Wicked Fame: A mafia stalker romance (Wicked Men Book 2)
Wicked Fame: Chapter 16

When we return to New York after that blissful weekend, things aren’t the same between us. I’ve loosened up, lost my resistance to her, and that makes it easier to slip up and reveal soft feelings that aren’t lust.

“Get a room.” One of the girls in Francesca’s program leers at me when I ambush the heiress near the vending machine and kiss her hard enough to make her lips bleed.

There’s no stopping my horny hormones, though. I keep wanting to see her. Her face is like sunlight to me, her smile oxygen. I’ll die if I have to go without either for too long.

“You don’t look as stoned as you usually do,” I remark, the day after we return. It’s a regular morning: her in her studio, me watching her. “Did you switch dealers?”

“I’ve been clean for…a few days. I think it’s almost five.”

“That’s better than I expected.”

“See? I can do it if I put my mind to it.” Setting her paintbrush on the table, she presses herself against me. “Gabriele, we’re still going to Italy this weekend. I won’t hear any excuses.’

“And?” I narrow my eyes. There’s something else she wants to say. It’s evident in how her torso sways back and forth, restless. “You want to say something else, don’t you? What’s got you so nervous?”

I’d love to pretend that she’s craving me all the time, Francesca gets needier for sex when she’s anxious.

“I’m meeting executives from the company who commissioned my painting later today,” she informs me. “I’m nervous about what they’ll think of what I made while I was in Woodstock. I completed it in a hurry and on the way back to New York, I realized it looks too simple. I should’ve added more layers—”

I block the rest of her words by pressing the heel of my palm against her lips. “It’s beautiful. It’s good enough. Repeat after me.”

Her fingertips trickle up my cheek, cupping my chin. “It’s beautiful. It’s good enough.”

“Good girl.” Despite my desire to play it cool, my hands chase the lush silk of her hair. It’s not a sexual touch. It’s just…me reassuring myself that she’s here and she’s mine to touch. For now, at least.

“I could get addicted to your reassurances,” Francesca jokes. “That might become my new kink.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Really? You’ll reassure me even when I’m being annoying and overly dramatic?”

I nod. “But you’ll have to do something for me, too.”

“I’ll call you Master. Or Sir. Or Boss. Or whatever you want.” She ticks her teeth together, a naughty glint in her eye.

I sigh. I shouldn’t say it, not with how complicated things are with Maria. But the part of me that used to be sensible has become scarce since the weekend at Woodstock. “I only want you to dine with me every evening after your classes. As great as my cooking is, it gets lonely when I’m eating alone. I’d appreciate some company. Also, it wouldn’t hurt if you compliment my food every once in a while.”

Francesca’s mouth drops open. My heart gallops. Doubt slithers between my newfound happiness.

“Gabriele, that’s….” She pauses, giving my anxiety room to mushroom. What if I said it too soon? What if she thinks I’m asking for too much? I’m just her muse. “I’d be delighted. But you’re sure it’s not too much work for you? To feed me, on top of everything else you’re doing for me.”

I wave my hand in the space between us. “The rats in my apartment probably eat more than you.”

“Hold on.” She squeaks, a grossed-out expression pasted on her features. “There are rats in your apartment?” Silence slips between us. Her breasts rise and fall rapidly. Her breathing accelerates. “How big?”

“Oh, did I scare the heiress? Have you never seen a rat, Francesca?” I’m loving how the anxiety on her face is sharpening with my every word, so I take this joke as far as I can. “How pampered did you grow up?”

She cups her palm and shows it to me. “Are they bigger than this?”

“That’s the size of a field mouse, baby, not a rat.” I fold her palm into a fist before kissing her knuckles. “And this is how big a guinea pig is.”

The goosebumps rising over her skin are impossible to ignore when I drag a fingertip over her arm. “So the rats that eat your leftovers are larger than my hand?” She swallows. “I’m not sure how safe it’ll be…”

“God, you’re so sheltered.” I roar in laughter. “I’m kidding, Francesca. There are no rats in my apartment.”

I drop the act, gathering her small body into a hot embrace. Her hair smells of me, not expensive shampoo.

Francesca’s shoulders sag in relief under the protective shield of my arms. “You had me going for a minute there.”

“Yeah, and I loved it. It was fun to see you get worked up over nothing.”

Her body that’s pressed against mine now seeks more from me, her breasts grinding against my chest, her groin rubbing against my cock, seeking friction.

