Betrayed (Chianti Kisses #3) (3 page)

I don’t know if it was the pain meds or just plain delirium guiding his words, and I didn’t have a chance to ask as he slipped into unconsciousness again for another day after that.

“Tonight,” he breaks into my thoughts. “I’ll make it up to you tonight, I promise.”

Vincenza’s voice can be heard trailing from nearby, growing near, and Carmine jumps up quickly before we’re discovered by the group of women approaching.

What a shocker, he’s leaves my bed once again.

~*~

The large packages are stacked and balanced in a neat pyramid in the main foyer and this isn’t even half of what we’ve bought today. Three stores, five hours, and two emergency cups of coffee later, I sit rubbing my feet while V stands and shakes her finger at the items, mentally checking them off some list.

“I think we got everything we needed,” she concludes.

I roll my eyes behind her as she continues to check over the boxes.

“Even if we didn’t, V, I don’t think I can stand to look at another binky, bottle, wipe warmer, or onesie. I’ve gotta bounce.”

“Oh come on, sis… don’t you want to help carry all this stuff to the nursery?” Dom raises an eyebrow in question.

He already knows the answer.

“Sorry, big brother.” I slip my aching feet back into the leather flats. “Thank God for all your muscles. You’re gonna need them!”

I laugh at the thought of the numerous trips he’ll be making up and down those stairs, as I blow each of them a kiss and slip out the front door before I’m suckered into helping them.

~*~

A little more couldn’t hurt.

I tip the green bottle just a bit higher and listen to the glorious splash the contents make against the smooth glass, and it’s as if my body has already somehow reaped the rewards of the drink.

I instantly feel relaxed just knowing that in mere seconds the expensive red drink will help smooth away the stress of the day.

In my family, the fruity drink was a staple at every dining table- consumed by the boat load, literally, as my dad had his favorite vintage sent directly from some friend’s vineyard in Tuscany.

I was allowed to take small sips as a growing child from mom or dad’s rim-filled glass as wine was an integral part of our culture. But, I never really enjoyed the drink until right after college.

Now, I’ll practically finish off a couple of bottles a week. I try all kinds of new ones, but none compare to the kind my dad used to import. I’ve tried and tried but never can seem to find that particular one on any liquor store shelf.

I take a sip of the substitute in my own glass and swirl it around, swishing it through my teeth. I reach for my phone while still swallowing the Merlot and text Dom, although I fully expect he’ll still be carrying boxes of baby supplies and nursery furniture up and down those marble stairs.

HEY DOM, DO YOU REMEMBER THE NAME OF THE WINE DAD USED TO BRING IN FROM TUSCANY? CAN YOU FIND OUT FOR ME? PRETTY PLEASE WITH A CHERRY ON TOP?

I doubt he’ll be able to find out much more than I have over the years, but it’s worth a try.

I raise the glass to take another sip when the doorbell rings, interrupting me and causing me to spill the deep red drink down my chin and soaking into my blouse.

“Shit!” I work quickly to try to sop up as much as I can with the nearby dishtowel but know that it’s futile. The shirt is ruined.               Damn, it was practically brand new, too.

I dab and press the equally ruined dishtowel to the material as I make my way to the door. My eyes glance up to the little ornamental clock on the nearby shelf. 10:53.

I roll my eyes. There’s only one person who would have the balls to ring my bell at this time of night.

“You owe me a new shirt, jackass.”

I leave the door wide open with him standing in surprise at my greeting.

“Umm, OK…” he enters cautiously, closing the heavy front door behind him.

I pretend to concentrate on my stained top while secretly checking him out. He’s changed clothes from earlier, no longer wearing his “goomba” suit, and, instead, is dressed in a pair of dark rinse jeans with a button-down shirt, pressed and crisp. I laugh to myself. It must be the European in him, because his version of casual is still suave enough compared to most of us Americans.

He sets down a small paper sack on the countertop while scanning over the half-empty bottle of wine, the red stained towel just thrown down, and then finally the damp shirt on my body.

“Maybe I should buy you some sippy cups instead? Since you can’t seem to handle a big-girl glass.” His smirk is dangerous. He should know better. That wine bottle is still close enough to reach….

“Is there something you needed? Or did you just think
What the hell, I’ve got nothing else going on tonight… let me go piss off Theresa?”

