Consumed by the Mafia (De Salvo Family #5)

9. Little Moments

nine

Little Moments

She came apart on his tongue, her fingers buried in his hair and her hips undulating against his face as her barely restrained moans filled the air. It was as beautiful as it was delicious. He would have liked to have her all the way naked and screaming her euphoria, but there was something to be said for this, too.

Ryōma pulled away from her heady sweetness, licking his lips, and pushed to his feet. “Think I changed my mind about the lap dance,” he said, backing her toward the window seat. “I’m feelin’ a little too rough for that.”

Abby blinked up at him, her porcelain cheeks flushed from her orgasm. “What? ”

Instead of answering, he scooped her up and laid her on her side on the cushioned bench. He wasted no time climbing on with her, kneeling sideways so he might fit, as the bench wasn’t technically wide enough for him to lay flat. He reached for the belt buckle at his waist as she pushed herself upright.

“Ryōma! Someone could see!” The color staining her cheeks and the bridge of her nose had brightened from fresh embarrassment and she cut a pointed glance to the window at her shoulder as she spoke. It was only one of the windows in the room, of course. There was a set of forward-facing windows on the other wall, too. The excellent lighting and viewing angles were all reasons they liked to use this room as a vantage point.

Ryōma continued releasing his pants with one hand and shot out the other, grabbing hold of her hip and dragging her back to him. “So? Let ‘em.” He lifted her leg to his shoulder and straddled the other as his dick sprang free, his gaze raking over her form to appreciate the way her borrowed shirt had rumpled up over her hips, fully exposing her still glistening pussy. “Someone wants to peep, they get a little free porn.” He squeezed her thigh. “Doesn’t mean they get you . You’re all mine, baby girl.”

Abby opened her mouth in response, but Ryōma had already lined himself up with her entrance. The first syllable was barely formed on her tongue when he pushed his full length inside with a rolling thrust of his hips. Her intended words died on her lips and her head fell back as a strangled moan escaped her .

It was a feeling he fully understood. Whatever else held between them, however otherwise complicated things were, this was not. This was pure fucking ecstasy.

“Fuck, baby girl,” he rasped as he began rocking his hips in a slow back-and-forth. “Seems like I didn’t give you enough earlier. Your pussy’s still so needy.”

She clawed at his arms and the fabric over the bench cover. “Sh-shut up and fuck me.”

He grinned, bent down, and licked his way into her mouth as he let his hips pick up the pace. “Taste me,” he said against her lips. “Taste yourself on me.”

She kissed him hard, one hand swooping up to latch onto the back of his neck in an effort to hold him there. Her moan vibrated through him and he thought he might have heard something crack beneath them, but he paid it no mind. He sucked on her tongue, let her suck on his, then retreated from the kiss in order to focus on plowing into her tight, sopping pussy until she lost all composure.

He stretched one hand up under the shirt and fondled her tits, teasing her nipples one at a time while he fucked deep into her core. His balls slapped against her, her leg curling over his shoulder as her muscles tensed. She was close. Thank fuck. He could feel the tension tightening inside him, too.

“You ready to come for me, dirty girl? You gonna scream my name while I paint your insides with my cum?”

Abby panted, writhing and rolling beneath him as if it would get her there faster. “Yes. Oh, fuck, yes. Please.”

He did love the way she begged. His gaze lifted up, out the window, and he thought he saw the side profile of whoever had been placed out front. The man was facing away, but all he’d have to do was turn his head to have a bird’s eye view of their activities. Ryōma grinned. “Let’s put on a show, then, dirty girl.” He ground his pelvis a little harder into hers than he had before, adding friction to her clit. “Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”

She gasped, seeming to struggle to form words as her inner walls pulsed around his length. “Make me come,” she managed. “Make me come so hard I can’t walk after.” She reached down and fisted his shirt over his chest. “Fucking ruin me, Ryōma.”

