The Woman at the Docks: A Mafia Romance Read online

  - I never responded to your text to me. A part of me was worried I'd overstepped a line, taken advantage of a situation, that you regretted it. For the record, I didn't. And if my brother hadn't interrupted, I would have liked to show you how much I wanted that, how much more there could have been. I'm not saying this with future expectations, but in the interest of clearing the air. I was a chickenshit not to do so before. Come back. Future or no future, come back. Let's fix this together.

  I couldn't imagine men such as Luca—with powerful positions, with all the money and influence, who lived a fearless lifestyle—often found a reason to be vulnerable, to open up. They didn't need to. And if they didn't need to, when they did it, it had a lot more impact, it rang a lot more true.

  I didn't immediately respond, though, doing battle with the two lanes of thought until they collided at some point around sunup.

  Yes, it was dangerous to go back.

  No, it was not a good idea to do any more kissing—or anything else—with Luca Grassi.

  But despite all that, I decided the only option was to go back.

  And that if things did progress with Luca, then I was going to go ahead and let them.

  Eventually, if all things panned out, I would likely be back in Venezuela with my sister for a while. And then back in California. A whole country away.

  It would be over.

  I would have no connections to the New Jersey mob anymore.

  It seemed relatively low risk.

  If it came to that.

  Taking a deep breath, I shot off a text with my location, asking him to come alone.

  From my position, I would be able to see him before he saw me, would know if he honored his word or not. And would have just enough time to slip away if I saw Lucky or Matteo tagging along.

  And then I waited.

  I didn't have to wait long, though.

  I saw Luca's car driving up about half an hour later, and pulled into a spot. He climbed out looking as flawless as ever in one of his dark gray suits, his face even scruffier than the day before.

  I waited as he looked around and tried to find me, staying in the shadow of a boat waiting to go in the water while I made sure no one else followed.

  Confident he was true to his word, I took a step out, waiting for Luca's gaze to find me.

  When it did, I saw genuine relief there, something that made a weight drop from his shoulders, that made his jaw loosen.

  "I was worried about you," he admitted, both of us walking toward one another.

  "Likely not as worried as I was that Matteo and Lucky were going to execute me."

  "I've talked to them."

  "Talked," I repeated, hand raising, sliding across a bruise on his cheek. "Is this from talking?" I asked, snatching my hand back when I realized I was stroking his face.

  "Sometimes I use my hands to get my point across," he told me, shrugging it off. "He had it coming," he added.

  "I wanted to slap him," I agreed, nodding.

  "Calling him a dick took some balls," he told me, almost looking a little proud of my runaway mouth.

  "I think I was just surprised. That something like that came from him. And then Lucky."

  "Everyone has a little darkness in them. Matteo and Lucky's just stay buried until they feel like they need it."

  "I'm not a threat to your family," I insisted.

  "I know that. But they don't. Yet."

  "Are they going to be in charge of me when I go back?" I asked, stomach churning at the idea. Especially because I'd now made a fool of all of them, and even if I wanted a little privacy, it was unlikely they would ever give it to me seeing as I posed a clear flight risk.

  To that, Luca took a deep breath, looking past me at the choppy waves. A storm was brewing. In the world. And, if I wasn't mistaken, in Luca as well.

  It seemed like ages before he turned his focus back to me, his dark eyes guarded.

  "I have a different idea."

  "Such as?"

  "You. Back at my place, not the rental."

  "But how would that change anything? I would still need to be guarded."

  "For what reason? If you tell me you won't run again, I trust you."

  "Yeah, but your family—"

  "Isn't going to know."

  "You can't do that," I insisted, shaking my head, even if I knew his idea worked in my favor.

  It made no sense at all, but I had this sudden urge to protect him. And him lying to his family for me was only going to bring him harm in the long run. I couldn't be responsible for that. I didn't want that on my conscience.

  "The way I see it, if everything works out, if we find the containers, if we can get these men, then you can just show up again, come out of 'hiding.' No one has to be the wiser."

  "I thought it was family over everything."

  "It is. And it is in the best interest of my family that we don't lose sight of the real issue here. Not you. These containers. And whoever thought we were weak and stupid enough to let them get one past us. If all this works out, Romy, my father will see you as a hero. They won't give a fuck that you ran away. They will see it as you saving yourself."

  "You won't feel guilty lying to your family?"

  "Only if you end up stabbing us in the back," he told me, head ducking a little, catching my gaze. "But I don't think you are going to do that."

  "I'm not. Really. I could never be a criminal. It's absurd that any of you even thought it for a minute. I just want my sister. And I don't want you guys to get in the way of that just because it is taking longer than you think it should."

  "So we have an understanding."

  "I think so," I agreed, nodding. "But won't your family come to your place?"

  "I can't imagine why. When we get together, it is usually at Lucky's mom's house. She and his sisters like to cook. No one wants to hang out at my place."

  "But what if someone does show up?" I insisted, wanting to make sure the plan was airtight this time, no more making impulsive decisions and regretting them only a few hours later. We were wasting time with all of that. Precious time I wasn't sure my sister had to spare.

