Wicked Fame: A mafia stalker romance (Wicked Men Book 2)
Wicked Fame: Chapter 11

I’d never describe Gabriele as a nice guy. Strictly speaking, he’s evil. A bad person. He sells drugs, runs illegal gambling dens, kills people, and freely engages in a dozen other morally contemptuous things.

He’s also making me breakfast.

I settle my legs under his dining table, watching his back muscles flex as he fries up an omelet, I give up on trying to hate him. He’s my addiction. Addictions are supposed to be toxic. If I could be addicted to healthy things, I’d be a gym rat, not a substance abuser.

“You’re quiet,” he notes, a few minutes later.

“Enjoy the peace while it lasts,” I answer, rubbing the headache from my mild hangover. I didn’t drink that much. By the time I was on my third glass, my mind had skipped over to Gabriele. In my imagination, I was running my nails down those carved abs, tracing the edges of his scars. So I left the bar early. He doesn’t even know how many times thoughts of him have held me back from going over the limit.

Is it good or bad that I lust for him more than I lust for alcohol now? I can’t tell which one is worse.

“You were drunk yesterday,” his gruff tone cuts out my replay of last night’s events at the bar. I think I saw Ella there but I dodged her before she could catch me. God, I hope Ethan wasn’t with her. He’d have a lot to say if he figured out what I was up to. “Don’t hate me now because I took advantage of you.”

“I was only mildly intoxicated.” I curve my eyebrow. “I remember everything we did clearly. Starting with how you threatened me with a firearm to blow you and how hard my mouth worked to suck that massive cock of yours. And…can’t forget that you spilled inside my—”

He blocks his ears, clicking his teeth in disdain. “You have a dirty mouth.”

“Yours is dirtier,” I remind him. “Should I repeat the things you said to me last night?”

“Shut up and drink this.” He slams a glass of what looks like tea on the table in front of me to cut me off. “It’ll help with the hangover.”

This is why I can’t get him straight in my mind. He’s supposed to be terrible, and sometimes, he’s just that. Rude and closed off. But other times, he’s normal, no different from any other guy I’ve dated in the past. If I’m being honest, he’s a lot nicer and more considerate than most guys I’ve dated. It’s bizarre how the man who almost killed me last night for not making him come can be fussing over fixing me breakfast now. The contrast is insane.

Warmth sizzles through my heart. I need to stop analyzing him so deeply, or I’ll just start seeing more of him that I like. I love complex people. They fascinate me, like a painting with hidden meaning.

But I can’t love Gabriele. There’s no future for the two of us. He’s about to get married. I don’t know if what we’re doing is right, even if he’s going to have an arranged marriage in the future.

“Never thought you cooked,” I say.

“I’m handy with knives.” He spins the blade he’s using in my direction. “In more ways than one.”

“Was that a covert suggestion for knife play?” I plant my elbows on the table and lean forward. “Because I’m down for anything with you. The more dangerous, the better.”

Gabriele’s eyebrows cross over. He doesn’t answer my question, but turns back and continues cooking. I suppose he’s still not the type to talk openly about his vulnerabilities. Including his kinks. Or maybe he’s still beating himself up over the fact that he fell asleep on me last night, and made me stay at his place.

When he’s torturing himself with his own conscience, he’s a treat to stare at. The way the corners of his eyes crinkle, how his mouth turns down…it’s satisfying to watch him act human.

He slides a plate with an omelet and two slices of toasted bread under my nose, then grabs ketchup from the fridge and deposits it next to my plate of hot breakfast.

I examine the plate before me like a slide under a microscope. The aroma infiltrating my nostrils is appetizing, but there’s no telling if it’ll taste good.

“Will I get food poisoning if I eat this?” I say to lighten the mood.

“Why don’t you give it a go and find out?” he challenges.

I do exactly that. I’m pleasantly surprised by how soft the omelet is. Delicate, perfectly balanced flavors coat my tongue. It’s better than the one the chef at our place makes. And she’s a professional.

“I take back what I said yesterday.” I put down my fork. “Forget the military. You should be a professional chef.”

“I’m not going to be anything other than a mobster.” Gabriele’s teeth grind down a little too hard. He goes surly all of a sudden. “Why is everybody trying to get me to retire?”

“Is your boss tired of you, too?” I inquire. “Not surprised.”