He flashed her a toothy smile and leaned in enough to whisper next to her ear. “Haven’t I already?” Before she could respond to that, he straightened, withdrew to the tip, and drove himself deep in two consecutive grinding thrusts. “ Come .”

Her back bowed off the bench and a shriek of undeniable ecstasy ripped from her, her body shuddering as she clamped down around him.

Ryōma growled and let his own release take over, his eyes closing in the waves of pleasure that followed and threatened to topple him right off the bench. It was too fucking much. This was how they’d ended up going so wild the previous Friday. He hadn’t had anywhere to be and she’d been too warm, too willing, and too fucking perfect. She still was.

Abigail looked up when Ryōma reentered the sitting room after finally giving himself a chance to clean up from the accident. She was prepared for the freshly showered sheen on his skin, but she wasn’t properly prepared to see he was shirtless and he’d left his hair down. It’s not like you haven’t seen it, Abigail.

The reminder did nothing to stop her eye from wandering.

He caught the direction of her gaze, of course, and another grin lifted his lips. “Like what you see?”

She forced out a scoff and turned her head away. “Why didn’t you put a shirt on?”

Ryōma walked around her—surely on purpose—and lowered onto the sofa at her side. “We’re stuck until tomorrow. Didn’t see the point.”

Abigail bit back a sigh. She was a grown woman. She could survive being in a room with a shirtless man. Even if she knew first-hand how well he could play her body if she let him. That’s not helping! She cleared her throat unintentionally and said, “I didn’t really get the chance to ask earlier, but are you … okay?”

He stretched his arms across the back of the sofa, his fingers slipping into her hair behind her shoulders. “I meant it when I said I didn’t wanna talk about that anymore. ”

She balked at him for a moment before she realized what he thought she had meant. “No,” she said, “I mean, we were in an accident. And then we were shot at. It was a lot, and yes, I also dropped something unfairly heavy on you in the middle of it. But I meant physically , are you all right? Did you need a doctor?”

He blinked at her, as if needing to process her words, before the expression on his face settled into a softer smile. “Just some scrapes and bruises.” His gaze dropped as if he could see through her oversized clothes. And in a way, she supposed he could. “I am sorry I couldn’t keep you from getting your share of those.”

Abigail shifted self-consciously, the motion pressing his fingers more firmly over her spine. She knew he’d have seen the couple of scrapes on her legs from their topple to the ground. They’d been unavoidable, and she much preferred that sort of wound to the bullets she would have taken if he hadn’t reacted so swiftly. “It’s nothing bad,” she said quietly. “It would have been a lot worse if not for you. ‘Thank you’ doesn’t really feel adequate.”

His hand lifted to her nape, settling there, the weight of it warm and oddly comforting. “Then how ‘bout this. Moving forward, even if we don’t like it, we agree to honesty. Both of us. It’s the only way this works.”

Her throat constricted. “You still want to have anything to do with me?”

“Messy, isn’t it?” His thumb stroked over her skin. “But I’m fucking addicted to you. So yeah, I wanna play this out. Not like we won’t have a perfect opportunity to get to know each other while we’re mopping up our newly mutual enemies.”

She huffed with a flicker of amusement. “I think our idea of ‘mopping up enemies’ is a little different.”

“Generally.” He leaned close and brushed his lips to her temple. “But in this case, the boss promised to let you arrest as many of the underlings as you could get your hands on.”

Abigail arched a brow at him. “And that won’t mean racing to slap cuffs on people before you or someone in your group can fill them full of holes?”

Laughter lit his eyes. “There might be circumstances. But in my case, my job’s gonna be to keep you safe, remember? So I won’t be your main competition.”

She rolled her eyes but ceded his point. A second of silence passed and she found herself leaning into him, her shoulder resting just beneath his. His hand released her nape in favor of his arm curling around her shoulders. It felt … nice. Comfortable. “You don’t have to tell me,” she heard herself say, “but I can’t help but wonder … how did you even get mixed up with the De Salvos? Groups like these are generally known for being pretty closed off to outsiders.”