  "It's not a small space. If you are there alone and you see someone other than me, or if we are there together and I tell you someone is coming by, you can find a place to wait it out. My closet is bigger than your bedroom at the rental house."

  "Okay," I agreed, taking a deep breath.

  This seemed... possible.

  And possible was better than what I had initially planned on when I ran away.

  "Okay?" he asked, reaching out to snag my chin, forcing my gaze up, wanting me to look him in the eye while I agreed.

  "Okay," I affirmed.

  "Good. But if you stab me in my sleep, sweetheart, I am going to be so fucking pissed," he added, giving me a devilish smirk.

  "If I stabbed you in your sleep, you'd be dead, so you wouldn't be able to be pissed."

  "Down in hell, I'd be pissed down in hell," he told me, giving me a smile as his hand went to my lower back, guiding me over toward his car.

  His palm wasn't even touching my bare skin, but I swear it burned, ignited, tiny tendrils of need shooting off from the contact, slipping around and down until I needed to press my thighs together as I sat in his car to try to stem the chaos of desire building there.

  "Do you live far from here?" I found myself asking, not to fill the silence, but because I genuinely wanted to know more about him, because I found myself a little obsessed with that slow, deep, smooth sound of his voice.

  "Not far, no. Over this bridge," he told me, pointing it out.

  "On the water, or just in one of the neighborhoods there?"

  "On the water," he told me, and my eyes moved over toward those properties.

  Mansions.

  That was what they all were.

  One mansion after another on the Navesink River.

  I didn't even want to consider how much a house like that would set someone back. Or exactly what k
ind of criminal activity could afford it.

  We drove down to the end of a long street, coming to another bridge, seeming to lead back where we'd come from, but Luca pulled off right before it into a gleaming, seemingly brand new luxury apartment building.

  White stucco and floor-to-ceiling windows made up the exterior, showing me five stories, some with balconies, others without.

  "Wow."

  It escaped me before I could think to hold it in.

  "Perk to having it in the family is I get to live here too," he told me, climbing out.

  I knew better than to reach for my own door, knowing he was coming for it, having the feeling he would be insulted if I didn't let him do it for me.

  The lobby was wide and somewhat sparse, made up of whites and grays with a small seating area in front of a gas fireplace, a desk with employees to the left, and two sets of elevators to the right.

  Luca's hand went to my lower back once again, steering me away from the counter, taking me to the elevators, then slipping a key into the second one.

  I can't say I'd ever lived in a luxury apartment building, but I understood enough to know that when someone had a key to the elevator, they also had the key to the entire top floor.

  Luca lived in the penthouse.

  Overlooking the Navesink Bank.

  Maybe it wasn't one of those five-million-dollar mansions, but I imagined it was still a million-dollar home.

  I found that intimidating at best as we rode up the quiet elevator, as I watched it slide open into his apartment.

  The entire space was open, bright. The floor-to-ceiling windows letting in the morning sun.

  The walls were white, the carpet in the living space near the covered balcony was cream and gray, the couches cream as well, facing a massive TV against the opposite wall.

  The kitchen was in the main, open-concept space as well, a long galley design with gray cabinets and white countertops, the stainless steel appliances gleaming and fingerprint-free.

  "You live in a show house," I told him, shaking my head, finding it hard to believe someone actually lived in a space like this, that it existed as anything other than a space where pictures were taken for magazines.

  "It's a little cold, I guess."

  "No, it's not cold," I objected, doing another turn, taking it all in. "I just don't see any touches of you here is all."

  "That's true," he agreed, nodding. "It came furnished. I don't spend much time here, so it never bothered me enough to change anything."

  "It's a lovely home, Luca," I told him, feeling like he needed the reassurance.

  "Let me show you the rest of it," he offered, guiding me down the hall beside the kitchen. "Half bath," he said, opening the first door. "Then the guest room. Your room," he specified, opening the next door, pushing it open.

  Much like the living room, it was impeccably decorated with a full-sized bed covered in a black and white comforter and about half a dozen decorative pillows.

  "There is a bathroom through here," he told me, waving toward the closed door. "Then across the hall is me," he added, going toward the door, giving me space. "I can't bring any of your things from the other house. Or send any of my men to pick things up. But I can lend you something for tonight. And then see if I can pick you up a few things tomorrow. I might even be able to get the concierge to run a few errands."

  "There's no rush," I assured him, not admitting it aloud, but knowing that I had no problem with the idea of walking around wearing one of his shirts. Especially if no one else was around.

  "I'll let you settle in," he said, moving into the hall, reaching to close the door.

  "Luca," I called, waiting for him to push the door open a few inches. "Thank you," I told him, voice a little thick with emotion.

  "Don't thank me for being a decent human being," he told me, shaking his head before closing the door and moving away.

  I didn't have much settling in to do seeing as I didn't have any possessions.

  But I went into the bathroom, finding a robe on the back of the door, and decided to take a shower, washing away all the craziness of the past several days, brushing my teeth, combing my hair, then making my way back out into the main area of the apartment. There I found Luca standing in the kitchen, his jacket throwing over a chair butted up against the island, a couple of the buttons undone, his sleeves rolled up.

