King of the Cage: A Dark Irish Mafia Romance (Devil’s Own)

After midnight at a wedding was right around the time when all the single people started to eye each other up and decide which of the dregs was the best to go home with. The lights were low, and the music thumped. The dance floor was packed, and there was an air of rowdy carelessness that could end in actual body bags, given the guest list of the wedding in question. The mob wedding of the year. Every young, aspiring gangster was here. It was the place to be. As for me, my designer shoes had given me blisters, and the fun was a little on the tame side, considering the company tonight. Every single killer in the crowd was on their best behavior, it seemed. How boring.

“Don’t look, he’s coming over,” Sol whispered, gripping my wrist tightly.

“Of course he is. You’re the hottest thing in this room,” I reassured her while prying her needle-like nails from my wrist.

“Yeah, right,” she muttered, quickly smoothing down her dark-blond hair. It was already perfect, but she wouldn’t have believed me anyway.

“You have no idea what it’s like trying to get the guy you like to notice you,” Sol muttered to me.

“Don’t I?” I wondered and fished my third olive out of my dirty martini. The only good thing about wedding receptions was the open bars. “That’s news to me.”

“No. You like a guy, snap your fingers, and he’s kissing your feet.” Sol flashed a glance across the room under the fan of her lowered eyelashes.

I pulled a face. “Not feet, not my thing, and I’m obviously super popular with men.” I waved a hand at the empty chairs around the table. “Look at my harem.”

Sol snorted a laugh and immediately clamped a hand over her mouth like she’d done something unforgivable. It was her family’s fault. They were the type of Italians who’d brought their eldest daughter up to believe she needed to be refined and ladylike, instead of the lethal Mafia princess she was.

“You could literally have one if you wanted,” Sol teased. “If you could put up with a man’s presence long enough.”

I wrinkled my nose and twisted to see where the hell the object of Sol’s obsession was. Enrico Sepriano lingered at the bar, staring over at us. Trying to get his balls together enough to come over and speak to Solaria. What a loser, and yet, he was the loser my best friend liked. Madness. His father was a retired made man in the De Sanctis family, and I had no idea how he’d scored an invite to the wedding. The Seprianos didn’t even live at Casa Nera, the Mafia compound I called my American home. Both Sepriano siblings had gone into politics with varying degrees of success, setting a new bar for the amount of corruption in office.

On the other hand, Solaria Moroni was the eldest daughter of the Moroni family, an Italian famiglia out of Queens. Their might was nothing compared to the De Sanctis family, but Renato, my capo, had invited them to his wedding out of courtesy. The King of Atlantic City had manners, and moreover, weddings were the perfect opportunity to see the competition up close and understand their ever-changing ranks and important players.

Tonight, the night when the capo dei capi of the De Sanctis Mafia had taken a bride, his men had been watching the guests, assessing. No one mixed business with pleasure like Ren. His marriage was proof of that. Instead of getting rid of a purely professional loose end and her annoying brat sister, he’d married her. Most worrying of all, he liked her.

He loved her.

It was jarring. For as long as I could remember, since I was a little kid in the Neapolitan countryside, dirt-poor, with a last name that was despised far and wide, Renato and my older brother, Elio, had been my only friends. We were closer than friends. Family, forever connected.

Tonight, for the first time, Ren had introduced fresh blood into that dynamic, and I still didn’t know how to feel about it.

Unsettled, sure. Threatened? Unfortunately, yes.

Would Elio be next? My brother would have to get married soon, too. Renato would demand it for political reasons, if nothing else. Elio was second-in-command in the family. An important person.

Me? I was number three, I supposed. The third member of the inner circle. Too bad for Ren that I never planned to marry, and certainly not because he ordered me to.

“Putting up with a guy’s presence is one thing, but the real question is why bother? There’s nothing a man can do for me that I can’t do for myself, with a hell of a lot less arguing, I’ll add,” I told Sol.

She still looked longingly at our local political wannabe big shot. Enrico was small fry compared to his older brother, but that didn’t stop him from feeling like he was a big deal.

Enrico had finally gotten his shit together and was heading in our direction.

The after-party of a mob wedding was usually one of two things. Messy as hell, as made men and their molls let loose around the enemy for the night, trusting in the unspoken rule that there’d be no bloodshed at weddings. Weapons were forbidden, after all, so the odds of a shoot-out were reduced, though not eliminated completely. The second was an after party that was tense as hell, with each side eyeing the other, waiting for a slight they could take offense to.