“The De Salvos aren’t your average crime family,” Ryōma said. “It’s not about race with them. It’s about loyalty and effort. And when Cris and I met, effort was basically the only thing I had.” His hand tightened over her shoulder. “You’re right that I don’t have a normal story, though. I imagine you’ll be hard-pressed to find ex-yakuza in most circles.”

Abigail tipped her head up, eyes wide. “You were really yakuza?” She knew, traditionally, the men of the Japanese mafia were known for their elaborate body tattoos—and the artwork spanning Ryōma’s back and down his arms certainly qualified. But she hadn’t assumed that one meant the other.

He was staring ahead, his eyes narrowed. “I was born into it, like my father before me.”

She hesitated to ask more. She was curious, definitely, but it was clearly a sore subject. And she didn’t need to be told she hadn’t really earned any deep, emotional confessions. By the same token, she worried not responding at all would send yet another wrong message. So she returned her head to his shoulder and said, “I’d be interested in hearing that story, when you’re comfortable telling me.”

His chest vibrated with a thoughtful hum. “Let’s have a few lighter conversations first.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Or a shit ton of alcohol.”

Abigail felt a laugh bubble up and gave him a half-hearted swat. “I think we should minimize the alcohol. Neither of us makes smart choices when we’re drunk.”

“You got it wrong, baby girl,” he teased. “I was hard for you the second you walked into that bar. The alcohol just expedited the satisfaction.”

“You’re—”

“Ryōma?” a male voice called from the direction of the front door. Only as Abigail straightened, heat rushing to her face, did she process the subtle click that must have been the sound of the door closing that she’d heard a moment before.

Ryōma’s fingers pressed into her shoulder for a beat before he released her altogether and stood. “Down here.” Except he was already stepping toward the doorway .

Abigail wasn’t sure if he was simply tense over the uncomfortable situation or if she was supposed to be inferring that something was wrong. Her gaze darted across the room, to where her purse, gun, and badge remained on the table where they’d been set earlier in the day. She hadn’t made a move to reclaim any of them, not wanting to send the wrong message while her situation felt so precarious. Had that been a bad choice?

Ryōma didn’t go far, bringing himself to a stop only half out of sight in the hall. With his back—and that beautiful tiger-centric tattoo—facing her, Abigail could clearly see the pistol tucked into his waistband. He wasn’t reaching for it, so she told herself not to overreact. Then his words carried to her. “What’re you doin’ here?”

Her brow furrowed.

The other male spoke, and she quickly realized it was not either of the De Salvo men who’d been there previously. More concerningly, this individual’s voice was actually familiar. Though it took her a moment to place why. “Shift change. And I got new orders to pass along. Two of our safehouses have been hit already today, no telling how much longer this one’ll be, you know, safe. Boss said to reconvene at the tower, on twenty-five.”

Abigail swallowed hard as she strained her ears to listen to the conversation. Neither man was whispering, but they were far enough away that she wouldn’t be able to hear them if they spoke much lower. Or if her heart got any louder.

Snippets of conversations past flashed through her mind like some kind of montage .

“They call him the Dragon because he, you know, likes fire.”

“They give me grunt work. Half the time I’m a messenger.”

“They moved me into the tower! The monster lives there, you know? I’ll be right under his nose…”

“No offense, Pete,” Ryōma said, his voice drawing Abigail’s attention outward again, “but you’re not the guy I’d expect to hear any of that from.”

Abigail pulled in a breath and pushed to her feet. She quietly padded over and gathered up her things, feeling a little too vulnerable without them, carefully twisted the purse around so it sat at her back and was as unobvious as possible, then reversed course in Ryōma’s direction.

“I get that,” Pete said, “but I’m just following orders.” Abigail stepped into the hallway in time to see him gesturing back, toward the main door. “The other team’s already clearing out.” His gaze slid to her for a lingering second.