  "Are you cooking?" I asked, brows pinching.

  Luca's head lifted, gaze moving over me, eyes going molten, creating a similar reaction in my core.

  "No," he said, clearing his throat awkwardly, if a man like him could be awkward. "I am reheating. My Aunt Adrian—Lucky's mom—is always dropping off frozen meals with instructions on how to reheat them. I figured you might be hungry. And I haven't eaten either. I was out looking for you."

  "I'm sorry," I said, shaking my head.

  "Don't be sorry for trying to survive," he countered.

  "What are we having?"

  "Lasagna," he told me, peeling off a couple of layers of plastic wrap. "But I need to get this garlic bread out first," he said, revealing a loaf wrapped in aluminum foil.

  "It must be nice to have such a big family," I told him, moving closer, sitting down on the chair on the other side of the island from him.

  "It is," he agreed. "Do you miss your family? In Venezuela," he clarified.

  "Yes. I mean... I didn't grow up with them. I didn't meet them until I was an adult, so the dynamic was different, I think. But, yes. It was nice to always have someone around, someone who cared about you."

  "You've been alone a lot."

  It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. "Yes. But that was my choice."

  "You don't have friends? A man?"

  "I have colleagues and neighbors. It is harder than they tell you to make friends as an adult. I mean, what are you supposed to do, walk up to someone and ask if they want to go get manicures together? You'd get pepper sprayed."

  "A man?" he asked again.

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "I don't know. Why is anyone single? I guess because we don't find the right person."

  "What is this right person like?" he asked, unwrapping the lasagna, tenting the top, then turning to grab a cup of water, pouring it in the sides of the lasagna, then pausing to look up at me when I still hadn't answered.

  "I, ah, I don't know."

  "How can you get something if you can't, first, define it?"

  "I don't know. Someone smart and driven. Someone loyal and kind. My father used to beat the hell out of my mother, so I don't want someone who gets too angry."

  "Does this hypothetical person want children?"

  "Yes. I think I'd like a couple. Do you?"

  "Yes. Several."

  "So you want someone in your life too."

  "Of course. What?" he asked, head tipping to the side.

  "Nothing. It's just... I don't know. I can't say I've known a lot of men who are so sure that they want someone serious in their future."

  "I want a family. I think when you are raised with your family values as a large part of your personality, you don't have all that wild oat sowing shit going on."

  "What would that woman be like?"

  "Someone not intimidated by my lifestyle. Someone who could integrate in with my family. Maybe someone who knows how to cook," he added with a boyish smile as he lifted up the lasagna, turning to slip it into the oven.

  "That's not asking for too much."

  "I think the first part of that list will be the hardest to find."

  Someone who wasn't intimidated by his lifestyle.

  Just a quick internet search told me who the Grassi family was, so I imagined women from the area would know who he was and what he did. It couldn't have made dating easy. Because who in their right mind wanted to date someone who could get caught up in some street war some day? Someone who might bring the federal government into the house they had built, tearing apart their lovely life?

  "
Maybe you just work too much to meet someone," I suggested.

  "I've been accused of that more than a few times," he admitted.

  "Your family owns a lot of business in this area, right?"

  "Yeah. Famiglia. Lucky's pizza places. Some laundromats. A dive bar. The list is long," he added, shrugging it off.

  "How long?

  "It's a big family. Everyone runs something."

  "You mostly handle the restaurant. Fam.."

  "Famiglia. It means family," he told me. "And yes and no. Famiglia is my father's pride and joy. These days, he'd rather handle the inner workings of that than do all the dirty details about the family as a whole. So, yes, I am an owner. But I don't do much there personally. The docks are where I spend most of my time. And then going around and visiting the other businesses to make sure everything is running smoothly."

  "Can I ask what happens at the docks? Like what is your job there?"

  "Creating new connections with importers, deciding which containers to search, hiring and firing, employee issues. The usual workplace kind of thing. Do you like wine?" he asked, reaching up into a cabinet. "I'd ask if you want whiskey, but I don't think you were a fan of that," he added, giving me a smirk.

  "Wine is my drink of choice," I told him. Even though I was pretty sure he was not someone who kept my favorite three-dollar bottle of cab sav in his million-dollar home. "If you inspect the containers, how is it possible that someone could traffick people in?"

  "We don't inspect every container. You've been watching. You know how many come in on the average week. It's impossible to inspect more than a small fraction. Some we... choose not to inspect," he told me as he handed me a wine glass, and I knew what he was telling me. That part of their business was being paid to look the other way, to inspect other containers. Because what was in some of them couldn't be seen. And that was likely where they made a large chunk of their money—from other criminals who paid them to walk past their containers. "And sometimes containers come from very reputable sources, so there is no need to check them."

  "Is that the loophole, then?" I asked, making his head pop up, brows furrowing.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I'm no expert, but is it possible that someone could take over a reputable, long-standing import business, and then ship things in right under your nose because they have been someone you've worked with for so long?"