Lady and the Champ (35 page)

Sal makes a low growling noise, obviously unable to completely control his reaction. I can’t even manage that much, I’m so angry. I can’t believe Spada’s dismissed me so offhandedly. My only consolation is that it’s another indication of his weakness, another reason the organization is beginning to unravel. Soon enough, he’ll be gone, and then Sal and I can have it out for real.

But no. That’s not my only consolation. Because toward the back of the room, on the other side of the table, one of Spada’s men leans over to the man next to him and mutters something. Then they both smirk and glance at Sal.

Sal’s losing his grip on his power, too. And that’s exactly what I wanted to have happen.

Maybe this isn’t going so badly after all.

Sal isn’t quite so ready to let things be, though. He comes to his feet. “That is not acceptable. I want Sarah back where she belongs.”

Spada folds his hands on the table. “Angelino, you’ve said that Miss Corelli came with you of her own free will?”

“That she did.”

“Then you have no right to demand her back, De Luca.”

“I do have a right to demand a repayment of the loan she took from me and never repaid.”

“There was no mention of a loan, De Luca,” says Spada.

Sal outlines the conditions of the deal Sarah made with him in order to start her bakery, and I listen, teeth clenching. It’s a worse deal than I’d realized. No wonder she’s so tangled up with Sal. There’s no way she can pay back that much money as long as he’s deliberately strangling the life out of her business.

When he’s done, Spada frowns. “Angelino, it seems to me that, if you’re going to claim Miss Corelli, then you need to claim her debts as well.”

My first instinct is to protest, but instead I manage to keep my mouth shut, waiting to see what else Spada says.

“You repay her loan to De Luca, and we’ll consider this matter settled.”

Sal sputters. Obviously he doesn’t feel this is an acceptable solution. That alone makes me nod. With a shrug, I tell Spada, “That seems fair. I’ll send a check along in the next couple of days.”

There’s no point being uncivil about it all, so I turn and offer Sal a handshake. “We’re good, then?”

Sal’s face has gone puce, his eyes rimmed with angry red. “Good? Good? I don’t think so, Angelino. And you—” This is directed at Spada. “What the fuck kind of organization are you running, Spada? You’re just giving him a free pass?” Suddenly Sal clenches the edge of the table. Before any of us quite realize what he’s doing, he’s pushed it up, tossing the glassware, the china, and the flatware all over the floor. It’s too big for him to completely flip it over, but I can tell he wants to. “This is bullshit, Spada! Bullshit!”

The others have stepped back, out of range of anything else that might fly off the table in the wake of Sal’s rage. I take a step back myself, moving out of danger but also to a vantage point from which I can better enjoy the look of fury on Sal’s face.

“You need to settle down,” Spada tells him, but Sal’s face just goes that much darker.

“I will
not
settle down, you son of a bitch.”

“How dare you speak to me that way—”

“He
fucked
my
fiancée
! I have a right to—”

“You ever ask her if she actually
wanted
to be your fiancée?” I break in. Probably not the best idea to shove myself into Sal’s argument with Spada, but, dammit, this concerns me, too.

Spada ignores me, though. “Grow a pair, De Luca,” he snarls, “and stop acting like a three-year-old while you’re at it. She doesn’t want to be with you, she doesn’t want to be with you. Get the fuck over it.”

Surprisingly Sal starts to regain some control. He straightens his jacket and takes a step back from the table. “I guess I shouldn’t expect anything more from you. Not when you let Cain McAllister defile your own daughter.”

There’s a sudden silence around the table. Sal’s gone a step too far. But I can tell he’s not the only one in the room thinking the same thing. In all honesty, I’ve had the same thought myself.

Spada rises from his chair very slowly. He looks utterly calm, his face expressionless. “Get out,” he says quietly. “Get the fuck out of my sight, De Luca.”

Sal sneers, but he says nothing. Instead he turns and leaves the room.

