Never Have an Outlaw's Baby (Deadly Pistols MC #3)(92)

He was number one on my hit list. Lev and Daniel couldn't do him without me. And Little Miss Blogger was gonna be the pretty key up my sleeve for getting at him – right after I fingered, twisted, and bent her all around my dick.

One last humiliation for the Italians who'd f*cked us and spilled our blood. My stone cold heart said I should have my fun, use her, and then kill her to finish off their Chicago bloodline forever.

But I didn't like the way she looked when I hopped up and pounded on the glass. It wasn't just the cruel lust in my veins knotting my brain. Something about seeing this devotchka scared caused an ounce of guilt to curdle my savage blood.

Just an ounce, and nothing more.

I wasn't slowing down. One more week, and I was busting outta here. I'd be reunited with my brothers and my quest for vengeance, right after I reunited my starving cock with some tight wet *.

I squeezed too hard. The ball popped in my fist, exploding grainy stuffing all over my chest. Fuck.

Another one ruined.

Dino coughed above me, woken by the sound. He rolled in his sleep and flopped over before he began snoring again. Soon, it was all quiet in the prison, nothing but his steady growl to keep me company.

The countdown started in my chest. Seconds slipped past with every rampant heartbeat. I couldn't wait to find out how f*cking good she felt against my skin, and I wanted it as bad as breathing the fresh air outside without my ink covered up in eye-bleeding orange.





3





Buckle Under (Sabrina)





It was a long drive home. I got inside my condo, threw my stuff down, and set myself to work transcribing the interview from my recorder. I'd kept in my pocket, concealing it from him, deliberately using the one thing he'd forbidden.

It was the only way I was going to remember every shocking detail just perfect. The notepad was worse than useless – nothing on the paper except nervous squiggles – all I could do to keep myself fearless and focused.

It worked, right up until the end. Then he threw his tantrum and made me question whether or not the thick glass would hold if he really went berserk. He only slapped it once, but the boom was like the end of the world.

I walked out of there as he yelled after me, shaken like an animal who'd just escaped over a busy road. I barely had time to catch my breath and stop before Charlie came in to escort me out.

I worked on the transcription without thinking. Hearing his rough, smooth voice again on the speaker made it even harder. But I sat down and did it, promising myself a nice, tall drink after I was done.

I knew I'd need several to fall asleep tonight, as soon as the draft was off to Richard's inbox. I'd have to get totally plastered to avoid the dreams like the first time I'd interviewed him, especially with his voice here in my own home.

He dominated the silence. I'd never met a man whose presence twisted the atmosphere into submission with just the sound of his voice or a single glance at his massive body.

But that superpower was Anton Ivankov's specialty. And he'd rooted himself deep in my life like a supervillian.

My fingers whirled across the keyboard, digesting the interview, re-living every word. God, he'd acted so different this time, and I still sounded weak on tape. I'd bristled when he suggested I knew nothing about the underworld – the only thing I could do. Any other reaction threatened to show him who I really was.

Then there was the way he'd exploded against the glass at the end. How much fiercer would it have been if he'd known I was Giovanni Ligiotti's only daughter? Would I have made it out of there without getting torn to bits in flying glass? Would I have made it home alive?

I wasn't sure. All I knew was I worked without breaks. I only stopped when he pounded the glass at the end, followed by his muffled shout, and then the final minute or two of my own hurried footsteps mixed with heavy breaths.

It was night when I was finally finished. I sent the transcript off to Richard with my commentary and stepped outside. I'd never been so grateful to breathe the cool Chicago air.

I stuffed some easy cash in my purse for tips and cab fare before I was off to the Silver Pear. I'd need them later, when I was so sauced up I could barely stumble out of the elevator at my place.

I'm going to forget Anton Ivankov, I vowed. No matter how much it makes my liver cry in the process.



I ordered heavy, strong drinks, one after another. Someone was looking out for me near the end – probably my Uncle's manager, Vitto, who came out and personally thanked me for the family visit.

I wanted to throw my empty shot glass at him.

“Bar's closing early, Miss Ligiotti,” he said, offering me a big apologetic smile.

“Sure it is.” I turned away with a haughty sniff, leaving the waiter a good tip. It wasn't his fault this * was one more extension of my Uncle's eyes and ears, reaching into my life where it didn't belong.

“Wait, wait,” Vitto pleaded, running after me when I slid out of the booth and marched toward the lobby. “He's waiting for you, Miss Ligiotti. No need to call a cab.”

I stopped in mid-step, turned, and nodded. Shit.

One more pivot and I saw him sitting in the entryway, two stoic faced thugs in leather jackets at his side. I hadn't seen Uncle Gioulio since a cousin's wedding almost four months ago.

He was out of his chair and heading toward me before I took another step. He was a tall, lean, balding man with a scar on his cheek. He always joked it was from a bar brawl in his younger days, but I suspected something worse.