Wicked Fame: A mafia stalker romance (Wicked Men Book 2)

Despite my tearful confession to Francesca and her admitting she loves me, too, my daily life remains unchanged. I do the same things I used to do. Cycle through the same places I used to go to. The office. The casino. The club. My apartment. Dinner. Sleep. Then the same routine ad infinitum.

I yearn to call Francesca, to listen to her voice, but she said she wanted to be alone while she was in rehab.

“This is a battle I must fight on my own,” she said. “I need some space away from the world.”

I respect her decision. Rather, I admire her strength in wanting to face her demons so I’ve tried to be supportive of her choice.

I’m proud of her courage, the courage my mother never had. I can’t believe I ever thought they were the same. My mother had no passion, no dreams, no goals, just a corrosive hunger begging to be filled.

Francesca will succeed because she has her dreams and passions waiting for her at the end of this tough journey.

Antonio yawns in the office, staring at the ledger he’s supposed to be compiling.

I strike off one more day from my calendar.

Three more days. 

The weird thing is, I never owned a calendar before. I bought one just to mark the days until I could be with her again.

My head snaps in the direction of the lone painting hanging on the shabby wall of my office. It’s the one she gave me. My payment for the time I rescued her. She wanted it to remind me of her and it has served exactly that purpose for the last twenty-five days.

In a small, mystical way I feel that her spirit is here with me.

Before I know it, it was the day she was due to leave the rehab facility. We haven’t talked about meeting up. I don’t know where the facility is, but I assume it was outside the city in some nice, isolated place. Her brother wouldn’t have spared a single expense in ensuring she got to go to the best place.

After my daily grind and a round of drinks with Antonio and Ricardo at the bar afterward, I stumble into my apartment.

I’m waiting for communication from her. A text. A call. Something. But there’s nothing, no matter how often I check.

Hours bleed into each other. Evening turns into night then midnight. Restlessness claws up my bloodstream. I write and delete multiple messages. A niggling worry scratches at me.

What if she doesn’t want to be with me anymore? Now that she’s alright, maybe she realized she deserved someone better?

Oh god, what if she met someone at the rehab? Someone as rich and sophisticated as her who wouldn’t put her in danger. Someone who can understand her mind better than I can.

Within minutes, worry morphs into acidity at the base of my stomach. I swallow an antacid, suddenly remembering I forgot to have dinner.

There’s some bread in the fridge. I slap together a sandwich and scarf it down in the dark, lonely box of my room while watching the news. When I turn the TV off, static silence buzzes in my ears.

I promised her I’d wait for her to reach out.

Maybe she’s too tired today. Tomorrow, when she’s rested, she’ll call me. Right?

I chance a last look at my phone. My heart shoots from despair to hope. There’s a message. From Francesca. It was sent twenty minutes ago, while I was wallowing in my self-doubt.

Francesca: Can I come over now?

I text her back instantly.

Me: Yes, yes, yes, please fucking come over now. I’m about to collapse from wondering how you are doing. Are you hungry?

Francesca: Only for you, G.

Thunder strikes my heart. Heat coils around my groin. Our reunion will be explosive; I just know it. I root around for condoms so I’m prepared when she arrives.

She usually lets herself in because she knows the passcode to my apartment. Tonight, though, she buzzes instead.

I swing the door open, chest swelling and bursting with relief at the vision of her standing on the other side.

“I hope you weren’t traumatized having to walk through the corridor again,” I say. “We can go somewhere else—”

“I’m fine.” She barrels right into my arms, her head coming to rest on my chest. All the anxiety from this evening dissolves. It feels right. So right. “Good job taking care of the bloodstains.”

I hired an expensive cleaning service to get it done discreetly but it was so worth it.

Francesca kicks the door closed with her foot. Her gaze lifts to me. It’s hungry, but this is not the desperate craving from weeks ago, a desire to get lost in something and avoid her demons.

This time, she wants me, not an escape. I can feel it.

“I missed you,” I say, heat growing under my skin like vines. “How was rehab?”

“Not as bad as I thought. I’m a little better now and I understand what I have to do. I’m so grateful I’m not alone on this journey.” She touches her open palm to mine, her silent gratitude filling my body. “Of course, the struggle isn’t over because I’m out. They said it’ll take two to five years of commitment to be drug-free for life. But I feel more confident than ever that I can do it.”

“I know you can,” I say.

The dam holding my emotions at bay breaks when a tear quietly trails down her cheek. I give in to the temptation, gathering up her body in my arms, bringing her lips to mine, devouring the taste of her like a starved animal.

If I had any doubts about her losing interest in me, they all vanish when she kisses me back passionately, rubbing her breasts against my chest.

Passion grips us, prolonging the kiss, and turning it into a wordless interlude. My body reacquaints itself with the planes of her soft form, with the heady taste of Francesca Astor, with the scent of roses that was absent for so long.

Every scrape of her body against mine generates enough friction to make me want to rip off our clothes and take her right here and now. But today’s not for quick gratification.

Our mouths stay glued together until it’s no longer possible for us to breathe. Then we break away, tears welling in both our eyes, the pain of separation and the ecstasy of reunion having broken down all of our walls.

“How about you?” She breathes hard. “Have you decided what to do once you leave the mafia?”

“I want to be a chef and open my own restaurant. I’m thinking of applying to culinary school. I’ll probably be the oldest dude in class. Don’t know how I feel about that.” I scratch the back of my neck, self-conscious.

I’ve always been in a position of power, the most successful and respected man in the room. It’ll take an attitude adjustment to start from the bottom again. Still, I feel excited about everything that the future holds.

Francesca nuzzles her head close to my neck. “You’ll also be the most handsome guy in class. All the girls will be flirting with you.”

“Doubt it. I have a menacing face.”

“It’s dangerously addictive.” She licks a trail over the line of my jaw. “I can’t seem to get enough of it.”

“Who knows if I’ll even make it in the restaurant business?” A shiver coasts down my spine as her tongue pushes across my chin. “Angelo says it’s hyper-competitive.”

“If you find yourself unemployed, I’ll persuade Ethan to hire you as a chef at one of our hotels.”

I choke. “I’m not working for your asshole brother. I’d rather go back to the mafia.”

“I doubt it’ll come to that since your cooking is going to win everyone over and make your restaurant a huge success.”

Something inside me softens at her faith in me. It’s better because I know she means every word. She has been the most ardent fan of my food so far and if my customers like my food half as much as she does, I’ll be the most popular chef in no time.

“Someday, our dreams will come true,” I say, kissing her on the mouth again. “Yours and mine.”

Her shoulders ease up. “Yeah. I want to be here to witness that.”

I kiss the top of her head, letting sacred silence wrap around us.

It’s a silent vow, a wordless commitment we’re making to each other. To always support and stay by each other’s side. I didn’t realize until this moment how much I actually want to see more of Francesca’s drawings, and watch her receive the recognition she deserves. I’m more eager to see her achieve her goals than to see my own restaurant get off the ground.

She rises to her tiptoes, grabbing my hand and pulling me. “Let’s go.”

“Where?” I ask.

“To Italy. I’ve been dying to go with you again. This time, we’re staying for a week.”

“When are we leaving?”

A wicked smile. “Now.”

Thick resistance rises in my throat. “That’s—”

Impossible. I open my mouth. Close it. It doesn’t matter.

Because if there’s anything I’ve learned it’s that when we’re with each other, nothing is impossible.

THE END