This Thing of Ours (The Gamblers Spin-off Novel) Read online

  As time passed, Marco felt himself growing more at ease in their environment, tucked away as they were in a semi-quiet corner. The crowd and noise melted away and all he heard was Gabriella as she shared her least favorite foods and then her favorites, which transitioned into the movies she loved and her fascination with period pieces because of all the kick-ass costumes. And that led to her reluctantly admitting she wanted to open her own dress boutique once she graduated and raised the money.

  He could listen to her talk for hours and never grow tired of the sexy rasp of her voice. Its tranquil melody surrounded him, leaving him feeling more peaceful than he had in… well ever. She did that. Lightened all the darkness in his life. Gave him the hope of a happy future. Something he’d never dreamed of hoping for before.

  A new song started playing, drawing his attention, something that had been popular and over played a few years back. It had a snappy tune, but the beat wasn’t overly fast.

  Gabriella must have recognized it, too, because her eyes lit, and she blurted, “I love this song. Let's dance."

  "Cara mia, I don't dance."

  Her smile dimmed. "Oh. Well, that's okay."

  She tried to hide it, but he saw her disappointment. He would do anything to remove that look from her face.

  Including dance.

  "If you're willing to have me step on your toes, I'm willing to give it a try."

  A bright smile transformed her features and a sweet, "Thank you," fell from her lips.

  And there it was, his reward.

  Keeping a tight hold on her, he shouldered them through the mass of bodies on the way to the dance floor where Gabriella showed him a few basic moves. He tried to mimic them, but after a couple of pathetic attempts that had left her in tears from laughing so hard, he gave up, pulling her into his arms to just sway to the music.

  She smiled up at him. He gazed down at her. And it didn’t matter they weren’t dancing to the beat of the music—even when one song transitioned to the next—because he had her in his arms, and they created their own rhythm.

  “What the fuck?” Marco exclaimed when Gabriella was unexpectedly ripped from his arms.

  The asshole from earlier had a hold of her with his head tipped back, laughing as he twirled her around.

  Panic mingled with determination lined Gabriella’s face as she struggled in the guy’s hold.

  “Let me show you how a real man dances, sweetheart.”

  Scratch what he’d said earlier, the guy wasn’t a moron, he was a fucking dead man.

  In two steps, Marco was upon them. In one fluid move, he grabbed the back of the guy’s head by his hair, yanked to expose his throat, and punched, hitting his Adam’s apple.

  The guy instantly dropped to his knees then fell to his back, clutching at his throat and opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. And just like that fish, the asshole wasn’t getting any air.

  Marco smirked.

  Commotion ensued as the guy’s friends rushed to his aid, yelling some nonsense that Marco wasn’t paying attention to because he’d turned all his on Gabriella and the look of horror that had transformed her features.

  And, in that moment, he knew, their perfect date had just spiraled down the shitter.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Marco hadn’t said a word since they’d left the club, and Gabby was starting to worry. She’d tried to initiate conversation twice on the drive back to Marco’s place but had given it up as a futile effort. His head was somewhere far away, and Gabby didn’t know how to get there.

  Fred, excited to see them, darted out the sliding door before Marco had even finished opening it. He jumped up on her legs and Gabby took a hasty step back, steadying herself on her heels. Growing at an alarming rate, his front paws reached her thighs when he stretched. Pretty soon he’d be taller than she was. She cradled his face, scratching behind his ears.

  “You should start teaching him to stay down. He’ll be big enough to knock you over soon.”

  Surprised by Marco’s sudden announcement after his long silence, Gabby wasn’t sure what to say that wouldn’t upset him more so only nodded.

  She stayed on the patio while Marco disappeared into the house waiting for Fred to do his business. He sniffed the bases of two potted trees before settling on the raised flower bed. Guilt raced through her, and she promised herself she’d take him on a nice long walk in the morning, so he could pee on a real bush.