Luckily, tonight had gone the first way. Renato and his reluctant bride had already left, taking a huge amount of De Sanctis men with them, Elio included. I wasn’t sorry to see him go. Lately, he’d been on my case about everything. Where I went, who I hung out with. Even what I wore sometimes, and what I liked to do for fun. I didn’t let men tell me what to do anymore, and I never would again. I’d spent the worst year of my life that way, and every single second of it was burned into my memory. Lately, Elio was treading dangerously close to raking up those old memories, and I had no intention of reliving them. It was past time my brother accepted that I was twenty-seven, not seventeen.

The older and crustier patriarchs of rival families had also left, and only the younger, responsibility-free members remained, living it up.

“Okay, he’s really coming over this time,” I murmured to Sol.

She straightened up in her chair, her warm brown eyes widening and then lowering into a sultry gaze.

“Rico, hi,” Sol breathed, smiling upward.

“Ciao, Sol,” Enrico said, a smirk in his tone.

Ugh. Sol could do so much better than him. Her father would never allow her to marry him. She had to know that.

Luckily, that meant I still had time to talk her around to forgetting about men altogether, getting a cozy witch’s house in the New Jersey woods, and living together with a plethora of cats.

A pink, fruity cocktail appeared in front of me. Me? Crap. A sinking feeling hit my belly. Did Enrico only bring me a drink? Why?

“Pass. I like my drinks the way I like my men. Strong, sour, and hard to get.” I pushed the cocktail glass over to my friend. “Sol will like it, though.”

“Now, come on. Try a little sweetness.” Enrico grabbed the glass and slid it back to me.

Sol blinked away from the drink and up at me. Disappointment filled her huge brown eyes. Motherfucker.

I kicked back from the table and shoved my heels back on. “Not my style, Enrico. I need to take care of some business, so can you keep Sol company?”

I made to step away from the table and bumped right into Enrico.

He gripped my hip. “Where are you running off to, Giada? Can I come?”

He had a low tone, his voice confident. He clearly found himself the most charming man in the room. All I could think about was Sol. She’d had a crush on Enrico for years, and now that he’d broken up with his girlfriend, she’d gotten excited that something was finally going to happen. And the idiot was hitting on me.

I stepped back, flustered. I didn’t want Sol to get upset.

“Look. You’re barking up the wrong tree, Rico. If you want any chance of going home with both balls intact tonight, you won’t touch me again,” I warned him, my words quiet.

I knocked Enrico’s hand from my hip, but his arm was like a snake, coming alive to wrap around me and pull me against his side. I gaped at him for a long moment, shocked out of words. What the hell?

I studied him properly for the first time and noted the telltale white powder around his nose. Ah, so the idiot had indulged a little too much and lost his fucking mind. That made sense. Otherwise, manhandling me at Renato’s wedding would be a death sentence. It might still be. Sol’s phone rang, and she answered it, getting up to take the call.

“Be back in a minute,” she mouthed at me and pointed discreetly at Enrico. “Keep him here!”

She was still hoping she’d gotten it wrong and maybe Enrico was here for her. The girl had seriously flawed taste in men. I nodded, plastering on a smile for her and dropping it as soon as she turned around.

“Look, Rico, get your hands off me before I remove them, permanently. Where did you get the balls to touch me at all?”

Whatever he’d snorted must have been a hell of a drug to make him overstep so far.

“If you want to make sure my balls are both there, I’ll let you play with them,” Enrico chuckled. “I’ll rub them all over you.”

An involuntary laugh left me at that disgusting image.

“You are really missing the point here.” I angled myself away from Sol. I didn’t want her to see how awful her crush was being. I nodded meaningfully toward her. “You might want to take your compliments where they’re wanted.”

He scoffed and pulled me closer. “My compliments are for you. You’re the only trophy worth bagging here tonight, Giada.”

Asshole. My patience snapped. If this guy was going to offend Sol, I was going to put him on his knees in front of his entire family.

Don’t start a war at the wedding. Elio’s earlier warning echoed in my head. Sure, it was totally something I’d do, but should I? I caught sight of Sol’s anxious face, watching us from across the room as she talked. I had to do something. Enrico had made it more than obvious who his target was, and it wasn’t her.

I looked around frantically for an excuse not to do what I really wanted. Something I could do instead of breaking my martini glass over Enrico’s head and stabbing the stem through his eyeball.

