His: Tony: The Sabatini Family by Fiona Murphy (mystery books to read .TXT) 📗

off in front of the building with five minutes to spare. The moment I step out of the cab, my knees go weak. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, it doesn’t help.

The building is six stories, with eight apartments per floor. There are only one and two bedrooms. Although a few of the two bedrooms have what is referred to as a study, a smaller room without a closet or door. Tony uses one of the apartments on the first floor as an office.

Three men are always here for security, two at the door and one in the apartment that has a reinforced steel door and enough guns and ammo to ward off a small army. On each floor, a one bedroom apartment has been reserved with the same guns, ammunition, and reinforced door for security.

Opening the outer glass door gets me into a five-foot by ten-foot vestibule with an intercom and phone on one wall. Before I step all the way inside, the intercom goes off.

“Name?”

“Christy Teller, I’m here to meet with Mr. Sabatini.”

The door buzzes and is opened by a very large man. His eyes run over me, not in a sexual way. It’s obvious he’s attempting to judge my threat level. “Open your bag.”

Thank god I left the gun at home. I open my purse. His eyes run over the interior. With a nod, he indicates to follow him. It isn’t easy to catch up with his long legs as he walks down the hall. He stops at the last apartment, a corner unit. A brief knock is answered by a gruff voice from inside speaking Italian.

With a flick of his wrist, he unlocks the door then opens it, waving me inside. Nerves hit me in my tummy as I move past him through the doorway. I work to take in a breath. This is it, finally.

6

Tony

The moment the door is closed behind me, the urge to open it again and get back to Christy nearly overcomes me. If it weren’t for my two men standing waiting for their orders, I’d do it. I nod at Paolo, “I want you to keep your eyes on her until Carmine gets here to take her to my place. Not on the door, on her. If she gets away, I’ll cut your fucking hands off. Make sure Carmine knows too.”

Paolo stiffens but only nods, “She won’t go anywhere, Boss.”

We both turn to see the doorknob move. A bitter chuckle slides out of me. Not a surprise at all.

“I’ll keep an eye on her.” He promises, his eyes on the door.

Trying to focus on the call from Emilio, a capo over the Wicker Park, Bucktown, and Logan Square neighborhood, I move down the hall and out the building. His request for help was frantic, but it didn’t make much sense. And the last twenty minutes are fucking with my head. What the fuck was that? What the hell had fucking happened? What is still happening to me? I blink, and Christy is seared into my retinas. Savage, aching need for her roars back all over again, eating into my fucking soul.

This isn’t me. None of what happened is a person I recognize. I don’t use women for my own pleasure—unless it’s what they want or need. For some women, to be used, to be taken without soft touches and thought to their pleasure gives them pleasure. If that’s what they want, I’ll give it to them, but only once I’m sure. Christina Teller was not one of those women. She was an easy read; she wanted soft touches and whispers of need. Christy needed to come long and hard until she was screaming from pleasure. Yet she was wet from me shoving my cock down her throat. I could smell her desire even if it hadn’t been written across her beautiful face.

Inside I cringe at what I had done. I’ve never in my fucking life wanted and taken a woman so quickly—within mere minutes. And to shove my cock into her mouth like that? Jesus, what the fuck was the matter with me? I know what people think of me, that I fuck indiscriminately and often. It couldn’t be further from the truth.

While yes, from my first fuck at fifteen until I met my wife a year later, I fucked more women in one year than most men fuck in a lifetime. The moment I married my wife it all stopped. Without hesitation. I wanted a marriage like the one my parents had and I was willing to work for it. Only for my wife to tell me that she didn’t love me and didn’t want me in her bed. I could have other women—as long as I didn’t bring shame on her.

I refused. I was a Sabatini. The name Sabatini itself is a vow, a promise of who we are. I stood before god and my family—both my parents and my Don, and promised that I would honor her as my wife and take on no other. For a long, painful year, I held to my vows, sure she would change her mind. I didn’t want anyone else. It didn’t matter I wasn’t in love with her.

Marrying a woman to ensure my baby was not a bastard wasn’t how I thought marriage would happen for me. It stung even more she set me up to get out of an arranged marriage she didn’t want. How we started didn’t matter. I believed over the years love would come—grow as we learned each other. I was willing to wait. Patience was something I had plenty of; I would not rush her. Until she finally told me the truth. She would never want any man. She was willing to bury her desire for other women to keep from shaming my family and hers—the least I could do was leave her alone.

It was a shock I did not take well. I might have gone overboard in catching up on almost two years