  She followed Fred back into the house and found Marco in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. His jacket and tie were missing, and the sleeves of his pale-gray dress shirt had been rolled up his forearms. His hands braced the counter on either side of his hips, the knuckles white from his firm grip.

  He seemed lost in thought, and she didn’t think he’d noticed her, until he spoke. “I need to apologize.”

  She stopped in her tracks, cocking her head to the side. “For what?”

  “My behavior. I shouldn’t have used violence in front of you.”

  Her eyes went big, and she parted her lips to speak, but he beat her to it.

  “I saw the look of disgust on your face after I hit that guy. I realize you know what I do for The Family but seeing it in action is different than on paper.” He wasn’t looking at her, his gaze transfixed on the floor between his splayed feet.

  “Marco,” she said his name softly and took a step forward.

  “Stop.”

  She froze again. He’d snapped his head up to look at her, and his expression was heartbreaking.

  “I’ve known violence my entire life. Growing up, my father taught with his fists rather than words. It comes to me easily—naturally. But I want you to know… No, I need you to know, I would never lay a hand on you in anger.”

  Her jaw dropped, and she sucked in a breath before saying, “You think I don’t know that? If I thought for one second you would ever physically hurt me, in any way, I wouldn’t be standing here right now. I don’t know what you saw, but if there was a look of disgust on my face, it wasn’t directed at you, but at that guy for being an asshole. If you ask me, he deserved far worse than what you gave him.”

  His lips quirked. “I didn’t realize you were so bloodthirsty.”

  Her lips tipped up in return, happy to see his good humor restored, and shrugged. “Guess it’s in the genes.”

  She went to him then, and he didn’t stop her that time. She got as close as she dared. He still looked stiff, as if something else bothered him.

  She stared at the band of white gauze circling his arm, tracing its edge with a light touch. “Does it still hurt?”

  If anything, he seemed to grow more rigid at her question. “No.”

  His head was bowed, watching her finger, and she dipped her head to look him in the eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  She sensed his inner struggle. As if he wanted to say something but was hesitant or didn’t know how to say it.

  Finally, he spoke. “Nico said something the other day, and I can’t get it out of my head.”

  He paused, and she kept her silence, waiting for him to continue.

  “He said he wanted better than this world for you. And I’m conflicted because I want that for you, too—you deserve better than this life—but I want you so fucking bad, I would do almost anything to keep you, and that makes me a selfish asshole.”

  “Almost anything?”

  He looked at her, seriousness filling his eyes with an intensity she’d never seen before. “I’ll never leave The Family. I won’t forsake the oath I took. So that means you’ll constantly be in danger. You should have a better life than that. Find some good guy, live in a house with a white picket fence, and have a crapload of kids. You should have a safe, happy life, and you’ll never get that with me.”

  There was so much in that short speech she needed to address, she wasn’t quite sure where to start. Irked that Nico was sticking his nose into her business, she decided to tackle that issue first. “What you and Nico seem to be fo
rgetting is I’m already a part of this life. Just being born into it put me in danger. I wasn’t kidnapped because of you, I was taken because of The Family. Choosing a good guy won’t keep me safe, in fact, I’d imagine I’d be in more danger not having a tough guy to protect me.”

  A bit of hope entered his eyes as though he’d never thought of it that way.

  She pressed her point. “I’m not asking you to turn your back on The Family. I am Family. Marco,” she said softly, grabbing his attention more fully than if she’d shouted from the rooftops. “I want you because of who you are, not in spite of it.”

  She wasn’t expecting his sudden movement. One second they were standing at the counter, the next, he had her, back flat, on the breakfast bar, his mouth on hers. His hands dove into her hair, holding her head still as he took her mouth, eating at it as if he were starving. Their tongues tangled. Their teeth clashed.

  It was raw.

  It was messy.

  It was divine.

  His legs fell between hers, hiking her dress over her hips. Gabby grabbed his biceps, feeling all his strength and power through the thin cotton of his shirt.