“You know; I might end up staying the night after those dinners.” Biting her bottom lip, she slants her eyes upward in a challenging glance. “Then you’ll have to make breakfast for me in the morning, too. You have no idea what you just got yourself into, Gabriele.”

She throws in an evil cackle at the end for good measure.

But I’m only fixated on her words: she wants more from me. Just like I want more from her.

But do we want the same more?

“You don’t mind spending your evenings with a mobster?” I question, to be certain. I don’t need her to agree with me because she’s going with the flow. Inviting her into my personal space was a step out of my comfort zone. If this has to be what I want it to be, she’ll need to step out of her bubble, too. “Are you sure? It won’t be food play or kinky stuff with eggplants if that’s what you were imagining. I have a terrible sense of humor but I do talk a lot when I’m eating. And I’ll expect you to talk back.”

I wish I was the kind of eloquent guy who could talk straight and just tell her I want to have soul-deep conversations with her. But I’m a criminal with stunted emotions and a tough wall, so she’ll have to settle for ‘I’ll expect you to talk back’.

“That’s BS.” Francesca’s lips skim over my collarbone, teasing me through the thin fabric of my shirt. “You’re funny and you know it. And I love talking to you, Gabriele. I’m going to pry out all your secrets one by one until you regret having started this.”

“You can’t make me regret it. Ever.”

“That confident, are you?” She makes a groaning sound as the march of footsteps thunders in the hallway outside the studio. Shadows of people flash past us. Francesca unwinds her arms from around me and takes a step back. “Shit. I hope they didn’t see us getting all lovey-dovey. I need to get back to work.”

Lovey-dovey. It’s a strange expression. The flutter in my stomach is even stranger.

“Um…” I stutter. “I have to work, too. I’ll see you later.”

“At dinner?”

“Not today,” I say. “I haven’t even bought groceries yet.”

“Let me know when we start. I can’t wait.”

I leave as she gets absorbed in her project. With the whole mess involving Luca wrapped up, I no longer have any reason to keep an eye on Francesca. If I overdo it, Antonio and Ricardo might get suspicious. Since Antonio has a hard time keeping his mouth shut, the news will inevitably replace its way into Angelo’s ears.

Given how I barely managed to scrape my way back into Nico’s good graces, I can’t risk another spectacle. So for now, I’ll have to settle for meeting Francesca during dinner now. It’s better than nothing.

And with that, it’s time to face what I’ve been avoiding all weekend—my future wife.

Maria texted me asking if we could meet up this evening at a restaurant close to her father’s townhouse in Manhattan.

I had no reason to turn her down. Which is why I told Francesca we’d skip today.

At seven pm, I greet Maria at the Italian place she picked.

“I hope you didn’t struggle to replace the restaurant.” The beautiful older woman leans in to drop a light kiss on my cheek. A faint floral scent radiates off her. The only thought that comes to me is: it’s not roses or strawberries.

“Actually, I got here fifteen minutes ago.”

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

The contrast between my previous ‘date’ with Francesca at the drive-in theatre and this one is like night and day. Where the Heiress wore distressed jeans and a crop top, her eyes red with lack of sleep, Maria beams like a fresh blossom in her elegant pink dress.

“I heard your job in Miami wrapped up successfully.” Maria’s statement doubles as a veiled question.

“Who did you hear that from?”

“Nico. He visited Papa yesterday. I was surprised you weren’t there. Papa wanted to meet you, Gabriele, since you might be marrying me.”

“I had other places to be.”

Better places, I think but don’t have. My mind’s been in a tangle since those two blissful days with Francesca Astor. From the cozy sense of home in her arms to how intimate it felt to glimpse her vulnerabilities up close, every moment is a memory that I’ll never let go of.

Francesca isn’t messed up like I used to think. She’s just human. She met the wrong people, trusted the wrong people, and wanted to belong with the wrong people who made her feel worthless. And she’s still carrying around their opinions like a collar. It’s driving her to ruin.

Despite how heavy Francesca’s issues may be, she makes me feel more lighthearted than I have ever felt.

The drive-in movie was fun even if we fucked through most of it. I loved how right it felt to eat popcorn and discuss fictional characters with her afterward.

I mean, she was bred to be a socialite so she can carry a conversation. I was surprised even myself when I opened up to her about wanting to go to Italy.

Then she stole another piece of my sanity when she promised she’d take me.

Maria’s gaze adheres to the bruises on my face. “Your injuries are still unhealed.”

“It takes a few weeks. I’m sorry I haven’t had time for you. It’s nice to have this time to ourselves.”