Her throat constricted with too many conflicting emotions. What the hell is he doing here? If she’d had any doubt, seeing him head-on like this completely eradicated it. The newcomer currently telling them they needed to be going elsewhere was no other than her informant, Peter Marchesi. The one man whose identity she’d refused to give, the one man she’d hoped to still find a way to rescue.

Had he already been found out? Had he been sent as a message to let her know she had no cards left to play? Was it possible his presence was actually a coincidence?

Ryōma raised an arm, extending it between them and cutting off Peter’s line-of-sight. “Go get your shoes, Abby. Looks like we’re leaving. ”

Concern spiked in her gut. Not sure what else to say in this situation, Abigail said, “If we have to run, I am absolutely going to fall on my face. These clothes are way too baggy for that.”

“We could both use a properly fitting wardrobe,” he said. “Right now, we make do.”

Peter huffed out a breath. “You could at least, you know, wear a shirt .”

The blatant irritation coloring his voice only confounded her more. “I’ll be right back,” Abigail said. She turned and hurried down the hall, toward the bedroom where she’d kicked off her scuffed up running shoes. Her mind raced with possibilities.

Every time she’d sat down with Peter, he’d been some combination of hesitant and fearful. Definitely reserved. If anger had ever slipped into his words, it always came across as self-loathing or situationally resentful. The man out in that hallway had his face, the sound of his voice, and a little of his verbal mannerisms, but he didn’t portray himself the same way at all. His voice didn’t shake with uncertainty or discomfort. He’d even gotten snippy with a man he himself had labeled as terrifying.

“Ryōma is … he’s a hitman. Cristiano’s right-hand. Some of the guys think he might even have the highest count, too. You know, kill count…. He’s terrifying.”

Abigail jerked on her laces, her movements agitated. It didn’t add up. Was this the facade he’d mentioned wearing around them? She had had the impression he was doing his best to avoid his obligations with the De Salvos. Though she supposed she had previously acknowledged he may have been downplaying his own participation in the interest of minimizing his punishment later. Regardless, if that was the case, it was a damn good act.

And if he was capable of acting so well, she couldn’t help but wonder which part was the real act.

She told herself not to jump the gun and went to leave the bedroom, nearly crashing into Ryōma as he came striding inside at that exact moment. She threw herself back to avoid a painful collision, the heel of her sneaker catching on the loose cuff of her borrowed pantleg, and Ryōma’s arm around her waist was the only thing that kept her off her ass. He silenced her startled outcry with his lips, hauling her upright and reaching behind him to push the door up to the frame.

Not clicking it shut.

Then he eased his grip and, lips a hair’s breadth from hers, he murmured, “Take this and call Cris. Marchesi’s full of shit. I don’t trust it.”

She blinked, choking on too many responses, and registered the weight of a phone being placed into her palm. The burner phone he’d been using since the accident. She opened her mouth to question him, aware that she should probably tell him the other thing, but Peter’s voice carried down the hall.

“Hurry up! We gotta get out of here!”

Ryōma scowled, stepping back and twisting to turn away.

Abigail scrambled to catch hold of his waistband, since he still didn’t have a shirt, tugging intensely. “I’m not defenseless. You don’t even have a shirt! You call him, while you change. I’ll stall. I have a gun, too, remember.” She tucked his phone back into one of his pockets pointedly, smiled at his disapproving frown, and pointed deeper into the room. Toward the closet. “Hurry up now, lover.”

He grunted, but she caught the subtle upward twitch of his lips as he moved past her. “I want something better.” She felt a tug at her back and by the time she realized what he was doing he was lifting her shirt and sliding her gun into the rolled-up waist of her pants. “Here. Your shirt’s loose enough, he won’t see it. Easier access.” He let the shirt fall, kissed her hair, and continued into the room.

Abigail exhaled, attempting to process the thing that felt like an offering of trust. She pushed herself forward, stepping from the room and retracing her steps down the hall.

