Twisted Cravings (The Camorra Chronicles, #6)(24)

“I’m not the guy you first met,” I muttered. This was one of the reasons why I didn’t often return to Vegas. People always mistook me for the boy I had been, when I’d changed irrevocably over the years.

She smiled wistfully. “I’ll miss the orgasms. Sex with johns never does anything for me.”

“You should quit and only work in the bar, then you can find a boyfriend who’ll give orgasms to you.”

She shrugged. “Soon. Until then I can use the money. Will we still see each other?”

I hesitated. I wanted to see her because beside the sex we’d shared many meaningful conversations but I wasn’t sure if being just friends would come easily. I wasn’t sure about C.J.’s true feelings about me. “I’ll be pretty busy with racing in the next few months, but I want to stay friends.”

C.J. pursed her lips. “I’m a big girl, Adamo. I can be only friends with you.”

“How about we just see how it goes, this just being friends-business?”

She nodded.

When I left her apartment an hour later, a weight had lifted off my shoulders. I realized my sexual relationship with C.J. had stopped me from pursuing Dinara like I wanted to do, but now nothing was in the way anymore.

Maybe Dinara was a bad idea. Most likely even, but I wanted her, and this wasn’t about big emotions or marriage. I wanted fun and I had a feeling Dinara was the same way, even if she also had ulterior motives for seeking my closeness.





Something about Adamo’s behavior was different when he returned from his Vegas trip. He seemed less distant, and the looks he gave me didn’t need much interpretation. Adamo wanted to get into my pants. I didn’t not want him to try. I was attracted to Adamo. He was the complete opposite of Dima, my only boyfriend, and maybe that made out part of his special appeal. Dima, of course, noticed as well which soured his dark mood even further since his disastrous results in the sevenday-race.

He and I sat on one of the logs arranged around the roaring firepit in the center of camp after the first race since the sevenday-circuit. Many of the other racers were also present, chatting and drinking to celebrate another more or less successful racing day. Dima’s injuries had healed and he’d finished fifth, one place behind me today. Adamo had won, which probably made Dima resent him even more.

“If you keep finishing fifth or fourth until the five-day-circuit later in the year then you’ll still finish with a decent place for the year.”

Dima huffed. “You know I don’t care about the results. I’m only here because of you, Dinara. But you make my task of protecting you very hard the way you always run off with Falcone.”

“I didn’t run off with him. You drove too slowly to keep up with us.”

He didn’t say anything, only glared into the flames. I accepted a cup with some kind of punch from one of the mechanics. It was too sweet for my taste but the other racers and especially the pit girls seemed to love it. Half a bottle of vodka might have made it tolerable.

My eyes followed a tall form as it approached the scene. Adamo sank down on a log across from me with the fire between us. Our eyes met and a pleasant shiver raced down my back at the look on his face. His dark eyes appeared black in the fire light as they traced my body. I’d never felt like this: as if a simple look could light me on fire. I wasn’t sure I appreciated the sensation of my body doing what it wanted.

Adamo raised his cup, toasting me. I did the same and we both took a gulp and grimaced simultaneously. I couldn’t help but laugh and Adamo’s face flashed with an answering grin.

Dima cursed low under his breath and shoved to his feet. “I’m off to bed.”

“We don’t have a race tomorrow. You don’t need to get your beauty sleep,” I said, even though I kind of wanted him to leave so I could interact with Adamo without Dima’s surveillance. Even if I didn’t owe Dima anything, flirting in front of him felt wrong.

Dima nodded in the general direction of Adamo. “I’m sure he’ll keep you company.” He turned and headed into the darkness.

I sighed but didn’t follow him. Soon a shadow fell over me. “Is that spot beside you occupied?”

I peered up into Adamo’s handsome face and shook my head. “It’s yours.”

He sank down, closer than Dima had been and our arms brushed. Goose bumps rose all over my body. “The drinks aren’t much better than the food,”

I said with a nod toward the punch.

Adamo shrugged. “This isn’t a luxury cruise,” he said. “And don’t tell me vodka is such a gourmet treat.”

“Vodka wins against this sweet atrocity. And what do you know about Russian cuisine? Name one Russian dish.” Adamo narrowed his eyes in thought. “Borscht?”

“That was a lucky guess. Have you ever had it?”

“No. Beet isn’t really my thing.”

“But mushy pasta with fake cheese sauce is?”

Adamo propped his elbows up on his thighs, his bicep flexing distractingly. My eyes strayed to his marred Camorra tattoo. The handle and tip of the dagger were still intact but the area of the blade where the watchful eye had been was disfigured by burn scars. I knew the general story of how it had come to look like this. The Outfit, an opposing Italian mob family in Chicago, had tortured him but I was curious about more details. Asking for details might prompt Adamo into asking more personal questions, though, and that wasn’t something I wanted.