When I first saw Maria, she was very withdrawn. That’s why it startles me when she beams a smile at me. It brightens her, breathing life back into her symmetrical features.

Maria is absolutely stunning. To the right man, she’d be his Madonna, a face he couldn’t tear his dreams away from.

But she does nothing for me.

“I needed a change from staying at home all day,” Maria admits. “Somehow, I knew I could replace it with you.”

We spend the next few minutes chatting about her son. He’s sixteen, attends some private academy, is interested in computers, and she’s worried because he only eats junk food. Typical.

I pour wine into her glass from the bottle I ordered. “Let’s talk about you. What do you like to do?”

“I don’t know the answer to that question. Isn’t that sad?” Maria ejects a pained laugh. “I’ve spent most of my life doing what was required of me. I sat on charity committees, looked pretty, threw lavish parties, and socialized with the right kind of people. We vacationed in Europe and Africa every year. My hobbies—I thought I chose them, but they were actually chosen for me—volunteer work and shopping. I thought that was the life I wanted to live, a life where I made the men around me happy. But now I think that was the life he wanted me to live so I would always need him to feel valuable.”

That’s a loaded answer to my simple question. It’s obvious to me that the sadness of losing herself for the sake of an abuser still persists.

“Maria, be honest with me.” I set my hands in front of me. Literally putting my cards on the table. “Are you really ready to move on from your past or is that something you’re doing because your father wants you to?”

I’m no expert in psychology, but spending time with Francesca has given me the ability to pick out unhealed wounds that sit right under the surface of people’s exteriors.

A woeful smile touches Maria’s mouth. “I’m still battered from my previous marriage but I have to move on for the sake of my son and myself. I have no idea what’s expected of a mafia wife. Can you give me some information about that before I jump into this?”

I refill her wine glass. She doesn’t look like a big drinker, but she already finished one glass. “I’m not high up enough in the organization for you to have to attend events with me so you could stay at home and do anything you please,” I answer. “As you can guess, getting a job would be out of the question. Apart from being unconventional in the family, it’d put you in danger since your ex-husband owns a corporation. I can’t have people tailing you all day, and if you have work trips or travel, that’d make the situation even more complicated.”

Another reason I need to quash whatever emotions I’ve started to feel for Francesca. There’s no way she’ll ever become a housewife with all her drive and talent.

A meaningful silence reigns for a few minutes. Glasses and plates clink around us. Just as the lack of verbal exchange is turning uncomfortable, Maria twirls her glass, posing a question, “What kind of wife would you like, Gabriele?”

“One who is content.”

“Then you’re a better man than most.”

“We don’t have to rush this.” Please don’t rush this. I need more time to explore my dark desires with Francesca. “I can’t tell you a whole lot since I’ve never been married before, but Nico’s wife should be able to help if you need more information. Or someone to talk to.”

Maria nods. Our food is brought to the table. As we eat, it seems like a natural point for the conversation to end. Too bad we still have to smile and get through the whole meal.

Can I do this for a whole lifetime? I just told Francesca how lonely I feel when I eat alone but with Maria…it’s no different.

A smile creeps past my tight control when Francesca’s text message arrives in my inbox.

Francesca: I showed Hudson 361 the painting. They loved it. Thanks. I couldn’t have done it without you.

Me: I still haven’t seen this painting.

Francesca: Do you want to? It might surprise you.

Me: Show me.

A second later, a picture pops up in my messages feed.

Black background. The glint of a knife. A rose curled around the sharp blade, its petals falling.

Another piece of my sanity shatters. Our conversation in the car. She remembered it. The imagery caught her artistic fancy and she put her career on the line, took a huge risk, all to tell me what? That a rose and a knife make a pretty picture?

That we could make a pretty picture, too?

The inner romantic in me is determined to see this as a sign—a wordless message that the heiress wants the same thing as me. In some dark, twisted version of the world, our lives could be intertwined forever.

I want to believe that despite our differences, we’re a masterpiece. A singular stroke of divine genius.

Something so rare, we can defy the odds.

Maria blinks curiously, bobbing her head from side to side. “You’re smiling. That can’t be about work.”

“Sorry.” I wipe my nose. “I got distracted.”

I’m about to put my phone away when three dots flash on the screen, followed by the unmistakable beep of a new message.

Francesca: What do you think of it?

Me: I’ll tell you later.

Francesca: We’re meeting up at your apartment, then?

Me: In two hours.

I gulp a whole glass of water before Maria and I resume our conversation.