The tension’s still there, thrumming through the room. I clear my throat. “You know I want his ass,” I say quietly, and Spada turns his head to look at me, just waiting to hear what I’m going to say. “But I’ll accept your judgment. I’ll pay off the loan for Sarah and leave Sal alone.”

“Thank you,” Spada says.

I give him a small nod and I, too, leave the room. Sal’s nowhere to be seen, which is probably for the best.

And, perhaps best of all, Sarah’s mine, and there’s not a goddamn thing Sal fucking De Luca can do about it.

* * *

I
head home
, but Sarah’s not there. It’s only after I search the whole house that I realize I turned my phone off while I was at the meeting. I turn it back on and, sure enough, there’s a text from her.

Went to the bakery. Have some things to take care of.

That’s it. No declarations of love or even a little <3 symbol. I guess I shouldn’t expect anything like that, although it would be nice to think the future mother of my child at least likes me.

The thought has me a little irritated, on top of the fact she left the house without my permission. Add to that the fact Sal’s thoroughly pissed off and very likely looking for her, and I’m heading way too fast for the bakery. Most likely no cops in the area are going to pull me over, but it’s best to avoid undue attention.

Finally I pull up and park in front of the bakery. I don’t see Sal’s car anywhere, but I do see one of mine. I wonder where she found the keys. She’s a little too resourceful for her own good sometimes.

I get out and head toward the door. A few steps away from the front door, I can see her, and I stop for a minute.

She’s behind the counter but away from the cash register. Instead she’s kneading dough on the wide working area next to the display cabinet where she showcases the day’s pastries. She’s got on a green apron; the front of it’s mostly white at the moment, covered in flour. She’s got flour on her arms up to the elbows, and I can see some of it decorating her dark hair. Totally focused on what she’s doing with the dough, she seems completely oblivious to the mess she’s made of herself.

I realize I’m smiling. Wrapped in an apron, covered in flour, she’s still easily one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. Again I wonder if there’s a baby growing inside her. Someday that apron will balloon out, covering her swelling womb, and I’ll be able to walk up to her and lay a hand on that curve, feel the movement inside her as our child stretches and kicks.

The thought makes my dick spring to immediate attention. If I haven’t put that baby into her yet, I will soon. She backhands a strand of hair out of her face and then puffs air upward when it tries to fall back down. I want to bend her over that flour-covered counter and fuck her silly.

Then I realize she’s here alone. I don’t even see the other girl, the one she hired to help her out, whatever her name is. Sal could come by here and make off with her anytime he wants.

My mouth tightens. I push the door open and go in.

Sarah looks up sharply at the sound of the bell over the door. “Nick!”

“Surprised to see me?”

“No… I mean…” She trails off, seemingly unable to finish the thought. “I didn’t expect you to come by here. How did the meeting go?”

I shrug. “Fine. I didn’t get what I wanted, but Sal made a jackass out of himself in front of Spada and his inner circle, so I call that a win.”

“So… So you’re not going to kill him?” She’s so careful, the way she asks the question. Like she’s afraid of offending me.

“I didn’t say that.” My tone’s a bit glib. I come closer to the counter where she’s working. Up close I can see a sheen of sweat on her forehead. Kneading must be hard work. “I just said Spada didn’t give me permission.”

“Nick—” she starts, but I cut her off.

“Don’t worry about it, Sarah. I’ll take care of the business stuff. Sal’s lost some support today—I can guarantee that. Chances are getting better for me to get promoted, take over for Spada when he steps down.”

She absently folds the dough over, molding it into a big, round pile. “You really think he’s going to step down?”

“If he doesn’t, I’m pretty damn sure somebody will take him out. Things are way too uneasy right now.”

“God.” She punches the dough a few times, not looking at me anymore. “I hate this, Nick. I hate everything about this. Why can’t you live a normal life?”

“This is the life I was born to.” Her attitude is tensing me up a little, and I still need to address her own issues—namely the fact she’s here in the first place.