He growls under his breath. We slip into this pattern of sexy banter just a little too easy for my liking.

He steps closer, eyes unwavering. “So… let me get this straight. I own that shirt now, since I’ve got to replace it?”

I scrutinize him, trying like hell to figure out his angle. With Carmine, there’s
always
an angle.

“Maybe…” I answer cautiously, standing tall and defiant against his imposing form.

His evil little lower lip twitches. “Good.”

The motion is quick as his hands take hold of the material and pull away from each other, ripping the fabric in a loud tear that never seems to end. I fight against it, but gasp aloud.

His mouth swoops in and grabs hold of mine, kissing deeply and powerfully, holding me captive in the middle of my apartment as I squirm halfheartedly to escape. His rough hands finish their wicked agenda and pull the shirt down my uncooperative arms, stopping at the wrists.

“So, are we gonna play nice or are you still pissed at me?” He knows I secretly want his lips on mine, but he doesn’t budge, leaving my mouth free to answer him.

I bite my lip, knowing that he’ll get some smug satisfaction if I admit just how
nice
I want to be. A second passes, and I keep my words to myself. Another second.

The expensive linen that was once my shirt tightens around my wrists and Carmine’s eyes cloud over.

I whimper in the most delicious way.

“Hmm?” he asks.

I exhale deep, considering myself a traitor as I give in just a little bit and appease him without actually admitting fully what he wants to hear.

“You ruined my shirt.” I sound like a petulant whiny brat. His eyebrow raises, I feel the material twist once more like a vice confining my hands. A shot of electricity shoots down my center to the base of my core where it explodes on contact with the moist heat already growing.

“And you wasted a perfectly good glass of wine,” I add insult to injury.

He thinks on that for a moment. I can practically see the wheels turning. I feel a movement behind my back as his hands readjust, shifting so that all the material is now controlled and guarded by only his right hand, freeing his left to now reach and grab the nearby bottle.

“This wine?” he asks.

“No, the
other
one.” I roll my eyes, watching him cautiously.

I can see I’m only stoking him, egging him on. He laughs silently and holds the wine bottle high above me, tipping it ever so slightly.

I stare hard at him. “Don’t. You. Dare.”

I feel the coolness of the wine against my skin as it drips down, having landed on my exposed breasts. I feel the liquid seep between them overflowing once the pressed cleavage has taken the maximum amount of Merlot it can.

A tiny little waterfall of the drink overflows from the mounds of my bra, trickling down my stomach. I shudder as I feel the moistness enter my belly button.

His eyes are relentless, boring into me as the steady stream of deep burgundy continues to escape the bottle. He’s watching for any and every sign of surrender.

I hold out on him, though… for another moment or two at least.

The unchilled drink somehow feels frigid against my burning skin as it rushes further down, with gravity pulling it into every little slope and hiding place.

I close my eyes and hiss as I feel it pool between my thighs, even though I‘ve clamped my legs together in defiance.

I feel the constant barrage of wine against my breasts finally end as the bottle is emptied completely, with one lone drop falling behind. My chest is heaving, my pulse racing, but he seems to be cool and collected.

He replaces the now-empty bottle on the counter and licks his lips as my eyes try their best to burn him.

“There. Now, it’s not wasted. I’m going to give you one opportunity to tell me where you want me to start before I lick every drop of this off of you.”

I swallow hard. He knows this doesn’t come easy for me, but that somehow gets him off even more, as he pushes me way past any comfort zone I may have had.

I make a gurgling noise deep in my throat, some sorry attempt to speak before I shut it down in embarrassment.

I feel the cotton around my wrists pull. “Say it.”

I gulp. “Down
there
.”

He trails a lazy finger under the lace edge of my bra.

“Down here?” he asks, knowing full well that’s not at all where I meant.

I shake my head no.

“Down here?” his finger lowers to my navel, circling in torment.

Again, I shake my head.

His hand slips into the loose elastic band of my lounge pants, gliding in the trail of wine with ease, inching closer and closer.

“Down here?” he asks, gloating in his power as his finger trails the seam of me, tracing back and forth achingly slow.

I’m screaming on the inside, hidden away.

“No
? Not
there?” I feel the muscles of his hand contract as he moves to withdraw.

I inhale sharply, “Yes.”

His eyebrow shoots up. “Yes, what?”