“I’m not talking about my job with you. Eat up and leave. I have shit to do today.” Without warning, his face morphs into a storm cloud. I saw another man leave when I came in last night. They probably talked about something related to work. Bad news, if I had to guess. It’d explain why Gabriele’s expression was dark and menacing when he fixed his eyes on me. Also, he was more volatile than usual, which is why he let me get to him so easily after flatly refusing me that very morning.

“So where do we go from here?”

All I get in response to that is the efficient hiss of chopping and frying. When I repeat my question, he grunts.

Clearly, communication isn’t one of his strengths.

“If this is a one-time, thing, that’s cool,” I say, wondering if he can hear the undercurrent of disappointment threaded through my syllables. “But I hope it isn’t. What we did together was so different from anything I’ve experienced before. You made me access emotions I have a hard time dealing with, like fear. And I enjoyed it.”

The slightest wobble in Gabriele’s efficient motions gives away the crack in his armor. “You have to learn to deal more healthily.”

“Sex is good for health,” I argue. “It burns calories.”

Gabriele’s short bark of laughter lights up the whole room. “Only you could say that.”

Suddenly, he blinks like he’s trying to stuff down what he’s feeling. When he turns away, I rise out of my chair.

“Gabriele, don’t fight your feelings,” I plead, drawing on every bit of authority I possess. “Or you’ll end up like me.”

He steps away from me, his eyelids dropping shut. He runs his tongue across his lower lip, grinding his hand through his hair.

Breath empties from my lungs when he falls to his knees on the floor, right beside me, fingers clenching around the arm of my dining chair for support.

“I’m weak Francesca,” he murmurs. “I thought I was strong but you’ve fucked with my head and my willpower. Now I need you—I need your body, your lips, your touch—just as much as you need me.”

The declaration is quiet and straightforward. Which makes it more powerful. For moments, stillness beats between us like a broken clock.

It hits me in a rush.

Gabriele’s addicted to me, too. And he hates it. He hates it but he can no longer deny it.

The calluses on his fingers generate delicious friction when he drags them across the planes of my jaw. He’s looking into my eyes—something he never does—and I’m looking back. The air is charged with intimacy, with the silent knowledge that the dynamic between us has changed.

All this time, he was the one who looked inside my head and clearly saw my demons.

Now I’m looking inside his.

There’s no mistaking the hint of self-disgust. He probably thinks he’s turned out just like his mother. Also, he probably pictured being with a different kind of woman: serene, stable, wholesome.

Not broken, reckless, and emotional.

I gather his face into my arms, holding him against my chest. The agitation heating his skin cools. The weight of him against me feels intimate in a way that’s not sexual, but just as addictive. This small, intimate bubble of silent acceptance where we provide space for each other’s turbulent emotions to settle is precious. I could drown in this closeness as easily as I could drown in soul-shattering orgasms.

“If you need me then take me.” My lips move against his silky hair, my mouth ghosting over the top of his head.

Gabriele squirms free from my grasp. A draft of cold air caresses the places where his skin was against me seconds earlier. He rises to his feet. “Not today.”

He draws away from me, and the safe cocoon I was ensconced in vanishes like a puff of smoke. Focusing on reality, I pick up my fork and knife and began digging into the remainder of my breakfast.

“Come with me to my cabin if you’re not busy,” I say around a mouthful of food. Rubbing my sweaty palms on my dress, I barely hear the words I’m speaking over the gunfire of my heartbeat. “It’s near Woodstock. I’m going up there to paint during the weekend. We’ll be all alone.”

“You want me to watch you paint? I’d rather die.”

“No, I want you to be there so I don’t slip like I did yesterday. I’m really trying to quit. And I think I can. If you help me out a little.”

“By fucking you every time you crave escape?” he completes for me.

“I’ll make it worth your while.” I wink. “I promise. Plus, you’re my muse and I work better when you’re close to me.”

It’s an unconventional method, for sure, but I don’t know anything else that has worked for me so well before.

“Let me think about it,” he says at last. “There’s a pretty important job I need to complete this week. I can’t afford to be distracted.”

“I’ll wait for you.”

I finish eating quickly after that.

“It’s time for your classes,” Gabriele reminds me. “I could drive—”

“No. I’ll take a cab,” I say, even though I have only taken the subway a couple of times and hate being inside a crowded train. “You said you have something.”