She doesn’t answer me, instead just working the dough. I wonder how much longer she can knead it before she ends up ruining it.

“Look, Sarah,” I continue. “That stuff’s nothing you need to worry about. But we do need to talk.”

“What about?”

“Let’s just say I was a little surprised to see you weren’t at home.”

She stops what she’s doing and looks up at me, bristling. “I’m not a prisoner, Nick. I can leave the house when I want.”

“No, you really can’t. Especially not right now.”

Her mouth tightens. “So you’re going to lock me up, keep me in a cage?”

It’s an interesting idea, but I know she doesn’t mean it literally. Pity. “Sal’s out and about, Sarah. He’s pissed off that you’re here with me instead of with him. I don’t trust him—he’s given me no reason to. Doesn’t matter what Spada told him, he’s still just as likely to try to take you.” I pause, giving her a chance to let those words soak in before I add the next ones. “Or kill you.”

“So I should never leave the house again?”

“I didn’t say that. But I do think you shouldn’t leave the house without my permission. I need to know where you are if I’m going to be sure you’re safe.”

“Oh, this is ridiculous. I can’t even live my life?” Her voice is rising, and she’s angry, but at the same time I can see tears lining her lids.

“It’s only for a little while, Sarah. Just for a few weeks until I know Sal’s under control. Then we can talk about it. Renegotiate.”

She snorts. “Renegotiate. What kind of relationship is this anyway, Nick?”

I’m starting to get angry now, too. “An arranged one. You knew that going in. And I’m holding up my end of the deal—I’m doing my best to be sure Sal never touches you again. But I can’t guarantee your safety if you don’t cooperate with me. Understand?”

“Fine.” Reaching under the cabinet, she pulls out a roll of plastic wrap. I can tell she’s just agreeing with me to get me to stop nagging her. But this is important.

“It’s not safe,” I tell her, trying to sound more sincere than irritated, even though I’m honestly angry with her. “You’re alone—you don’t even have security in this store. There’s nothing to stop Sal from doing whatever he wants. That’s not acceptable.”

Her mouth folds tight as she peels a length of plastic wrap from the roll and stretches it around the bread dough. I have no idea how she does that; every time I try to use plastic wrap it ends up everywhere except where it’s supposed to be. But she’s deft with it, and wraps the big lump of dough neatly.

“Fine.” It’s the same word, but the tone is different. I can tell she’s working things out in her head. Maybe she’s even a little afraid of what Sal might be able to do to her. Good. It’s better if she’s not quite so confident. She’ll be safer that way.

“So I’m going to take you back home. You can leave the place closed for a few days until we work everything out.”

“I’ll lose business,” she says, but it’s a weaker protest now.

“We’ll make up for it once we get Sal out of the way. I’ll help you get things back underway.”

This time she nods. “Okay. Let me just take care of this.”

Taking the big lump of dough, she heads for the back. I follow her—she’s not getting out of my sight. She sets the dough in the freezer next to some other anonymous paper- and tinfoil-wrapped packages then heads for the big sink in the kitchen area to sluice the flour off her hands and arms.

Watching her clean herself, all I can think about is what she looks like naked. What she feels like naked and under me, writhing in pleasure. I want her at home, where I can strip her bare and take her, hear her screams of pleasure, feel her cunt tight on my dick.

It’ll take time to get home, though. I don’t want to wait. I want her now.

I move up against her back while she’s drying her hands and reach around, plucking the towel from her fingers. I toss the towel on the counter and slide my hands up to cup her breasts.

“Nick…” she starts, but doesn’t add anything else. Since she doesn’t tell me to stop, I keep going, pulling her nipples taut through the fabric of her shirt, her apron.

Fuck this—that apron has to go. I let go of one breast long enough to untie the laces, then I pop the neck strap over her head, letting the apron fall to the floor in a small cloud of flour dust. Kissing the back of her neck, I cup her breasts again.