“Are you seeing some other woman?” So she didn’t miss the signs. I’ll never be able to cheat on this woman without getting caught. I don’t plan to, either.

“It’s not serious,” I reply immediately. “Just a fling. I’ll end it before we get married.”

“That’s okay, then. I probably don’t have a right to expect fidelity in a marriage like this one. It’s a bargain I’m striking for my safety.”

“No, you deserve it, no matter what kind of marriage it is. And I do, too.”

She forces a laugh. “Considering I’m scared of men it won’t be hard to stay faithful.”

“Glad that we’re on the same page.”

I always thought of myself as a traditional guy. The monogamous, getting married to one woman and settling down type. But the first thought of Francesca shakes my resolve to the core, igniting my lust, kindling the obsessive desire to meet her right after I’m done with this ‘date’.

I know she’ll be waiting for me outside my apartment.

I can’t wait to go back. I can barely stop glancing at her text messages.

While I’m talking to my possible future wife.

She’s temptation personified. A sin I can’t avoid committing. A poison I can’t stop drinking. Will I really be able to detach from her when I just managed to get her to agree to have dinner with me?

The rest of the evening flows into small talk about our lives, or schedules.

When we part at the entrance of the restaurant, I walk Maria to her chauffeur-driven car. It feels wrong to kiss her, yet, it’d be odd if I didn’t. This isn’t the first time we’re meeting and things are moving forward between us.

So I bite the bullet and do it. It’s a chaste peck on her lips. I’m relieved when it’s over.

“I was on the fence before this evening, but you’ve convinced me.” Maria cranes her neck. “I’d like to marry you, Gabriele. We should set a date. Papa and Nico are both getting impatient.”

“You can pick the date. It’d be my honor to be your husband.” The words prick the inside of my mouth like thorns. Maybe because I’m uttering them to the wrong woman.

My bones feel like lead when I turn the key to my apartment. I should’ve texted Francesca and called off our meeting for tonight, but spending the end of our days in each other’s company has become so familiar, I’d be desolate without it.

Even though she’s why I’m conflicted, the reason I’m a ball of pain at the thought of being married to the kind of woman that I’ve always idealized. A woman who’d be good for me.

Good, but not right. Perfect, but not fulfilling.

I hate that I know what fulfilling means thanks to a girl I should never have met.

I shut down the demonic thoughts shaking the foundations of my character. Angelo expects me to marry Maria. This is no more than what he deserves from me—my complete loyalty and obedience for saving my life. That is what he’ll get.

“Bad day at work?” Francesca pounces on me the moment I barrel in through the door, kissing my face like it’s oxygen to her.

I’ve never had a pet dog, but I imagine even dogs aren’t this enthusiastic to greet you.

It’s ingrained in my instincts to wrap my hands around her soft hips, to sway to her wild tune as we both slake our thirst with touches and caresses. I don’t fight it. It feels too good.

Maria is okay with us seeing each other for now. I can put off telling Francesca about my marriage. There’s no date yet. I mean, I’m not even engaged, to be honest.

I roll up her sleeveless blouse and she drags it over the top of her head, giving me ample view of her lacy bra and the hard, rosy nipples peeking through the pattern.

My gaze traces lower, to the ridges of her abs, to the red scars that have turned purple.

It’s poetic how she has bruises on her chest from our last time together and I have bruises on my heart from being with her, from losing the last shred of my dignity and control to the merciless, destructive storm known as Francesca.

We’re both hurting in the same spot when I push my fingers against the purple mark. Francesca winces, then grabs my fingers and drags them over the hard, aching peaks of her breasts, replaceing her relief.

I lift her onto the kitchen island, the blunt sound of the gift in my pocket colliding against the marble melting into the desperate, wet sound of our tongues.

“Wait.” I slide my hand away from her breast and into my pocket. “There’s something I need to give you.”

She wiggles her eyebrow in surprise. “You’re usually eager to get to the sex part.”

“Aren’t you confusing me with yourself?”

I press the small red box between Francesca’s thighs.

Her delicate fingers wrap around the box. She lifts it up, studying it with a mixture of dread and curiosity. “What’s this?”

“Why don’t you open the box and replace out?”

A ruby ring shaped like a rose. It was the closest resemblance I could replace to her painting. I looked for it everywhere after my date with Maria. I found it at an antique jewelry store.

“A ring?” She slams into my chest so hard, her hands locking around me, that I cough for breath. Her laughter, light and full of mischievous humor, is not something I deserve at this moment. Not after I just kissed another woman. “Of course, I’ll marry you, Gabriele Russo. This is the day I’ve always dreamt of.”