“There,” I concede.

His finger once again returns to the mound of wine-soaked flesh, slipping in and parting me. My eyes roll back, and I moan as the wet friction begins.

One or two moments pass with his teasing fingers revving me even more than I already was. His finger disappears as his hand makes its way to his waiting mouth, inserting the exact finger down to the second knuckle.

I feel myself swoon.

His cheeks hollow themselves as he sucks, pulling the guilty finger out slowly as his eyes stay on me. I hear a wet, echoed pop, as he releases the tip of his finger.

“Damn. That
is
good wine. Can’t wait to have the rest of it.” His lips glisten.

Right there in his arms, I have my very first solo orgasm, shaking in his arms as he watches, his hungry eyes set on me taking in every single twitch and gasp, knowing that his sultry words were largely responsible for it.

“And now it’s going to taste even sweeter,” I hear his words as though through a haze.

I feel my body lift as he scoops me up and carries my wine-drenched body off to the bedroom.

~*~

My exhausted limbs stir, the stickiness of my skin evident as I switch positions to face him.

His eyes are closed softly, the dark eyelashes relaxed and fluttering slightly with sleep. The room is pitch black, yet my eyes have adjusted. I see my usually tidy room ransacked with piles of our clothes all over. The lush and fluffy comforter that once covered my bed is now strewn across the floor.

We lie with nothing but an almost certain wine stained sheet covering our nakedness. It’s been hours since we first ravaged each other, slipping in and out of sleep between rounds.

This last one, though, it left us each nearly on the brink of madness as we clamored for the energy to finish each other off, setting a new record. Four times in one night must be his new personal best, and I doubt we’ll be able to pull it off again for a long, long time.

The muscles of his chest move, with his body rolling over to me, pulling me in close and nuzzling his chin in the crease of my neck.

His skin is just as sticky as my own, and we probably smell like a couple of drunkards.

“Shouldn’t you be leaving?” I ask, with a little sting to my words.

He pulls tighter. “Nope. Got nowhere else to go tonight. Just here.”

“Won’t Dom be pissed if you’re M.I.A.?” I add to my query.

He kisses the ticklish patch of skin near the nape of my neck. “Let me be the one to worry about that.”

I breathe deep, exhaling slowly. A small part of me wonders if he’s staying because he really wants to, or because I made such a big deal about his leaving the last time.

I determine that at this moment, it doesn’t really matter.

He’s staying.

CHAPTER THREE

DOM

Holy fuck I’m getting old!

My back hurts like a mother, and I swear I heard something pop during that last trip up the stairs.

How one person the size of a small watermelon can need so many things is beyond me. I’m not even going to look at the credit card statement, knowing that it will probably leave me even more dumbfounded once I find out how much all these unnecessary things cost.

We had done some preliminary marketing research at ATH last year on the booming sub-industries that would be needing capital infusions, looking for some good investments.

The maternity and baby industry was top of the list, and judging by V’s reaction to, and insistence on, all the individual items purchased, I can now see why. It’s a damn cash cow. Now that I’m free to do some more private investing, without a conflict of interest, I’ll have to look into it more.

Even though I have no ATH business to follow up on, no barrage of emails to answer, no strategy meetings to plan for the next morning, I find that I’m still following old patterns. It’s past two o’clock in the morning and I’m holed away in my office, living the same nocturnal life I’ve lived since taking over the helm of the company years ago.

Some habits are hard to break.

I knew it would be an adjustment, and I should have expected that the first few nights would be intense. I have that burning desire to check on stats, deliveries, and productivity while I know full well I don’t have a right to anymore.

The last thing John needs, as reluctant as he was to take over as CEO, is me looking over his shoulder and checking up on things. I’ve just got to find other things to do.

Once the baby comes, I know I’ll be busier than I could ever have imagined, but for these months before then, I’ll have to find another outlet.

I’ll be leaving tomorrow for Chicago to meet with some of the commission members, but it’s not the same as a board meeting at ATH. There’s nothing to prepare, nothing to organize. Nothing to
do
except show up, and well, watch my back, of course.

In my boredom, I reach for my phone and scroll through.

Wine?

Why the hell is Theresa asking me about wine?

I close my eyes and think back to the family dinners, with my dad laughing loudly and heartily at the head of the table. Momma would pass by at some given time carrying plates or serving dishes, with her white apron tied snuggly around her waist.