I’m almost out of the door when his footsteps rock closer. “Wait.”

My body obeys his voice instinctively. I turn around. His thumb presses across my lower lip, coming away with a smear of ketchup.

I burst out smiling. The action is so uncharacteristically caring. He’s displaying a side of him that I’ve never seen before.

“Thank you, Daddy.” I tease.

He frowns. Not a fan of Daddy Kink, I see.

The heat of his forehead burns my skin when he taps his head against mine. “I don’t want other men looking at your lips and getting ideas.”

“We never agreed we were going to be exclusive. So tell me why shouldn’t they get ideas?” I say, knowing it’ll get a rise out of him.

“Because you’re mine, Francesca. It’s so obvious it doesn’t even need to be said.” Shivers unfurl in my stomach as his breath strokes my ears.

At that moment, I feel it—the fierce truth clasping around me like a physical shackle.

I am his. I have been from the moment I lost the ability to feel alive without him.

It feels odd to be in my studio without Gabriele’s safe presence lingering in the corridor. Either he decided I wasn’t enough of a threat anymore, or he was telling the truth about having an important job. Neither Ricardo nor Antonio is here. They must be on an important job, too.

Still, I don’t miss them.

My work is proceeding surprisingly well. Yesterday night’s intense sex refreshed my mind. I was able to feel excited for the first time in forever. It has opened up parts of my brain that I couldn’t access for a long time.

Gabriele might really be the muse I’ve desperately needed.

Looking at my half-finished thesis painting doesn’t automatically trigger all the critical comments and hate in my head.

The shadows of our bodies moving, the residue of pleasure coursing through my veins envelops my mind in a soft haze.

Possibility shimmers around me. I’m back in the mental space where my ideas unspool into breathtaking visions, where anything can be created and anything can be destroyed without effort.

My brush glides across the surface of the canvas. For one glorious hour, I drown in my dreams, bathe in the masterpiece taking shape before my eyes. However, at the first moment of tiredness, the barbs of criticism poke through my skull again.

Putting down the brush, I stretch my fingers. I’ve already accomplished more than last week. All in a single day. It looks pretty great, too, if I say so myself.

This is the high I’ve desperately sought. A euphoria you only experience when you pour your heart and soul into something.

A flicker of pride drips down my chest. It’s almost time for lunch so I grab my purse and head out. I’m mentally planning to stop by my favorite coffee shop when the hum of familiar voices in the corridor makes me freeze.

At the other end, two of my classmates are digging into their Doritos near the vending machine, their conversation too loud to ignore.

“Did you notice? Francesca Astor has been acting so shady, coming and going to her studio as she pleases. Plus, there’s that scary guy who’s always with her. I’m sure he’s the one actually painting her thesis.”

The saliva sliding down my throat freezes. Gravity isn’t working anymore. The joy of creative release crashes into the abyss of self-doubt.

Shakily, I press my palms to my ears, but the acoustics in this building don’t work in my favor.

“While we work hard, she just pays a professional and takes the credit. I can’t stand her. Acting all sweet on the outside while she’s scheming in that head of hers,” says another one of my classmates. I remember her well because she smiled at me and pretended to be nice to me during the first semester. I had no idea it was an act.

This is what you get when you pretend to be perfect all the time. 

“Girls like her shouldn’t be here.” The conversation continues. I should dash quickly across the hallway before they spot me. But my inner sadist is waiting to be flayed by more cruel judgments. “It’s unfair for the rest of us.”

Girls like you shouldn’t exist. 

“God, I hate her.”

The world would be better if you were gone.

The voices from my youth come back to me, a constant loop I cannot eliminate. I grew up insulated, with other rich kids who didn’t think my wealth made me a threat to them. But I attended an art camp when I was in high school.

It’s there that I first realized being rich didn’t mean I’d be popular.

Because everybody wanted this as badly as I did—the fame, the success, the lifestyle of a full-time artist. Everybody was as passionate as me. Yet not everybody could be successful. We knew that even then.

But those who couldn’t make it blamed it on me.

You’re only here because your parents are rich. 

It started with that, then grew worse until I began to question whether I even deserved to dream. Because I couldn’t refute anything.

Everything they said was true.

But it wasn’t the whole truth.