A pair of dark-green eyes met mine from across the room.

The Irishman.

Brandon O’Connor, a young Irish Mafia heir, sitting among his men and staring right at me.

The O’Connor family wasn’t known for their suits or manicures, and the youngest of the bunch, Brandon, acted like he’d never hung up an item of clothing in his life. Even tonight, dressed in a suit, he looked disreputable. With tattoos liberally decorating the backs of his hands and trailing up his thick, veined forearms, and even up his neck… he seemed exactly like the kind of trouble that could spice up this party. He watched me intently, all six-five of his impressively broad frame bent forward, elbows braced on his knees. His long, dirty-blond hair was pulled back, giving him a vicious and regal air, like a Celtic warrior king from days of old. A man built to plunder and pillage and lay fucking waste to all who challenged him.

The De Sanctis family was having trouble with the Irish lately, and Brandon O’Connor was enemy number one on my brother’s shit list. Elio was meticulous and disciplined. He expected everyone to live like he did, with monk-like dedication to his cause. Bran O’Connor had the aura of a man who had never met a rule he didn’t want to break. It was little wonder that Elio couldn’t stand him.

That made him perfect for my purposes.

“Come on, Giada. The De Sanctis praying mantis. Eat me tonight.” Enrico was getting on my last fucking nerve.

The praying mantis.

It was a title I’d carried for years. One I’d cultivated, even. Apparently, if a woman knew what she liked in bed and wasn’t afraid to ask for it, it made her a man-eater, a man-killing bug. Or if you had a type — handsome, quiet, and happy to follow my lead — it got you the reputation of being a domineering bitch between the sheets. Maybe I was. I certainly liked to be in charge. Everything felt safer that way. I decided when, where, and who. I controlled how it happened, when it started and ended. I didn’t negotiate.

A man-eating mantis wasn’t a victim. It wasn’t possible, and so that’s what I’d become.

Enrico touched my cheek. “Or am I too much man for you to eat, baby? I don’t mind if you choke on me. I’d like it.”

“I’m sorry to burst your bubble, Rico, but the man-eater has already chosen her target tonight, and it’s not you,” I murmured with lethal sweetness. There was still a chance to get Rico to back off before Sol returned, but clearly, he wasn’t good enough for her anyway.

I had to put him out of commission tonight, before my best friend made a huge mistake.

I turned on my heel, striding across the busy ballroom toward the bar and the gang of Irishmen sitting around a table, ready to start a fight at a moment’s notice.

I wasted no time on the underlings. It was obvious who the boss was in the group. One guy whistled when I stalked through them. There were soft murmurs of appreciation, but not a single one raised a hand to touch me as I squeezed through the tight-knit group until I reached him.

Bran. The youngest son of the Irish Mafia in New York.

The Lost Boy of Hell’s Kitchen.

My brother’s enemy.

He had quite the reputation. I made it my business to know the players in the scene, and Brandon was infamous. Reckless and untamable, he’d been to jail twice by the age of thirty-one was close friends with the Russians, and an excellent fighter. He was fiercely protective of his family, especially his younger sister, Quinn O’Connor, who had headed home from the party hours ago.

Silence fell around the table.

“Can we help you with something, sweetheart?” a brawny Irish voice asked, one of Bran’s men.

“You can’t. He can, if he’s up for the challenge,” I said, never looking away from Bran’s emerald eyes.

A smirk stole across his full lips.

“What the fuck? You leave me high and dry over there, after throwing yourself at me?” Enrico’s voice reached us, right on cue.

Tossing caution to the wind, I twisted around and lowered myself onto Bran’s lap. His long, muscled arms immediately closed around my middle, holding me in place. His skin was so hot, it warmed me through the satin of my evening gown.

“All right there, pal. Let’s back up a fucking step.” One of the Irish had stood, unhappy at the rude way the Italian had approached them.

Instigating a fight between Italians and Irish was never a stretch. Both had hair triggers and were overdramatic. I firmly included myself in that stereotype. I was a bloodthirsty drama queen.

“Giada, wasn’t it?” Bran’s voice rumbled in my ear.

His arms were tight around me, and I turned my face back to gaze at his. Man, the old gods did good when they made this one.

I nodded. “I’m taking your silence for agreement,” I murmured and raised an eyebrow. “You got a problem with that?”

His lips quirked, and he shook his head. “No problem, wee one.”