Peter was leaning against the frame to the entry for the sitting room, arms folded across his chest. Something about the stance, with the close-cut dirty blond hair he’d had for as long as she’d known him, made him look like a bully. She might have even thought he looked intimidating, except it was hard to be intimidated by a man she’d learned to think of as trembling in fear and prone to vomiting in revulsion.

She came to a stop close enough to talk quietly, but far enough not to look conspiratorial, and made a point of leading at a conversational volume. “What was your name again?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. His words were lower, intended not to carry, and rougher than she was used to from him. “You’re a real mess, ain’t ya?” His gaze darted past her, but no alarm showed on his face. “Just keep playin’ dumb. I’ve got a plan. ”

Her stomach rolled. Don’t tell me… Abigail lowered her voice obligingly. “You realize they know who I am. Acknowledging you know me is dangerous now.” She wouldn’t warn him more than that. She had too many angles to consider to be solely worried about a grown ass man.

Peter straightened, anger darkening his brown eyes. Without warning his arm lashed out, the backside of his hand cracking against her cheek with enough force to send her stumbling back. “Maybe it ain’t even an act. Maybe you are dumb. Could explain a few things.”

Abigail caught herself on the opposite wall, blinking rapidly to clear the starbursts that had popped up over her eyes. He really hadn’t held back. “You—why did you—”

Peter reached out again, his fingers grazing her shirt as a gun settled level with his face in her peripheral vision. He froze, eyes widening.

“Bad move,” Ryōma said. “But then, you knew you were a dead man the second you walked through that door, didn’t you?”

Peter’s chest heaved with a hard breath. “Wh-what the hell? I—We’re on the same side, you know?”

“We’re supposed to be.” Ryōma lowered the barrel of his gun until it was pointed in the general direction of Peter’s lower body. “But Abby here is under my protection, Boss’s orders, and you aren’t supposed to be here at all. We both know that. So you’re gonna tell me what you’re really doing here, where and why you found the balls to betray the boss, and who you’ve thrown in with instead. ”

Abigail raced through her knowledge—or what she thought was her knowledge—of Peter Marchesi. Hoping to find an answer that didn’t involve the need to shoot the man. Very quickly she realized that every potential explanation had a glaring gap, namely a missing chunk of information. Even if he was really there to rescue her from the evil mafia group he himself had fallen in with, she was certain her presence hadn’t been announced to the entire organization so soon. Let alone her exact location.

Peter made a disbelieving sound. “You know who I work for! I told you why I’m here, man. We gotta get—”

“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear,” Ryōma said, his voice dropping to a darker, more dangerous tone. He stepped closer and pressed the muzzle of the gun into Peter’s thigh. “Talk, right now, or I drag your stupid ass downstairs. You’ve never sat in on my interrogations, but I promise you, there’s a reason I’m allowed to run lead on so many. I’ll get my answers, and you will never lay another fucking finger on this woman.”

Holy shit. He wasn’t even threatening her—in a twisted way he was actually protecting her—yet Abigail could feel the dangerous aura wafting off him.

Peter shook, his bravado failing him. “Y-you don’t have permission…”

Ryōma’s head tilted slightly to the side. “Don’t I?” Without moving his gun or looking away from the other man, he said, “Baby girl, would you grab my phone and read Cris’s response out loud for all of us?”

Peter’s eyes widened. Probably at the personal address .

Abigail exhaled her nerves and reached for the pocket she’d noticed he kept the phone in. She pulled it out and easily found the conversation with Cristiano, noting the text Ryōma had sent out and the response that had followed. In fact, the response had only just come in. Ryōma hadn’t yet read it. She wasn’t sure if she should take that as a sign of how in synch the men were or something to be concerned about. Regardless, she read Cristiano’s words out loud as requested. “Not sanctioned. Do what you have to do. I’m on my way.”

Peter made a distressed sound.

“See?” Ryōma said. “Permission granted. Now, you have five seconds to make the smart choice.”