I was there because my parents could pay the course fees, but also because I was talented, serious about getting into art school, and because I’d worked hard to build a great portfolio.

Having never been around other artists before, I was desperate for peer validation. Their hatred seeped into my soul until it colored my own perception of myself. Until I was nothing more than the rich, spoilt, imposter they wanted me to be. Things tipped downward once I got into college.

I hear stuff like this every few weeks. The constant onslaught of envy has dug its claws into my non-existent self-worth. I can’t undo it, and it drags me deeper into fear every day. What if everyone in the world thinks the same of me?

What if everyone hates my art because I created it?

I scrunch my eyes shut, struggling to breathe louder and fade the judgment corroding my insides like acid.

In the darkness under my lids, I see his face.

If Gabriele was here, what would he tell me?

Fuck them. Yeah, probably that.

But that’s because he has never been resented for existing. He might be a criminal who kills without thinking while I’m simply a girl with rich parents who support my dreams, but between the two of us, it’s me society loves to cut down.

I suppose being evil is better than being lucky.

My legs are shaking by the time I claw across the corridor. My classmates are already gone by then. There’s a hole in my chest. The fear I fought all morning is taking over me again. Defeat leeches the joy of having made progress on my painting. At the end of the day, I can never win.

I sprint to the coffee shop, thinking my day can’t get any worse, but in the line, I spot the last person I want to see.

Composure peels from me like layers of an onion.

My brother Elliot. Why is he here? He doesn’t work in this area. My heart beat drums in my ears like a 90s rock song someone forgot to turn off as I watch him through the window glass from the street.

I step back, but the motion only alerts him. He squints up from his phone screen. Our identical blue gazes collide.

Elliot’s easily the most conventionally attractive of us siblings. Ethan looks scary, I have a pleasant face but nothing to write home about. Elliot is striking, someone you can’t help but turn toward. When he uses that pretty face to his advantage, nobody can win.

“Francesca?” His focus slides from my face to my shivering fingers.

Here’s the thing about putting on an act: it’s like any other skill. Practice makes perfect. When you’ve done it long enough, your fake persona snaps on like a switch. Sometimes, it seems more comfortable than my real identity.

“Funny meeting you here.” I sidle up to him, all sisterly, fixing a bright smile on my lips. “I thought you’d vanished off the face of the planet for good.”

Three months ago, he moved out of our Brooklyn townhouse to live on his own in a small apartment. He’s unrecognizably suave in the gray suit that peeks from under his long, unbuttoned woolen coat. Those sun-kissed curls of his have been tamed into a uniformly platinum blonde mass that’s swept back neatly, baring his forehead.

I suppose he’s working hard to fit in with the other people at the office. If I remember correctly, Sharma Ventures is a venture capital company which means they finance startups. I never thought Elliot would end up going into that after studying philosophy in college but he owes a huge debt to Zara Sharma, the founder of Sharma Ventures.

“Me? You’re the one who never calls me and never answers my text messages?” He screws his mouth into a displeased twist. “I thought you didn’t want to see me ever again.”

The searing press of guilt melts my bones. “I was going to call you.”

“When we were in our graves?”

“No. Soon. After I was done with my spring thesis.”

You’re a bad liar. Gabriele’s statement echoes in my skull. Heat floods my ears.

“It’s okay.” Elliot scoops up four cups of coffee from the counter. “I know you haven’t forgiven me for what I did to Ethan.”

I sigh, tongue-tied, as awkwardness expands like a bloodstain. Things are complicated right now between us three siblings. Ethan, my eldest brother, got into a lot of legal trouble last year thanks to Elliot. Elliot’s also the reason my father went to prison. Given the kind of man that Dad was, Elliot almost did a good deed.

“Like my new look?” Elliot says when I remain silent too long. I suppose I must have been glaring at him throughout that time.

“You look like you’ve sold your soul to a corporation,” I answer.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” His finger bounces in the air, pointing up and down my form. “You, on the other hand…is everything okay?”

“What do you mean? I look exactly like I used to.”

“No, you don’t. Your eyes are red.”

Brothers are the best lie detectors. Is it because he has known me since I was born?

An icy finger caresses my chest, pumping it full of fear. I don’t want Elliot or Ethan to find out what I’m doing right now. They’re both overprotective. Ethan will get me committed to a rehab facility before I can take my next breath.