Christ, this close, the man smelled nice. Like forests and adventure. Like orange slices around the fire, deep in the woods of Campagna. Woodsmoke, pine, and citrus.

“Giada, stop being a fucking bitch. I bought you a drink—” Enrico cut off as a round of hearty Irish laughter filled the air.

“Is that all it takes? Good to know the Italians are doing the bare minimum.”

“Just the one? She’d need a lot more than that to go home with you, brother.”

“It’s a free bar, Casanova. What a charmer we’ve got here, boys.”

Bran’s posse, relentlessly mocking Enrico. I could listen to it all night.

I tossed my hair and shot the outraged Sepriano a grin.

“They aren’t wrong, and besides, I didn’t throw myself at you… I’d never. I already have someone who’s taking me home tonight, you see,” I murmured sweetly, curling my hand around Bran’s nape and toying with the escaped blond curls there.

His hand curved around my thigh and tightened. Hmmm, the big boy liked that.

“Bullshit. You led me on, bitch,” Enrico started and stopped when all the Irish except Bran pushed their chairs back and stood. The energy changed from lighthearted to tense as hell in an instant.

“There’s only one bitch here, and it’s you, motherfucker,” one of the Irishmen said, getting in Enrico’s face.

“Haven’t you heard about us?” I cut across the growing tension.

All eyes turned to me as I ran my nose up Bran’s cheek and bit his ear.

“Me and Bran… my one and only.” I dipped my tongue into the shell of Bran’s ear.

He jerked beneath me, his hips pressing up on my ass. The guy was hard, and it was becoming clear that he was perfectly proportional. A big, swinging club for the hot, towering warrior. I shifted against it, teasing him. I’d always like to play with fire, and sitting between an angry, arrogant made man, and a hot-as-hell Irish heir with a deadly entourage, was what the evening’s entertainment had been missing.

Enrico swore, his face turning red with anger, and let out a torrent of Italian.

I tutted. “Enrico, please. You kiss your mama with that mouth? Che vergogna.”

“What did he say?” Bran asked, his voice loaded with lethal intent.

I enjoyed that tone a whole lot.

“It’s not suitable for polite company,” I said and made to stand.

Bran’s arms held me for a few seconds and then released me. There was a feeling to that possessive touch that made it clear that he’d only let me stand because he’d allowed it. It thrilled me.

“Now, run back over to your big brother like a good boy. Oh, and don’t lead Solaria on. She’s much too sweet for an animal like you,” I told Enrico firmly when I drew level with him.

He scoffed. “Sweet? More like desperate,” he sneered.

I saw red. My hand was swinging before I could stop it, and it would have landed hard, if not for a huge paw latching on to my wrist and stopping it mid-flight.

Bran towered over me, holding my hand effortlessly in his huge palm.

“No fighting at weddings, remember? Even I know that little nugget of mob etiquette.”

“He’s asking for it,” I argued back, trying to free my hand.

“Don’t get yourself in trouble for this one, he’s not worth it,” Bran continued.

“He insulted my friend, and that’s worth it to me. If people like us don’t have loyalty, then we don’t have anything.” I echoed an expression I’d heard time and time again. My father’s voice whispered through my head, straight from the past. I hadn’t said those words in decades. They were the words of a hypocrite, and yet, it turned out I still believed them.

Bran stared down at me, his eyes seeing far too much in that moment.

Enrico clearly got tired of the lack of attention, because he stepped closer and pushed against me. “Let her fucking try and hit me, I need a laugh.”

“Giada! What’s going on?” Sol appeared at my elbow.

Fuckity fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Nothing. We’re leaving.” I turned away and tried to grab Sol’s hand.

“I don’t think so,” Enrico snarled, snatching my free wrist. “You’ve insulted me.”

Losing my patience, and realizing that there was no way to get out of this without Sol finding out what a piece of shit Enrico was, I gave up trying and turned back to him.

“Don’t be a sore loser, Sepriano… just be a loser, like you usually are,” I murmured to him.

His dark, angry gaze raked over me contemptuously. “This is why you’re chronically single, Santori. No one wants more than one night with a bitch.”

A lance of hurt pierced my chest, but I pushed it aside.

I didn’t let guys like Enrico hurt me.

I didn’t let guys hurt me, period. In my world, it was kill or be killed, hurt or be hurt.

I was an expert at hurting.