  He ground himself into her, the loose fabric of his slacks unable to hide his arousal. Tingles slid down her legs, up her torso, down her arms, and she found herself grinding back against him.

  He groaned, and the sound sent signals to her core, heating her until she felt if she didn’t get some relief soon, she’d burst into flames.

  His lips trailed across her jaw, down her neck, and over to her bare shoulder where they stopped, his tongue emerging, licking a line back and forth.

  “Fuck. I’ve been fantasizing about this spot all night. Teasing me. Making my dick so fucking hard, it was painful.” His teeth bit down, capturing some of the flesh that’d been torturing him, almost to the point of pain as if he were punishing it for the agony it’d caused him.

  She panted, her legs squeezing him tighter, drawing him impossibly closer.

  “What about the three-date rule?” Her question came out breathy as she sucked in some badly needed oxygen.

  “Fuck the three-date rule.”

  She had no problem with that.

  One of his hands moved from her hair, finding the zipper at her back. She felt dexterous fingers at work, sliding it down, peeling the thin straps of her dress from her shoulders. He attacked her bra next until her breasts were free from all restraints.

  He took a moment to stare down at them, looking his fill. She felt heat crawl up her chest, scorching her cheeks.

  “So fucking beautiful,” he said, lightly circling the tip of his finger over her nipple until it responded, puckering and growing tight.

  His finger stilled on the swell of her breast right above the nipple. “What is that?”

  The question—seeming to come out of nowhere—threw her, and she looked down at her chest. He stepped from between her legs, flipping the switch on the wall, turning on the overhead light. She squinted at the sudden brightness. He was back between her legs, hovering over her before they fully adjusted.

  His finger was back on her breast, feathering a light touch across it. “Who did this?”

  She could understand why he would ask who. Though half the scab was gone, the whitish-pink marks of newly healing skin were not, leaving it very clear the injury had been a bite mark.

  She got up on her elbows, looking down at her chest—though she knew what she would see—buying time to think of an answer that wouldn’t make him lose his shit.

  Big surprise, nothing came to her.

  He moved his head in closer, his finger moving to the underside of her nipple, noticing more of the marks there. He stared silently, for an endless minute, before his blazing eyes landed on her. “I asked, who the fuck did this?”

  She knew he wasn’t angry with her, but his expression and tone had her flinching just the same. He noticed—of course, he did—and his eyes gentled a fraction.

  His hand cupped her jaw, his thumb skimming her lower lip. His voice was softer but still had a sharp edge when he asked, “What happened?”

  She ducked her head against his probing stare, a sense of mortification filling her. Logically, she knew she had nothing to be embarrassed about, but try telling that to her brain. She gathered the loose bodice of her dress and held it up, covering herself so she wouldn’t feel so exposed.

  Finally, she answered, “It, um, happened when I was taken.”

  “What happened? You said they didn’t touch you. You said you were okay.”

  His voice kept growing louder. Reaching out, she touched his shoulder, hoping to calm him down. “I am okay. Nothing happened.” At his glare, she amended, “Or, at least, not what you’re thinking.”

  “Who did it?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. I didn’t know any of them except for…” She trailed off, not wanting to say his name and bring up an even touchier subject.

  “Derek?” Marco snarled. “So, it wasn’t him?”

  Gabby shook her head again. “No. In fact, he was the one who stopped the other guy from… well, you know.”

  Marco pushed away from the breakfast bar and stalked into the living room. Gabby jumped from the counter and quickly followed, tightly clutching her dress to keep it from falling.

  She saw him pluck his keys from the coffee table and his jacket from the back of the couch. “You’re leaving?”

  He didn’t answer her question, instead saying, “Be sure to keep the door locked and don’t answer it for any reason.”

  She tried to detain him, reaching to grab his arm, but he was already walking away. “Where are you going?”

  “To blow off some steam.”

