I took the cigarette from him, and he watched me as I brought it to my lips and inhaled. The coughing was instantaneous, my eyes watering.
Dark amusement ghosted through his gaze before he reached forward and took it from me, his fingers brushing mine.
"I wasn't finished," I protested, still coughing a little bit. If I was going to smoke, I was going to do it right. Maybe I was a perfectionist, but I couldn't leave anything halfway or poorly done.
I watched him put his lips on the cigarette where mine had been. Thank God it was dark, because my cheeks grew hot. This man had barely said anything to me that wasn't rude, short, or demanding, yet my body reacted to everything he did like it was magic. Che palle. I was crushing on my future brother-in-law.
He handed it back to me. "Not so much this time."
I listened to him and only inhaled a little bit. A couple of seconds passed before smoke smoothly escaped my parted lips. A languid rush filled my bloodstream, my head feeling light.
The breeze was warm, the song of the cicadas steady, while I shared a cigarette with a man I knew nothing about.
"My mamma's going to kill me," I said softly, followed by my cousins' low laughter drifting on the light breeze.
Steve dropped the butt, blew out a breath of smoke, and stepped on it. "You tell your mamma everything?"
I looked up at the starry sky. The answer was no; I never told anyone much. Nothing that mattered anyway.
"She'll smell the smoke," I said, gazing at the constellations. I glanced at him to see he'd been watching me. I flushed, every inch of my skin growing hot.
"Come here." Something soft and charming wove through his deep voice.
My heart skittered to a stop.
This was how this man got women: by only saying, "Come here," in that tone. None-theless, I couldn't say I felt cold when he was rude either.
I had always done what I was told, especially by the Made Men in my life, though not a single step I took in his direction was because of that. I was a moth moving toward the flame, until I stood close enough for my wings to ignite.
I held my breath when his hand rested on my waist. His grip tightened as he pulled me forward until my chest brushed his. My pulse beat in my throat, and his hand was so hot, spreading warmth to the pit of my stomach, that I hardly noticed him leaning in, brushing his face against my hair.
"No smoke." The words were smooth with a rough edge.
His palm slid from my waist to my hip before he pulled away, leaving a trail of fire down my side. He pushed off the wall, and I took a step back and out of his way. Walking away, he stopped and turned to me. His voice was cool, indifferent, and laced with that commanding tone he'd mastered.
"The list? I want it tomorrow, Anastasia."
:Steve:
TEMPTATION IS HALF-NAKED, INNOCENT, AND dripping wet.
And I am my idiot cousins.
Those were the two conclusions I'd come to this week with an irritating sense of acquiescence. I was practically up to my neck in work, and yet I could only focus on one goddamn thing.
Anastasia Angel, of course. So fucking wet.
The way she'd stood there, dripping water to the concrete while staring at me with those soft brown eyes and that sweet expression. Her long, wet hair and a body you'd see on a porn star. Jesus, it couldn't be real. That's what I'd convinced myself, but then it followed me, got in my way even, and told me what I couldn't do.
It was regrettably real. Every perfect square inch of it.
For an unknown reason, the idea of her greeting guests looking like that dug under my skin. Was her papà letting her run around half-naked while men were over? And as her soon-to-be brother-in-law, could I tell her to go put on some fucking clothes?
I hadn't ever wished a girl would get dressed, especially one with an ass like Anastasia Angel's. Frustration clawed at my chest, because I knew when irrational responses went through my head it meant one thing, and it usually wasn't good for either party involved.
The night was lit by tiki torches and the sparkling orange lights above the Angel's patio table. The atmosphere seemed to be easy enough, though that was probably because all the Angels stayed on one side of the yard and all the Russos on the other.
A servant poured Jennie her sixth glass of wine, and I reached out and took it from her, setting it on the other side of my dessert plate.
Her gaze burned a hole into my cheek.
"You're not fucking old enough to drink," I told her.
She sighed, mumbling something about having to drink to forget the videos—whatever that meant.