But sometimes, I wonder if I’ll ever go back to who I used to be when this dark spell is over. Like Elliot, I want to change and become a better version of myself, but right now, I’m only spiraling toward destruction.

It’s like there’s nothing where my heart used to be except a yawning hole. Whatever I see, whatever I do, I can’t feel anything. My mind keeps looping those same thoughts until I’m nauseous. My head is filled with cruel words that aren’t mine. I used to be able to block them out with beautiful images and dreams, but when that was taken from me…I just drowned.

“How’s your new job?” I quickly divert him from the topic of my imminent mental breakdown. “I’m surprised your boss hasn’t fired you.”

“Trust me, she wants to. I do nothing except make her life miserable.” His chest rises, then falls. His gaze locks onto his phone where a new message has popped up. “But she needs me to pay back what I owe her.”

“You have enough money in your trust fund,” I inform him. “Remind me why you’re slaving away at an office job again?”

“Because my boss is hot and I like being around her.” The dry, humorless tone with which he delivers that line tugs at my heartstrings. It reminds me of the old Elliot who used to crack jokes with a straight face.

“Let’s hope she doesn’t find out that you have a thing for older women,” I add with a nudge of my elbow. Elliot’s always had a very clear type—older, successful women. It’s the case of opposites attract. Since he’s not very ambitious or mature, he’s drawn to people who are.

His face freezes into an awkward expression. “She might have found that out already.”

“And she still hasn’t fired you? She must be an angel.”

Elliot shrugs. “Enough about me. You look like you haven’t slept in days. Why are your eyes so red? Francesca, are you okay?”

Shit. Elliot used to casually experiment with drugs when he was much younger and during his partying days. He might be able to pick up the signs if he examines me closely.

I smooth my bangs over my forehead, hoping they hide my eyes.

“Worked all night on my painting.” Butterflies are dancing an entire waltz in my stomach. I feel like I’m on the edge of a cliff. “But I’m curious about what exactly is your job. You look pretty busy.” It’s a strategic question, meant to deflect the conversation away from my life.

“I’m her personal secretary,” Elliot says. “I do anything she needs me to do.”

“Including getting coffee,” I finish, observing him tap his fingers against the edge of the counter.

“I like this part of the job the most.” Elliot yawns. “Since it’s the easiest.”

The weird part is, I don’t even know if he’s serious about working at Sharma Ventures because he wants to hook up with his boss or if he’s using that as a cover to hide his real reason. Elliot is a complete mystery. Out of the three of us, he’s the hardest to comprehend. I can never tell what’s going on inside his head. His devil-may-care façade hides his intentions really well. In some ways, he’s like me. Except my mask may crack a lot easier than his.

 “Francesca, let’s meet at my apartment and hang out on Sunday. I’ll show you my cooking skills,” he pipes up.

“You couldn’t even boil water when you were at home.”

“I’ve learned new skills since I started living alone.” He sighs a little too long. “Don’t make fun of me. But I think this is my life’s calling.”

“Buying coffee?”

“Being a secretary. Serving someone with all my devotion, making their life a bit easier. Ethan’s always been the natural CEO, the one who likes to be in charge. He’s a control freak. And you’re the artist. Dad always groomed me to think I was born to be a master, someone who would give other people orders because I was an Astor, but I’m more comfortable when I’m being given orders.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” I say. “I’m glad you found something you enjoy. I was scared you’d waste away your life partying.”

Elliot wipes a hand over his forehead. “I was, too.”

Cradling the mug holder stacked with hot coffee cups, he juggles his phone in one hand, typing something.

“Looks like you’re busy.” I step to his side, brushing past him to avoid prolonging the conversation. “Don’t want you getting fired and becoming a useless bum who hangs out at home again.”

He grabs the cup of coffee he ordered. On his way out, Elliot plants a hand on my shoulder, squeezing. “You don’t have to forgive me because Ethan forgave me.”

“I have no reason to hold a grudge against you.” I swallow thickly, remembering all the drama Elliot caused six months ago when he made Ethan go through hell. “You never hurt me.”

His features slacken in relief. “And I won’t ever hurt you. You’re my only sister. See you on Sunday.”

He slips away from me before I can disappoint him by canceling our plans because I’m going to Woodstock this weekend.

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