Page 8 of Fallen Rook

Tom grunted at the fact I spoke to him again, tugging his black leather gloves up his fingers one at a time, the picture of tranquility and dark efficiency. “What you did was completely reckless, Ferrante. Do your damn research before you shove your cock into a stranger’s mouth.”

“I had a day. It was Dad’s funeral.”

“I know.” Of course he knew. He knew everything about my life. “You didn’t like the bastard, so that’s no excuse. Do better next time.”

I nodded. “I will. Sorry. I mean, thanks.”

“Stop thanking and apologizing.”

“Okay. Sorr—um.”

He shook his head, turned around, and started walking away.

Something weird happened to me.

I was slammed with this inexplainable, desperate need for him not to regret saving my ass.

I wanted him to like me.

To be my friend.

Okay, fine, I didn’t want him to be my friend. I wanted him to suck me off.

But he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d ever get on his knees for anyone, so I was fine with sucking his cock.

A favor for a favor, so to speak.

My mouth exploded with saliva, and my cock twitched at just thinking of what he was hiding in those tailored designer pants.

Maybe my libido was fine. Maybe I just had a particular taste for dangerous, enchanting delicacies.

I pushed off the wall, chasing him.

It was time to find out.

Chapter Three

Tom

The Ferrante kid was chasing me.

What the hell did he want?

It was bad enough my predatory instinct snapped into action when I saw that bastard aiming a gun at him, and I acted irresponsibly. Enzo was right. No part of the FBI protocol or training I’d undergone would suggest I should execute a man on his knees with his back to me. Hell, in any other scenario, I would’ve waited out the entire disturbing scene, then turned this Cash asshole into an informant to bring the Ferrantes down.

But Cash had triggered my one and only weakness—forcing someone out of the closet and terrorizing them because of their sexuality. It was a trigger that overrode my logic. Every single time.

At least I hadn’t used my government-issued Glock. That would make the scenario a million times worse, not that it needed any further complications.

I knew Enzo wouldn’t breathe a word about what happened. He wasn’t out—probably never would be—so he wouldn’t risk running his mouth about my heroic act. Plus, for all the Camorra’s faults—and there were plenty—they weren’t snitches.

Getting rid of me wouldn’t solve their problems. Someone else would take my place. They were all headed to prison, one way or the other.

No.

This lapse of judgment on my end would be our little secret.

Enzo knew that, and so did I.