The Mancini Brothers Book 1: Defending Fabrizio
Автор
Layla Knight
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1,0M
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38
“We shouldn’t be speaking like this. Not when we need to be speaking about the case.”
“There’s no one here to regulate us. We can speak about whatever we want, and I’m not finished speaking about last night.”
Fabrizio Mancini is on trial for a crime he swears he didn’t commit—but the evidence says otherwise. With no murder weapon and too many unanswered questions, his powerful mafia family hires the best defense lawyer in New York: Benedetta D’Angelo. Winning this case would make her career, but there’s one problem—her dangerously charming client is keeping secrets. As Benedetta fights for the truth, Riz fights a different battle: keeping her out of his world and out of his bed. But some lines are meant to be crossed, and some temptations are impossible to resist.
Chapter 1
I hadn’t been out in almost a year, and it felt amazing. Why didn’t I do this more often?
Usually, I went to the wine bar below my apartment if I needed to blow off some steam. This wasn’t my usual spot, but I wasn’t feeling like my usual self.
Sure, I looked like me. I was sitting at one of the cocktail tables on the edge of the dance floor. My long, dark hair spilled over my shoulders, and my round face was contoured to give it more definition, whereas I’d just applied a light gloss to my best feature: my full, red lips.
Still, I was tired. I’d just spent almost every night of the past six months poring over case files, working to exonerate an innocent man who’d been in jail for over ten years.
I tried to look nonchalant as I scanned the club. Amid the crowd of people dancing, drinking, and grinding against each other, my eyes landed on a man who was already looking at me.
His eyes were a deep, chocolate brown with a hint of sleepiness around the edges. His smile was effortless, as if he knew he didn’t need to try hard to attract attention.
His hair was a jet-black mess of short curls. Every feature on his face was striking, from his arched eyebrows and high cheekbones to his sharp nose and strong jawline. If his face was this chiseled, I could only imagine what lay beneath his tight button-down shirt.
His skin was a warm olive tone, just a shade darker than mine. He was clearly Italian, just like me.
From my vantage point, I could see the tiny, intricate tattoos scattered across his hands and fingers. There were quite a few, but they were delicate and small, a stark contrast to his imposing stature.
He was a big man, easily over six feet tall.
He was propped against the bar, looking sharp in a crisp white shirt, black slacks, and derby shoes that probably cost more than my monthly salary, despite the fact that I was a lawyer.
He was easily the best-dressed person in the club. Myself included. I had opted for a simple black dress, a sparkly cropped blazer, and kitten heels.
I stood. I didn’t look over at the handsome stranger, but I didn’t have to, because I could feel his eyes burning into me. I deliberately chose a spot at the bar several seats away from him, offering a polite smile to the bartender while I ordered a sex on the beach.
“How many times have you had sex on the beach?” a deep, husky voice whispered in my ear from behind.
I cursed my body for the involuntary shiver that ran down my spine, and I took a three-second pause before glancing over my shoulder at him.
He was even more stunning up close. His eyelashes were long, giving his eyes a sleepy look, and I noticed a beauty spot on the left corner of his mouth.
I had to remind myself to breathe.
“This is my first one tonight,” I replied, turning back to the bartender as he returned with my drink. “Do you want one?”
“Are you offering to buy me a drink?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
His breath was warm against my neck.
“I am,” I confirmed, turning to face him and taking a small sip of my drink.
“Sex on the beach, or would you prefer something else?”
“I’ve never tried sex on the beach,” he confessed.
Before I could turn to order one for him, he leaned over me. His deep brown eyes met mine as he wrapped his lips around the straw I’d just sipped from and took a taste.
“A little sweet, but not bad,” he mused.
His tongue darted out to lick his lips.
“I was going to get you one of your own,” I said, struggling to suppress the grin that was threatening to spread across my face.
“I wouldn’t have been able to finish the whole thing,” he replied with a smirk. “But if the offer still stands, I wouldn’t mind a whiskey on the rocks.”
“Only if I get to try a sip as well,” I countered.
“You’ve got yourself a deal,” he grinned.
After ordering, I took a seat on a stool. Instead of taking the empty seat next to me, he leaned against the bar, hands in his pockets.
“I have to admit, I’ve never had a woman buy me a drink before,” he confessed, leaning in close.
“Maybe you should aim a little higher,” I suggested, a playful smile tugging at my lips.
“Good advice,” he responded, flashing a grin as he thanked the bartender for his whiskey on the rocks. “Want a taste?”
I nodded, leaning in closer. As he’d held my gaze while taking a sip, I mirrored his actions.
“So, now that I’ve bought you a drink, do I get to know your name?” I asked, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.
“Really? You think buying me a drink earns you my name?” he teased.
“Isn’t that better than expecting sex?” I retorted, matching his smirk.
“You’ve got a point,” he conceded, clinking his glass against mine. “How about you show me yours and I’ll show you mine?”
“I hope you’re referring to names.”
“What else could I possibly mean?” he said, feigning innocence, but I could see the mischief in his eyes.
“Nothing,” I replied, hoping the blush on my cheeks would fade before I embarrassed myself further. “I’m Detta.”