“I’d rather be a bitch than a disappointment… isn’t that what all your exes say? They told you to put it in, but you already had… I even heard the working girls at the strip club by the highway give you a discount, since they barely notice when you’ve stopped by.” My sweetly sarcastic tone held acid, and I flung it at Enrico as hard as I could. Words were the only way I could hurt him back tonight, here at the wedding. But in the future? This fucker was on my list. Since I had no other way to calm my dramatic ass down, and throwing hands at his wedding would embarrass the boss, I settled for spitting on him. There was nothing as infuriating as being spit on, I knew that firsthand, and my actions had immediate effect.

Enrico’s face went red, a potent humiliation that flushed down his neck. He stepped forward, violence in every inch of his body.

“What the fuck? You’ll pay for that,” he muttered.

He reached for me, but a huge hand slapped his chest, keeping him back effortlessly. Sol let out a cry, clutching my arm.

“That’s enough.” Bran O’Connor towered over Enrico, one large paw holding the smaller man in place. “You fucked around and found out. Apologize to the lady and walk away.”

Enrico’s eyes bulged. “Apologize to that bitch? Over my dead body,” he snarled.

“Don’t tempt me,” Bran countered.

All eyes in the room were on the two of them.

“Fight! You guys should slug it out!” someone called.

“Yeah, Bran — fight!”

“Fight!”

“I’ve got fifty on the Irish!” one of the Italians called out.

And just like that, the crowd evolved into a group of excited gamblers about to see their favorite step into the ring. Bran was notorious in underground fighting rings. It was where he’d won the nickname The Lost Boy of Hell’s Kitchen. Fighting without official sanctioning at a wedding was a no-no, but having a little friendly competition was always welcome.

Enrico’s eyes moved from side to side, nerves clear as day on his overly moisturized face.

“Come on, Sepriano, I’m sure you’ve got some moves hidden away somewhere,” I called to him cheerfully, peering around Bran.

Enrico turned a glare at me.

I raised my hand to the air above him, pumping a fist. “Fight, fight, fight!” I chanted.

“You and me should be fighting it out, not me and him,” Enrico spat and glared up at Bran.

Bran chuckled. “She doesn’t fight, as long as I’m here.” He gave me a long look, appraising me from head to toe. “You want us to fight, beautiful?”

I nodded immediately, my humiliation at what Enrico had called me dissolving into the need to see him bleed. “Absolutely, I do, and so does everyone else… this party was getting stale.”

Bran’s lip lifted at the corner. “And what’s in it for me?” His gaze raked me up and down. “What’s my prize?”

My mouth went dry. There was no doubt what he was planning on taking as his prize. The stark truth was undeniable. This man wanted me, and if he fought at my bidding and won, he’d take me. For someone who hated to be out of control, it shouldn’t have thrilled me like it did.

“What do you want?” I asked, even though I knew.

We both knew. Everyone watching us knew. The tension was palpable. My brother would murder me for even considering hooking up with an O’Connor… but my brother wasn’t here.

Enrico snorted and then backed up, his bravado fleeing when Bran stared at him.

“You.” Bran’s tone was confident. “Just you, Santori.”

I stared at him, my heart pounding hard. What the hell was this guy doing to me? I shouldn’t really complain. I’d been wanting a distraction, after all, and he was more than delivering.

“So, you know who I am? I’d have thought knowing my brother was Elio would be a turnoff for you,” I stated flatly. “Unless it’s the appeal. Fuck your enemy’s sister, that’ll show him. Or maybe your plan is more elaborate… not only fuck her, but wine and dine her, then break her heart. That would stick it to the guy you hate, wouldn’t it?”

Bran laughed. “Sorry to break it to you, but I’ve never cared enough about anyone to wine and dine them, and that includes a convoluted plot to fuck with your brother. As for getting one over him, he’d never know. A gentleman never tells.” He grinned at me.

“And I’m supposed to believe that?” I arched an eyebrow at him. Toying with the off-limits Irishman was an amusing diversion.

“I said a gentleman never tells… I didn’t claim to be one. But I won’t be kicking this fucker’s arse for free… So what will it be, Trouble? Is there something in it for me or not?”

Bran’s eyes were positively wicked. The look in them had me hot all over. If only he wasn’t the one man my brother detested more than any other in the city.. Regardless, someone needed to put Enrico in his place for insulting Sol tonight.

I shrugged as provocatively as I could, laying it on thick. “Win, and then we’ll talk.”