“Slow down, I’m not proposing to you.”

“Why not? Haven’t you already fallen in love with me?” I can’t even tell if she’s serious or joking. “Is there any need to drag this out with pointless pretenses, angst, and a meaningless refusal to admit your feelings?”

The fact that I’m not able to immediately tell her she’s wrong about me being in love with her is a bigger problem than this misunderstanding.

I clamp a hand around her waist. “It’s not an engagement ring. That would need to have diamonds.”

That’s the best I can come up with? God, I’m losing my touch.

Francesca crosses her ankles behind my back. “I don’t care for tradition.”

“Baby, when I marry a woman, I’ll do it properly. With the biggest rock possible.”

“So what’s this ring for?”

“It’s a gift for your successful commission project. It reminded me of your painting.”

“Oh my goodness, that’s true. There’s a silver needle stuck through the rose.”

“You asked me what I think about it. I was blown away. It got under my skin with its striking colors…just like you do.”

I remove the ring from its velvet bed and slip it around her middle finger. It fits like it was made for her, even though I only roughly estimated her size at the shop.

“Were you always this nice?” Francesca raises her hand, captivated by the way light refracts against the crystalline petals of the rose. “Or have I had too much to drink and I’m hallucinating?”

“You don’t smell of alcohol.” I lean in and sniff her, just to be doubly sure.

For the record, I’m extremely nice to women. That’s why Angelo wants me to marry Maria.

But Francesca always brings out my dark side.

Still does, when she tempts me with those heavy-lidded eyes and smart mouth.

Surprisingly, she also brings out my romantic side, a side I never knew I possessed.

I don’t know if I’m anything more than her muse, fuel for her budding sex addiction. But if the way she kissed me when I bought her fucking Snickers is any indication, I have hope.

And she even faux-agreed to my imaginary marriage proposal. But I could never trap her in my world with a marriage. Not when I know it will destroy her dreams.

“Thank you so much, Gabriele.” Breath exits my mouth in a jerky exhale at the sight of her eyes glistening with tears. She isn’t usually emotional. But she had the same reaction yesterday at the drive-in theatre. “I’m so happy I have someone to celebrate my victories with. Most of the time, nobody cares about what I’m doing. I was afraid to hope anyone would. You’ve made my day with this.”

“I haven’t got a glass of champagne to toast to your success.” I lick the shape of her cupid’s bow, offering her my lips instead of a drink. “But here’s to hoping you make your dreams come true.”

A single tear cuts a trail over the surface of her cheek. I don’t wipe it away. She’s entitled to her happiness.

“Gabriele.” She hiccups. Then pulls her head away, embarrassed. After a moment, she dried her tears and composed herself. Her sober, clear blue eyes hit mine like laser beams. “I’m so happy right now. When I first met you, I thought it was the worst day of my life but I was wrong. You have surprised me again and again with your kindness.”

“So have you. I thought you were an addict with a sassy mouth that was nothing but trouble at first. Well, I still think your mouth is trouble.”

Her lips graze the line of my throat. A cold shiver meets the heat in my blood. “Shall I get you off with my troublesome mouth?”

“Only if you want to,” I say. “Now that you’ve successfully completed one painting, do you need inspiration for your next?”

I can’t forget that I’m her muse, her new addiction, her escape from her fears and doubts. And that’s all I am to her right now.

“You didn’t have to remind me that I still have one more painting,” she groans.

“Two more. Don’t forget my commission. That’s your repayment.”

She groans louder this time, rocking against my body. Without effort, I’ve destroyed the beautiful moment we had. Her exuberance vanishes behind the circle of her dark pupils like it was never there.

I’m waiting for her to make an excuse and call it a night when she whispers, “Do you want to know what my painting is called?”

“Why not?”

“It’s called Black Swan Theory. If you look carefully at the black background, there’s the silhouette of a swan hidden in it.”

“You thought to do that in one day?” I’m so impressed by the subtle detail I zoom the picture she sent to my phone to check. It’s there. A subtle gray outline. The rose and the knife are in the swan’s stomach.

“The Black Swan Theory describes impossible events that come as a surprise and change everything,” Francesca continues. “That’s what you are to me, Gabriele.”

My silence blooms like a strong odor in the living room as Francesca slides off the kitchen island, slips back into her blouse, and carries herself to the door.

“Good night.” She opens the door and steps outside. “I’ll wait for you at the airport on Saturday.”