“How’d you know?”
Carlo tilts his head to the side, looking him up and down. “You just didn’t look right. Hair’s too short. Gaze too steady. You weren’t nervous enough. Guys who come in ready to spend thousands of dollars on a game are excited—already high from the adrenaline. They’re sweating. Or their eyes jump around. Their fingers are wound up tight.”
It’s hard not to be impressed by Carlo’s observational skills. He wondered how a guy in his late twenties had taken up such a position of power within the organization. This helps explain it. The guy’s smart. Observant. And careful.
On a gut instinct, he violates all kinds of department policies and offers up the truth. “I wanted an introduction to Alexei Kaloshov.”
“What for?”
“He runs a sex slave operation, bringing women over from Russia.”
Nothing changes on Carlo’s face. He can’t tell whether the mobster already knew about the Russian or not.
“I can’t let you into my game,” he says after a moment as if he actually considered it. “You have a private phone?”
“Yeah.”
Carlo lifts his hands toward his jacket then pauses and flips them, palms out again. “I’m just getting my phone.” He holds his gaze and moves slowly as he opens his suit jacket, which Michael appreciates. Pulling out his phone from the inner pocket, he opens the contact screen and holds it out. “Here.”
Michael takes the outstretched phone and enters his cell phone number.
“I’ll let you know if I have anything for you.” Carlo takes the phone. Pushing away from the car, he starts to walk around to the driver’s side.
“Carlo.”
The guy turns and looks over his shoulder.
“If you ever come near my family again, I will bury you.”
The mobster’s lips stretch into a slow, appreciative smile. “I’d expect nothing less, detective.”
Chapter Nine
Summer
Sunday dinner is sacred at the LaTorre house. I tried, my first year in college to beg out of it, but my mom laid on the guilt so thick, I soon gave up and resigned myself. Every week, my parents host a dinner for the family. My nonna and Carlo are always in attendance, and the rest of the family rotates through–Uncle Joey and Aunt Sophie, occasionally my dad’s cousin Bobby and his twins, and other members of the organization.
Tonight, I arrive separately from Carlo, with our agreement not to tell anyone about the new twist in our relationship. Still, I can’t account for how differently I feel about him now. I sense the moment he walks in the door because every cell in my body starts vibrating.
My body remembers the way he used me, over and over again last night. Bound spread eagle to his bed, he alternately tormented me and brought me to the brink of ecstasy. I think of the caress of his velvet tongue licking into my core, making me come so many times I thought I’d never move again. My pussy slicks now, just at the sound of his deep voice in the hall, the rich timber of his greeting to my father.
I can’t decide where to look when he comes into the room. Perched on the arm of the sofa, where I was talking to my nonna, I purposely don’t look over. But then, is that too obvious? Or rude? Jesus, am I blushing? I duck down to re-tie the lace of my Chucks.
“Hey Summer.”
How does he manage to pull off casual? Oh God, he’s coming over.
I jerk up, my gaze darting to his face then away as he leans in for the customary cheek kisses. How many times have I greeted him this way? Hundreds. But this time has my heart racing, my palms sweating.
He grips my elbow to pull me in, which sends a zing of excitement running through me, reminding me of his dominance. Did he always hold my arm like that? He gives it a squeeze before he releases it. That part is definitely new. A secret message just for me.
I don’t dare look at him.
Thankfully, Uncle Joey and Aunt Sophie come in with a flurry of greetings, saving me from more awkwardness.
“Hey Summer, how’s your foot?” Sophie’s a massage therapist, so we always talk body stuff. “Ooh, it looks swollen, hon. Have you been dancing?”
I don’t know how Sophie can tell it’s swollen when it’s tucked in my shoe and sock, but she’s right. The damn thing is throbbing.
“Yeah, a little.” Just not the kind of dance you’re thinking of.
“You’re dancing?” I hear the sharp note of criticism in my mother’s voice. Growing up, she was a total stage mom, my biggest cheerleader, but I guess she thought it was something I would quit or just do as a hobby when I went to college. She didn’t like me choosing it as a college degree—said I should be using my brains, not my body. As if dance is for idiots.