jessie.

“So, the baby you were holding… One of your patients?” My investigation won’t be compromised by a little bullet hole. I slide into information-collection mode, hoping Corso will answer more truthfully while distracted with his tasks.

“Nope. That’s Roman’s son.”

“The infamous Scarponi butcher.” So, the rumors that the former Vitroni crime family hitman had married that magazine photographer, Nesa Dumont, were true.

Corso scowls. “While here, you will call him Roman, special agent.”

“What about Silvio Santino? Should I buy him a wedding gift?” Yeah, I knew about him reconnecting with the girl he loved before he ever picked up a gun and joined forces with men like Corso.

When he says nothing, I chuckle, staring him straight in the eye. If there’s a piece of paper with his name or any of his known associates, I’ve read it.

“You’ve done your research,” he acknowledges.

I sit a little taller in my convictions. “Comes with the job.”

“Does it?” he questions. I bristle at the insinuation that somehow I’m too involved, too dedicated to bringing the sticky residue of the mafia that clogs this city’s lungs with their acrid stench to an end.

“Fucking criminals with kids and bridal registries, unbelievable.” And, unacceptable. Why do they get to be happy and live full lives after snuffing out others? Thirty-seven years and I still haven’t found the one, yet a retired hitman finds his soulmate. Life is a bizarre crossroads of unjust ironies. I plan to right their wrongs.

“You like tossing that word around?”

That jaw tick returns. Interesting, that gets a rise out of Corso DeLuca. He doesn’t care for labels. There’s a metal kidney-shaped basin in his hand. He places three bottles of saline solution, syringes, needles, gauze, towels, a cloth drape, and an aluminum tube of something on the table beside me.

“Fucking? Or criminal?”

He looks up from his task, brows raised as if humored. “The latter.”

There’re two hanging bags of clear fluid suspended from a medical coat rack above my reach. Corso busies himself. First, he rips open two square packets, each the size of a delicious Hot Pocket. A reminder that I haven’t eaten. He unrolls lengths of plastic tubing, then uncovers a plastic spike at the end of the tube, inserting it into a narrow port at the bottom of the IV hanging bag. He repeats the process with the second.

“I like to remind myself who you are.”

Taking my wrist, he places the pad of his fingertips against my pulse. “And if you don’t, special agent?” he asks on a whisper, but I can’t hear because of the heated rush of lust injected into my veins. The sensation of his warm touch on mine sizzles with a drugging effect. Calluses on the pads of his fingers excite my senses; the visible shiver in response to his nearness comes unbidden.

“Are you cold?”

“No.” I snatch my limb from his grasp.

“Would you like me to heat the house?”

Trust me, the space between my legs is plenty hot for him already. As if following his command, a blast of warm air blankets me from overhead. My breath hitches.

“It’s warmer in here. Do-do you feel it?” I ask. Corso is powerful, but now he controls the elements.

“Should I make it hotter for you?”

Crossing my legs to ward off the spread dampness in my core, I narrow my gaze. “No thank you.”

He angles his head, spying my crossed leg. The move brings that thick mane of his within reach. Images of my fingers tunneling through the strands and tugging his mouth to mine explode onto my mental movie screen. Oh, he’s a megastar in my fantasy, and I’m his leading lady.

Corso clearing his throat snaps my thoughts back into my supine body.

I expect a taunt wrapped sexual innuendo. Instead, he asks, “What will I see that you are trying to hide, Jessie?”