“Just Detta?”
“Benedetta.”
“I knew you had an Italian look about you,” he said, a familiar spark in his eyes.
I couldn’t blame him. I always got a little too excited when I met fellow Italians.
“Which part of Italy are your folks from?” he asked.
“Both my parents are from Tuscany. They got married there and then moved here before I was born. Now that I’ve shared more than just my name, it’s only fair you do the same.”
“My name’s Riz.”
At first, I thought he was joking, and I laughed. But when he just grinned at me, not saying anything, I fell silent. Had he been serious about his name, and I’d just laughed at him?
“Your parents named you Riz?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes, why?” he asked, chuckling at my reaction. “Hard to believe?”
“Yes,” I said honestly, laughing again, relieved that he seemed more amused than offended by my reaction.
Riz stared at me, his mouth slightly open in surprise, before he threw his head back and laughed.
“You’re quite the character, Benedetta,” he said, still chuckling. “No one’s ever been so candid with me.”
“You really should aim higher,” I teased, my smile growing wider.
A comfortable silence fell between us as we sipped our drinks, our eyes locked on each other.
“How old are you?” I asked.
Despite the fact that I was thirty-two, I knew I looked younger than my age, but it was clear to me that Riz was a few years my junior.
“How old do you think I am?” Riz countered, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.
“Younger than me, that’s for sure.”
“And how old might that be?” he asked, raising an eyebrow in question.
“Twenty-seven,” I lied, grinning.
I wanted to see if he’d call me on it, but he was either more gullible than I’d thought or too gentlemanly to call me out.
“Well, I guess I’ve just proven you wrong. I’m thirty,” Riz said, his lips curving into a wider smile as he took in my shocked expression.
“Don’t look so taken aback,” he chuckled.
“You don’t seem thirty.”
Riz grinned as he took a sip of his whiskey.
“You’re certainly keeping me on my toes, Benedetta,” he murmured.
We quickly finished our drinks. He offered to buy the next round, but I politely declined. However, when he invited me to join him on the dance floor, I couldn’t say no.
I found myself turning in his arms, looping my arms around his neck. He smelled fresh and earthy, like home. It was my new favorite scent.
Instead of speaking, I moved closer to him, moving my hips in time to the music against him, grinding slow, sensual. I heard his breath catch in my ear, felt his hands tighten on me.
“Are we on the same page?” I whispered, taking the reins of the situation.
“What page are you on?” he murmured.
I could sense his anticipation for my question, but he didn’t want to be the one to propose it.
I wasn’t sure if it was because he was concerned about coming off too strong or if he was relishing the role reversal tonight, but he was leaving the decision up to me.
And honestly, I was enjoying it.
I pulled back to gaze up at him. Riz was at least seven inches taller than me. He was definitely over six feet, and I was a pretty average five-foot-six.
I barely reached his chest and had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes, but I wasn’t complaining.
“I’m thinking that I’d really like you to come home with me tonight,” I said, looking up at him with a smile.
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Riz said, grinning.
Giving his hand a gentle squeeze, I turned to lead him off the dance floor and toward the exit. As soon as we stepped outside, Riz turned to me.
“How much have you had to drink tonight?” he asked.
“Not much,” I said, leaning into him. “Just one sex on the beach and an extremely watered-down espresso martini. How about you?”
“Just the whiskey you bought me.”
“Sounds like we both passed the sobriety test,” I said, grinning cheekily.
Riz grinned back at me.
“How far is your place?”
“About half an hour if we walk,” I estimated.
“Then we’re taking a cab,” Riz said, stepping out to the street and hailing one immediately.
This wasn’t like me—bringing a guy home for a one-night stand less than an hour after meeting him. But the look Riz gave me, one that could only be described as hungry, whenwe climbed into the cab, confirmed that I wouldn’t regret a single moment of this night.
Something in his gaze also told me that I’d spend many lonely nights after tonight thinking of him, pleasuring myself to the thought of him.
As soon as we got into the cab, Riz went quiet next to me, tucking his hands politely into his lap as if we weren’t on our way to hook up, so I spent the cab ride chatting with the driver.
After a short ride, we were outside my building. As soon as we got inside my apartment, he was in front of me, slowly pushing me up against my front door.
He took his time, a grin playing on his lips as he crowded me up against the door, inch by inch.
After what felt like an eternity, his body became completely flush with mine.
“You look like you want me just as much as I want you,” Riz whispered, pressing his forehead against mine.
His lips were tantalizingly close.
“Tell me, Benedetta,” he murmured, his warm, minty breath fanning over my face. “Do you want me as much as I want you?”
“More,” I whispered back, my eyes fluttering closed. “I want you more.”
“That’s impossible, Tesoro,” he chuckled, the sound sending a thrill straight to my core.
I’d never been with an Italian man before, despite being Italian myself.
“Tesoro?” I questioned, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Tesoro,” he repeated, chuckling. “And I stand by my words. You don’t want me as much as I want you.”
“Prove it,” I dared him.
“You don’t have to ask me twice,” he said, cutting off my next words with a hard, passionate kiss.