  He was out the slider, locking her in, before she had a chance to recover from the complete one-eighty their night had taken.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Marco felt a bead of sweat trail down his spine, passing the small of his back, only stopping when it reached the waistband of his shorts. More of it blurred his vision, coated his face, and wet his hair. His muscles burned, his knuckles felt raw, and his arms were growing heavier and heavier as he landed hit after hit to the punching bag. He knew it was late—two or three in the morning—and he’d been at it for hours.

  But his anger still wasn’t appeased.

  Rage numbed his good sense, and he pushed himself harder—faster—trying to block the emotions that churned in his stomach and ripped at his heart.

  His beautiful girl had been violated.

  “Bianchi!”

  He distantly heard his name called but ignored it, too busy concentrating on the placement of his fists as the bag swung after each strike. The place was mostly empty with just a few guys hanging out. Every once in a while, Marco would hear the distant clack of weights knocking together and the occasional grunt or shout, reminding him he wasn’t alone.

  “Bianchi!”

  The voice was louder—closer—and he recognized it as belonging to Bobby, the owner. He wasn’t sure of Bobby’s age, only knew he’d been old when Marco had first started coming, making him that much older ten-years later. Short and thin, the guy didn’t look like much, but that was deceiving. Bobby was a strong motherfucker and could take down guys twice his size and half his age. A fact Marco could attest to, having witnessed the feat more than once.

  Marco didn’t stop what he was doing, but he did give Bobby his eyes and an acknowledging grunt when he walked into his field of vision. Bobby planted himself on the opposite side of the bag and hugged his arms around it, holding it in place. And though Marco wasn’t in the mood for company, he did appreciate the help.

  Their time together passed in silence. His hands had gone numb at some point he couldn’t remember, his wrists were sore, and he was quickly losing steam. As much as his brain wanted to keep fighting, his body just didn’t have much energy left.

  Ever observant, Bobby finally spoke, “You about done, son?”

  Breathing hard, Marco gave the bag one last pu
nch, giving it his all, which, let’s face it, at that point wasn’t very much.

  A water bottle appeared in front of him, thankfully with the cap already removed because he wasn’t sure he could get his fingers to work. He drank it down in three gulps, panting heavier by the time the bottle was empty.

  “Come to the office and let’s get a look at those hands.”

  Marco glanced down at his gauze-covered knuckles, noticing the dots of blood showing through. “I’m fine.”

  Bobby laughed. “Oh, I seriously doubt that, but we’ll start with cleaning your knuckles.”

  He didn’t argue. In all the years he’d know Bobby, Marco had never won an argument, and he was too tired to try to make then the first time.

  “So, tell me,” Bobby said after he sat Marco down, removed the gauze, and inspected his torn knuckles. “What’s got you so worked up tonight?”

  Marco slouched in his chair as Bobby went to his desk and opened a drawer, taking out a first-aid kit. “Nothin’.”

  Bobby set the kit on his desk and looked up, the lines by his eyes and mouth growing more prominent as he scrutinized Marco’s expression. “It’s a girl,” he stated firmly, ducking his head and opening the box.

  Marco watched in silence as he riffled through the kit, found what he wanted, and came around the desk tearing a package open with his teeth, spitting the bit of paper on the floor. “Give me your hand, son, and tell me what’s bothering you. It’ll keep your mind off the torture I’m about to put you through.”

  For the first time in hours, Marco smiled. A small chuckle even slipped out. “Do your worst, old man.”

  They were silent as Bobby dabbed at his cuts with some shit that burned like a motherfucker, but he stayed unflinchingly still.

  Until Bobby said, “Well, spit it out. I’m not growing any younger here.”

  That’s when Marco gave up and laughed, his whole body shaking in his amusement. He hadn’t thought anything could pull him from his dark mood, but the crazy old fool actually had. “I’ve met a woman.”

  Bobby snorted and nodded—gloating—not surprised he’d been right on the money.