We were supposed to be "getting to know one another," as her mamma suggested, but we'd hardly said a word to each other and I couldn't find it in me to care. Mostly because I knew where her sister stood and was concentrating on not letting myself look in that direction. The girl had the entire male population of New York kissing her ass, and I didn't care to be included in that circle jerk.
Nevertheless, a flash of pink in a corner of the yard caught my attention, and I couldn't stop myself from flicking an unwilling glance to her. She was playing croquet with her girl cousins and Benito. And just like a prima donna, she still had her heels on. I'd thought my perception of her personality would be a big enough repellent, like a thick cloud of bug spray or maybe a little mace. Unfortunately, it didn't do anything to turn me off. Not when I looked at her, and especially not when she spoke with that soft, warm voice that soaked through my skin and ran straight to my groin.
I now understood my cousins' fascination.
The fact that I could be lumped into the same group as those idiots. . . ridiculous.
I knew what this was. I was a Russo. We wanted what we couldn't have, and what I couldn't have was Anastasia Angel in my bed just one damn time.
"You don't like my sister?" Jennie asked.
Jesus, she was a bit perceptive. I would have to remember that.
I took a sip of whiskey. "I like your sister just fine."
"Hmm," was all she said, like she didn't believe me but didn't give a shit either.
This was how our conversations seemed to go. Short and apathetic. I couldn't decide if we were perfect for each other, or if she'd drive me crazy with her idiosyncrasies.
My gaze found that blond prick talking to one of Anastasia's uncles. I didn't know the man, but I knew I wouldn't help him if I saw him bleeding out on the street. A burn radiated in my chest from only looking at him. I'd barely stopped myself from smashing his face against the front door earlier. Anastasia Angel was not my business, regardless of the way the Russo blood in my veins burned a little hotter in her presence.
"Yankees or Mets?" Jennie had poured all the salt out of the shaker and was now drawing caricatures in it.
"Red Sox," I responded dryly.
"Boxers or briefs?"
"Commando," I lied.
Her gaze dropped to my dick, only to look away a moment later and purse her lips. "This game is boring."
Amusement filled me. This girl was fucking weird. And I was aware that's why Salvatore had offered me a daughter in the first place. "Unfit," he'd said about Anastasia. Unfit, my ass. Not a single man in the Cosa Nostra would turn Anastasia away because of her lack of virginity. Salvatore didn't want to give up the favored Sweet Angel, at least not to me. He probably thought he'd gotten one over on me.
I'd take the weird one. At least she would be entertaining. She was also the smartest choice. Who knew how many men Anastasia had been with? I was Don. If I married a woman who'd been fucked by a few others in the Cosa Nostra, it would look bad. And, honestly, I never was that great at sharing. I'd have to kill all of them and I already had enough on my plate.
Luca leaned against the wall by the open double doors, sharing a look with my cousin Ricardo who sat at the edge of the party quietly observing the scene. Luca held up two fingers, nodding toward the girls on the lawn. Ricardo shook his head. After a few more silent exchanges, they both nodded.
At least tonight seemed to be dull enough for bets on stupid croquet games rather than as eventful as it was last Sunday. I sure as hell wouldn't be the one to ruin it by cracking skulls against doors.
I flicked a glance at Anastasia to find her gaze already on me. It was the same way she'd looked at me when she said, "You'll get all wet." I tried to ignore the heat running to my groin. The words had been innocent, the thought not crossing her mind that any man would let her get them as wet as she wanted. And not with fucking pool water either.
At first, I thought whoever nicknamed her had never even met her, but as I spent a little more time observing her it started to make sense. She looked tense when she stood up to me, like it was new for her, like she expected me to wrap my hand around her throat and squeeze. A thought I'd had, though probably in a different context.
The Sweet Angel was trying to grow some wings.
Thank fuck.
Something in my chest rattled with satisfaction when she listened to me without hesitation. The hot-blooded male in me wondered how obedient she really was. And the Russo wanted to know how much she would let me get away with.
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