Celeste;
Now this is the kind of risk-taking I call stupid, but this time, I willingly did not choose this one.
Being held at gunpoint. Not just one, but multiple gunpoints.
A muscled-pack dude stands with feet apart, his grip on his gun impossibly strong, thick veins coursing through his exposed hand, a horrible scar taking one side of his face—from his chin to his hairline.
His lackeys behind him. Three of them, with rifles and a revolver.
The heat warming my back reminds me of the presence behind me.
Coupled with the hard surface beneath me that makes my butt want to wiggle—but I reckon I'll get a spanking for doing so—heat creeps up my neck at the thought.
"What do I owe the honor of this very pleasant visit?" Caruso says, a lopsided grin hanging on one side of his lips, his gaze cold.
He signals his men to stand down. They acquiesce, but their weapons remain poised.
"You bloody monster." The scarred man grits. "Where is Alejandro?"
A shudder spasms in my lower back, my breathing hitching at the name he mentions. My reaction only subsides when it hits me and the correct name bounces in my head.
A breath of relief slips from me.
"You know I have memory issues with recalling insignificant individuals, Mateo." Amusement thickens his raspy, yet deep tone.
"It's Carlos, you son of a bitch." The click of his gun has Caruso's men positioning theirs.
"My point, exactly." His head cocks to the side.
Warmth prickles the skin beneath my sweatshirt, and I shiver in his hold, noting it's his fingers tracing my waistline.
The scarred man shuts his eyes for a while. Perhaps in an attempt to rein in his anger, he exhales and snarls, "The job you gave, we did it just fine. You're the one crossing the line here."
What the fuck? I mean, people talk to a Giordano like this? Caruso Giordano?!
He's silent for a while, his fingers still roaming beneath my sweats, inching way up toward my stomach.
I suck in a subtle breath when his index grazes my navel.
His throaty chuckle makes my body vibrate, a fluttering sensation prickling in my abdomen.
And then it hits me—it's not directed at my reaction to his hands on my body.
But to Carlos threatening him with a barrel.
"And what job was that?" He drawls, a sinister edge replacing the morbid amusement.
Carlos shifts his foot. "We delivered the ammunition safely, your order was executed, and I made sure of that." He defends, his jaw grinding.
"You see that's where you fall stupid, Camilo," his chin nearly brushes the top of my head as he leans in. "The ammunition was nicked," he reveals, a slow grin pulling on his mouth.
If not for the slight trembling in Carlo's hand, I'd have laughed at the wrong name—which I know Caruso intentionally used.
Seems the man can be petty at times.
Something new I've learned about the Giordano ruthless Capo.
"T-that can't be our doing." Scarred-face Carlos attempts to defend, but the tremble in his voice gives him away.
"Whose then, pray tell?"
He doesn't respond. His brows furrow, nearly joining. His lackeys behind him position their guns as though a crossfire will errupt any moment now.
I think this is when it dawns on Carlos that attacking a Giordano was a shit plan, because his grip tightens as he stutters, "Tha-That's not enough reason for you to take Alejandro—"
"Oh, you mean this Alejandro?" He nudges his gun to the lifeless body that has been here since I was brought in—the one I'd seen Michealo's men haul.
The scarred man's features slowly twist in devastation as recognition sets in. His eyes turn bloodshot.
"Fuck you, Caruso Giordano!" He screams, and a bullet is released into the air.
My blood freezes. On instinct, my eyelids fly shut as the sound sends a tremor through me.
When I slowly peel them open, I spot everyone in the same position—except now their grips on their weapons have hardened, all directed at Carlos and vice versa.
Whipping my head over my shoulder, a huff pours out when I notice he's unscathed. No sign of a wound or blood.
He's not looking at me though. His gaze is hard as granite on the idiot who fired at the ceiling.
"You have a death wish, Claudio." His aura oozes something dark and malevolent.
Which makes me doubt he was ever joking—He truly doesn't care about names.
A giggle almost tears past my throat.
But a gasp does when I feel Caruso's slender fingers resume skimming my skin.
Drawing a hot trail from the middle of my stomach upward to my—Jesus—brushing just below my breast.
He pauses.
Noting the same thing I do.
I didn't put on a bra.
Hoping that will stop his sinful ministration on my body—but oh boy, I'm wrong. He goes on like nothing happened.
My thighs squeeze on impulse, heat ricochets all the way to my core.
God, no.
A deep sound rumbles through his chest, and hot breath brushes my ear, sending sharp electricity through my nerves, and I pant.
"If you want to be successful with your laundering," his baleful words fall into my ear, eyes deadset on Carlos "be sure to check if there's a hidden cache somewhere next time." he growls.
I think the men gathered are oblivious to his hand under my sweats. Making his actions even more...depraved.
"Damn you!" The sound of bones cracking fills the space.
I couldn't care less. My head is barely here any longer.
And when I can't take it anymore, my palm flies over Caruso's beneath my sweats—yet I don't even know what I want. For him to stop, or not.
He ignores me.
His hands continue their sinuous exploration on my breasts.
Thankfully, just when an unrestrained moan slips from my throat, a series of massive shots litters the air.
Two sides exchange bullets—initiated by Caruso's men.
Michealo leads the attack. One man from his team grunts, taking a bullet.
Meanwhile, here in the Capo's lap, in blissful terror, something presses firmly against me.
Hard. Insistent.
My pulse stutters.
It hits me—
He's hard.
In this life-threatening situation, he's goddamned hard.
While bullets are flying. While men are dying.
And he's—
Oh goodness.
Shame nips at me when I realize I'm not any better…I'm a panting mess.
Carlos still has his gun aimed.
Caruso raises his.
Still holding me. Still calm.
Carlos pulls the trigger, the shot cracking through the air, sharp and violent.
Caruso moves—fast. Too fast. The bullet misses a clean hit, slicing past as his own gun fires in the same breath. A direct shot.
Carlos drops. Dead before his body even fully hits the ground.
But a sharp breath catches in my throat as something else registers.
A dark stain begins to spread along Caruso's side, seeping through the fabric of his shirt.
The bullet hadn't completely missed—it had embedded itself into the side of his chest.
My heart stutters violently against my ribs.
And yet…he doesn't flinch.