He grinned. “We’ll do a lot more than that,” he promised and then glanced back at Enrico. “Seems like we’re stepping into the ring. Don’t worry, I won’t kill you. That’s against the rules at the wedding, after all.”

Enrico went white and shook his head, backing up as he raised his voice. “I can’t fight you. It wouldn’t be fair.”

Booing ensued, a whole lot of it from his own family. Dancing to disco music hadn’t been doing it for the rest of the guests, either. They were much more excited at the prospect of a dogfight.

Enrico’s dad had appeared on the sidelines. “I’ll allow it, since it’s all in good fun,” he said slowly. He watched the Irish shrewdly.

I’d heard there was tension between the Italians and Irish in New York, and the vibe between them only confirmed it. That meant my champion risked a lot more than losing a little fight here. He could off piss his father, the head of the O’Connor family, and further worsen relations between the two warring families.

“Since the wee man here is so nervous, I’ll be generous,” Bran shouted over the din.

People quieted to hear him.

“I’ll take him on, and whoever else wants to go against me. Why not? It’s all in good fun,” he called.

People cheered. It was smart. Since there was tension between the De Sanctis and O’Connor families, if Bran made it a free-for-all, with every family trying their hand at taking him on, then there was nothing political about it. Just a group of drunk, bloodthirsty savages needing a little light entertainment.

After Bran’s offer to take on whoever wanted a go at him in the ring, the guests sprang into action. Bran’s men set up a makeshift ring of chairs, and the spectators gathered around to watch, money exchanging hands. Sol went to speak to her family, quiet in a way that hurt my heart. I had to talk to her.

Enrico was in a heated argument with his father and brother. I made to step away when a huge hand closed around my wrist.

“Satisfied with your work?”

Bran stood over me. He’d taken off his suit jacket and unbuttoned his white shirt. More tattoos decorated his beautiful body. I worked hard not to stare. I’d seen a lot of ink in my years in the De Sanctis family, but Bran’s was startlingly different and unique. Half were prison tats, the rest Celtic designs. There was a particularly beautiful one over his heart. A long straight line, with shorter lines bisecting it at careful intervals.

“Someone needed to spice this party up. You’re welcome,” I stated, distracted by his gorgeous body.

He chuckled, and the sound did something to me. It was warm and welcoming, like a bath. I wanted to sink into it. The thought was jarring. I wasn’t someone who sought out hookups for comfort. I had hard, satisfying sex and skipped away, never to think about the guy again. That was the way I scratched my physical itches, and I had no intention of changing it. Especially not with a man like Bran. He didn’t seem like someone who would lie back and give me control, then let me walk away unaffected. He was dangerous, and yet, I was pretty sure I’d led him to believe that I’d let him do whatever he wanted to me in return for beating up Enrico.

“Well, you managed that, all right.” Bran released my hand and went back to taking his shirt off.

This time, I stared, unashamed, as did every single other woman in the room (and some men). That torso was a thing of beauty. Muscled, inked, and scarred. I wanted to run my lips over every inch.

“My eyes are up here, Giada,” Bran murmured with a smirk.

I licked my lips and sighed. “I know, but they are no match for all this.” I waved my hand in the general direction of his torso. “But I guess you know that. So, are you going to be my champion?”

Bran considered my words and then nodded, tossing his white shirt away. He cracked his knuckles as he turned back to me. “If you’re asking if I’m going to pound this guy and anyone else who challenges me into the ground, then the answer is yes — swiftly followed by you.”

Heat flooded through me at his low, dangerous tone. “Meaning?”

“Meaning, take your panties off, wait in the bathroom, and bend over the sink for me. Tonight, wee one, you’re mine.”

His words, and the utter confidence in his tone, heated my cheeks.

I cleared my throat. “Big talk. Let’s see you win first, Irish. Maybe it’ll be you getting pounded… But don’t worry, I’ve heard Sepriano isn’t particularly gifted in groin area, so it might not hurt too bad.”

My wisecrack only had him chuckling. He reached out and slid a finger down my cheek. His touch burned.

“Unfortunately for you, the same can’t be said about me.”

The heat dripping through me turned into a wildfire. I swallowed past my suddenly dry throat. “Very funny,” I quipped, more breathless than I’d have liked.

Then he grinned, and it was so wicked, the Devil himself would have been proud. “Not a joke, it’s an apology. I’m afraid you’ll be walking funny all week by the time I’m done with you. Wait for me, Giada. I won’t leave you hanging for long.”