They’d lock eyes when they thought Theresa and I wouldn’t notice and smile to one another. Sometimes dad would wink and make mom blush. Sometimes, depending on how much wine he had, he’d reach out and grab her around the waist as she passed and she’d land in his lap where he’d kiss her just as if they were a couple of newlyweds.

Theresa and I would carry on about their embarrassing us even though no one else was around except Nonna; but secretly, I was really proud that my parents had that much love for each other. They were old school. They did whatever they had to do to make it work and never gave up on each other.

But most of all, they lived life without ever losing sight of the most important thing… each other.

My thoughts run away with me, eventually settling back on the wine as I picture dad’s glass filled with it, sipping his way through his meal. Every once in a while he’d close his eyes and savor the flavor.

I remember when wooden crates would arrive at the house filled with bottles of the wine packed in straw. I remember the heavy wooden boxes and even remember the black, stenciled letters printed on a slant on either side of the case.

What the hell did those letters say?

I squint my eyes and press my fingers to my temple as if that’ll somehow magically make the image more clear, but it doesn’t.

Hmm….

I’m not about to call mom and wake her up this time of night to ask if she remembers, but I know that the unanswered question will gnaw at me.

I bring my computer to life, all the while trying to figure out what I’m going to do once the system is actually up and running. I enter a search within the hard drive for old purchase orders of wine.

Coming from a large Italian family, the orders are plenty. Between the wedding a few months ago, Christenings, Communions, and sadly enough even funerals like Nonna’s, the numbers are staggering.

I set the search parameters even more specifically to fall within the dates I need. The scanned or manually entered information is now becoming dated. I search further and further back to about three years before my dad passed.

Computers were not Dad’s preferred method of record keeping and I know most of these were added by the accountants after dad was gone, trying to simplify all of the family’s records.

I stop scrolling once I reach a purchase order with a US customs stamp along the header from Tuscany, Italy.

The shipper was listed as Uva Malvagio LLC, or
Wicked Grape
, once translated.

That’s it!
That was the name on the side of the wooden crates that would regularly pile up in the kitchen, waiting to be transported down to the wine cellar. I can’t believe I actually found it.

I read through the document line by line. Dad really bought a ton of this stuff. Then I get to the payment terms and I nearly stop breathing.

$60,000 for 24 bottles!

That works out to be about $2,500 per bottle. No way on God’s green earth would my dad, who was born in a one bedroom house, ever pay $2,500 for a bottle of wine… no matter where it came from.

As if that wasn’t odd enough, the payee is listed as ATH subholdings.

There’s no such thing as ATH subholdings.

Next, I google Uva Malvagio in Tuscany and wait for the search engine to turn up its results. Only one listing pops up, a small mention in a trade wine magazine from four years ago.

There’s not even a website!

Who doesn’t have a website in this day and age?

I click on the article and read through, skimming along. Great flavor, wonderful texture, bold body, yadda yadda yadda. This is why I don’t read wine magazines.

I get to the meat of the article, and something jumps out at me. $49.95 in US dollars. That’s all the wine costs, even all those years ago, and that’s a far cry from $2,500.

Huh
. I sit back hard against the back of my chair and steeple my fingers under my chin. Something just isn’t sitting right with this.

Overpaying for wine,
and
billing it through some type of nonexistent offshoot of the company instead of to dad personally, considering it was a personal expense and not a business expense.

Sure, tons of people fudge expense reports and play around with billing to find tax shelters for personal income, but my Dad was never one of them.

It’s not often that something piques my curiosity like this, and I feel the excitement begin to grow around the mystery.

“Baby, come up to bed. You’re gonna be dead tired tomorrow.”

V’s soft, sleep gorged voice calls out to me from the small landing up at the top of the private staircase to our bedroom.

I watch her standing there with her thin robe hanging loosely around her new shape and can’t refuse. These documents, the wine, the secret company… those are all things from the past.

But that woman calling me… she’s my present and my future, and I’m not going to keep her waiting a moment longer.

~*~

“Promise to call me as soon as you land.” She folds another pair of socks and stuffs them into the small suitcase.

“V, I don’t need more socks. I’ll be home early tomorrow morning.” I take that same pair of socks and remove them from the piece of luggage.

