Nicky the Driver (Underboss Insurrection, #2)

by Cate C. Wells

Nicky bends, and—gently, carefully—presses his lips to my exposed nape, his nose brushing along my neck. Shivers race from nerve to nerve, down my spine and arms, to the tips of my fingers and toes. I don’t mean to, but a sound escapes my mouth. A strangled moan, a smothered whimper.

I pause in the doorway and watch her a little longer. It isn’t long enough. It never has been.

Is there a point when I will get used to her? When my adrenaline doesn’t spike and my dick doesn’t get hard? If there is, it hasn’t happened yet.

She’s covered to her chin in that bulky blanket, and I could still pou...

She doesn’t answer, but she can’t resist peeping at me over her shoulder with those big brown eyes. My entire body comes to atte...

“You’re fucking crazy, you know.” He actually smiles this time, and it looks weird.

I twist the top off the root beer and take a swig. I don’t love it, but I drink it from time to time. It’s Zita’s favorite.

That’s the worst thing he can imagine—being in debt to another man. And yet, that’s how we got here. They all owe me. Zita is my payment.

After a few more glances, I realize Tomas is waiting for a response. Zita’s right—I don’t give straight answers.

Why didn’t you just take her? Nobody would’ve said shit.” He’s really bothered that he doesn’t get it. Makes him nervous.

He reads shit he can’t understand as a threat, but he could never understand, even if I explained it to him.

“Hope she’s worth it,” he mutters. She is. Everything I’ve done. Everything I would do. Worth it.

“You know what I don’t get?” Tomas says as he goes to circle the block. “You want this woman so bad, but you let this douchebag fuck her?”

She wasn’t pretty. Not back then. She was skinny as a stick with eyes too big for her face. But from that moment on, it’s been Zita Graziano. That’s the answer. A shrink might be able to explain it, but I can’t.

Some men have Jesus. God and country. A dream. Ambition. I have Zita. Tomas doesn’t understand? Neither do I.

“I’m not afraid of you,” I say, fisting his hair again and pulling. “I don’t want you to be.”

I drive my heels into his taut thighs, spurring him on, his groans and jagged pants music in my ears. He wants me so fucking bad, worse than I’ve ever wanted anything, except the closer I get to hurtling over the edge, the louder my moans become, overpowering his. “Oh, fuck, Zita,” he says, ripping a shoulder strap,

I’m doing the same, and I’m terrified. Out of control.

What did he do to get the apartment in Lucca Corso’s building and the five-thousand-dollar suits? To get me?

I could give a shit. I was cheer captain and student council secretary. Senior year, I was prom queen. In college, I was Theta Beta Upsilon. I know how women like Liv work.

“She knows what I’ll do for her,” he says, and he holds his hand out to me. His black eyes burn. Shivers zing down my spine. I take his hand. He draws me toward the stairs.

I can feel rather than see Nicky tense, but he doesn’t say anything. But I think he would. If I asked him. If I just said his name.

“Is that enough?” Nicky asks me, considering his handiwork dispassionately, as if he’s turning up the heat or pouring a cup of coffee.

I finally get a good look at his crucifix tattoo. The oval beads are different shades of brown from tan to mahogany. The “Our Father” is a square silver medal of the Holy Family, and the crucifix is Jesus on the cross with Mary Magdalene at his side, catching his blood in a chalice. The realization comes slowly, as if through a fog. I press the pads of my fingers to the beads. “I had a rosary like this.” My Nonna gave it to me for my First Communion. It was her mother’s. His pecs tense under my hand.

I’m not bringing a baby into an empty apartment with a crazy mother and a father who does God knows what. Never. Not in a million years. I cling to the fierceness and screw my eyes shut against the other feelings beating around my chest.

He’s giving me space. But his eyes— They’re dark and raw and wild.

“Why can’t we have what we want?” he asks. I blink, pressing my spine into the hard wood. He raises his firm chin. “The house, the yard, a dog— Why can’t we have that?”

And I don’t know how, but I understand he doesn’t mean why can’t he have that with me. He means why can’t he, Nicky, and me, Zita, why can’t we have what other people have.

but before he leaves, he pauses. “I’ve gotten us here, Zita,” he says. “I’ll get us the rest of the way.”

I know that he’s obsessed with me. That he’s been stalking me for years. I know that he fucks me like a starving man, reverent while he crams me in his mouth.

but he never fucked me like that. Like he’d been waiting his whole life. Shivers skate down my spine.

Nicky’s black eyes are on fire. He’s not there. His stony control is gone, and he’s not a guy in a suit. He’s an avenging angel, St. Michael from the mural on the ceiling of St. Celestine’s, the beautiful monster that strikes terror into the hearts of men.

Nicky fights like hell, and he almost wrenches himself free, but Tomas and Dario have too much mass and momentum.

My dad hated Lucca Corso. He called him “that pretty pansy boy.” He should have been watching over his shoulder. Everyone was busy dismissing Lucca while he collected enough favors to take down a don. And when the smoke cleared, where was my dad? I don’t know, but Lucca Corso sure as fuck does.

Tino was the one I complained to about Nicky creeping back in school. He handled it. I thought he’d handled it.

“I made Nicky a deal. If he can fight Tino and win, he can watch you all he fucking wants.” My stomach turns.

I can’t remember whether it bothered my eighth-grade conscience. I doubt I lost any sleep over it.

“Last time I ever bet against our man Nicky. I’ve still never seen anything like it.

I told him he could fuck you if he could take Tomas down too. He tried.” Lucca laughs. “Got himself knocked out cold right next to Tino.” Lucca’s looking at me like he expects a reaction. Appreciation? Awe?

His lips curve higher and the corners of his eyes crinkle. “If you’re wondering if I’d have let him, if he’d done it—I would have.” He winks. I have no doubt.

“Do you know how I earned Nicky Biancolli’s loyalty?” I shake my head. “Of course you do, Zita. You’re a smart girl.”

“It was our little secret—Nicky and me. He’s not totally fucked in the head. He realizes there’s something wrong with him, but—” Lucca tosses a shoulder. “The heart wants what the heart wants.”

Lucca leans forward. “Do you know that when he was a senior in high school, he killed a man so that I’d get Tony Junior to let him into your bedroom when you were sleeping over at your girlfriend’s?” His eyes light up. “Do you know how many bodies he’s laid at my feet to earn you? How many of my enemies he’s erased? How many bullets he’s taken?”

“He’s a machine. He’s my machine.” The smile falls from his face like a stage curtain. “Do you know what that means?” Icy hands squeeze my lungs. I clutch my thighs under the table and jerk my head again. “It means that you work for me. I’m your pimp, Zita, and you’ve got one trick. One job. Keep Nicky the driver happy. If he wants his cock sucked, you get on your knees. If he wants ass-to-mouth, hold your nose and open up, baby.” He lowers his voice. “You don’t ever let another man touch you. Not your arm. Nothing.”

Nicky’s shirt is untucked, and one of the buttons on his jacket is missing. Tomas has a black eye, a scraped cheek, and a busted lip. Dario’s nose is fucked up, and there’s a splatter of blood down the front of his crisp white dress shirt. All three are breathing hard. Lucca smirks, taking them in. “I guess I don’t have to ask who won.”

Lucca’s too arrogant to be afraid, but he’s wary. “My bad,” Nicky says over my head. He doesn’t sound the least bit chastised.

I know her better than I know myself, but I often don’t understand her.

She is everything I knew she’d be.

holding my body as tight as I’ve held her all these years.

When I fucked her out of her head, she treated me like what I am—hers.