I know she’s nervous. She’s absolutely nowhere near her due date, but I haven’t left her alone yet while pregnant. I lift her hands and hold them together, kissing her knuckles lightly.

“I’ll call every couple of hours and check in. Theresa’s staying over tonight, so you won’t be alone and everything will be fine. And… I’ll bring you home a surprise.”

Her eyes widen in silent curiosity.

“How about a famous Chicago deep dish pizza?” I bribe her.

Being from New York, it’s practically sacrilegious to eat any other type of pizza since ours is the best, but I have a feeling with the cravings she’s been having lately, she won’t be able to refuse the bait.

“Mushroom?” She asks enthusiastically.

I laugh.

“Mushrooms
and
green pepper.” I just upped the anty.

She nods, “Deal.”

I bend down, placing my lips close to the protrusion of her small belly. “I hope you like the crazy food your momma likes.”

~*~

It doesn’t matter if I’m Dom the CEO of ATH or Dom the boss of one of the most influential and wealthy crime families on the east coast. Either way, I don’t like to wait. For
anybody
.

The glass door to the guesthouse opens, the pull-down blinds clanking against the frame from the momentum.

“Morning, sunshine.”

He looks overly startled to see me in his space.

“Uh… hey, boss.” He manages to clear his throat mid-sentence while fully entering his small apartment of a guesthouse.

“Early morning? Already showered, shaved,” I move closer to make my inspection, “but yet… wearing wrinkled clothes,” I sniff the dull red stain near his lapel, “that stink of stale wine.”

I swear to God… this kid just doesn’t take a hint unless it’s beating him on the damn head. Time to make myself a little more clear.

“Change of plans, Casanova. You’re going to Chicago with me. Give us some time to chat about things. Nothing too deep, you know-- rules, respect, women,
wine
.”

The kid turns pale white, my message having been received loud and clear.

“Be ready in ten.” I leave him standing in silence.

~*~

“Thanks, Ellen, I appreciate it. Just send it all to my email. I’ll look it over once I’m in the air.”

The pilot signals that we’re ready to board.

“And, Ellen… enjoy retirement. You take some of that severance package and that hubby of yours on the dream vacation to the Far East you’ve always dreamed of. We’ll have you over for dinner when you get back.”

Ellen should have retired years ago, but her loyalty to the company kept her seated at that desk outside my office when she should have been enjoying life. I probably should have insisted she leave the company, but a small selfish part of me knew full well she could never be replaced.

She started as V’s dad’s secretary her first day out of secretarial school, and put in her time day in and day out far above what was ever required of her. She’s literally saved my ass a time or two with countless hours of overtime.

In gratitude, she’d received the largest severance package the company had ever seen - between that and her pension she’ll have enough to live comfortably for another fifty years.

I know it’ll take her a little while to acclimate to retired life, but I’m thankful she was able to help me out one last time. Her passcodes and access to the company database are still in working order until the paperwork goes through and IT changes the security settings, but that gives me at least a couple of days for her to search for the information I’ve requested.

“Take-off time, champ,” I call over my shoulder to Carmine as I slip my cell back into my pocket.

His sallow face looks up as he lifts his head from between his knees. His color’s not good. The sweat on his brow, the unbuttoned collar, the barely noticeable quivering of his clammy skin…
crap
.

“S-sure thi-thing, boss,” he forces.

“You ‘bout to puke?” I ask him.

His teeth begin to chatter from the onset of chills. “Pr-probably. But, once I toss my co-cookies I’ll be fine to fly. Hap-happens all the time after I drink.”

You’ve got to be kidding me
!

I’m beginning to regret bringing him along.

He kicks his chair out of the way as he hightails it to the men’s room on the far side of the private owner’s lounge of the non-commercial airport. Well, there goes our takeoff time. I waste no time in letting the pilot know that we’re not quite ready.

The loud gagging and hurling is making its way through the thin door, and coming dangerously close to triggering my own nausea. But, I do the right thing and wait.

~*~

The little mini-fridge on the jet is fully stocked as usual, and the half-sized cans of every imaginable beverage are like a myriad of sugar and caffeine heaven.

“Here.”

I toss Carmine a green bottle of ginger ale just in case his stomach acts up again, although so far he’s been true to his word. Since that initial little incident back at the airport, it’s been smooth flying.