Wicked Fame: A mafia stalker romance (Wicked Men Book 2)
Wicked Fame: Chapter 15

Gabriele observes me working from the chair in the corner of the studio. Whenever I stall or stop altogether, he arches his brow. Then his gruff voice drifts to me, asking me if I’m okay, asking me what the critics in my head are saying.

Each time, without fail, he reminds me: “Tell them they can fuck off. Or I’ll chase them down and put a bullet through their head.”

He never gets vexed at my undying anxieties, the same spiraling thoughts that keep dragging me to rock bottom.

He’s my dark knight, protecting me from the chaos inside myself.

Gabriele’s undying patience surprises me because of how often he has to hear me repeat the same ugly phrases over and over again.

I’m not good enough. I can’t do this.

Everybody will hate this painting

I’m never going to have a career. 

I’ll end up a sad drug addict living in my parents’ house forever. 

Nobody cares about my art so why am I doing this?

They were right. I should just die. 

It’s a very exhausting couple of hours for both of us. I’m relieved when I finish half of the painting and the ache in my back and arms forces me to stop for now. Gabriele suggests we head to town and eat at one of the diners. Gabriele is a great cook but he’s not a magician—he can’t do anything when I have no groceries to cook with.

“What you told me that night at the charity gala has stuck with me. You were right.”

There’s no light without darkness. No growth without suffering. And no art without self-doubt. 

The memory of his penetrating eyes on me, the way he saw right through my nonsense even though he barely spent any time with me gives me chills.

I had so many doubts, I gave up on fighting through them. Because it was too hard. Impossible. I waited for moments of calm and inspiration to come to me, and when that didn’t happen, I numbed myself with substances so I could at least feel in control again.

“Thank you for sticking with me through that ordeal. I can be exhausting.”

He shrugs. “I’ve dealt with worse.”

“Gabriele, seriously, I mean it. You don’t have to tire yourself looking after me. I’ll have sex with you regardless.”

“I’m not doing it for the sex.”

“Then why?”

“I like shooting imaginary people.” His eyes sparkle with amusement. “I’m going to make that my new hobby when we go back to New York.” sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ FɪndNøvel.ɴᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

We. Bees drone inside my stomach, clinging to that one honeyed syllable like it’s the most precious nectar in the world.

“Thank you for staying with me,” I say.

Gabriele shrugs his shoulders, downplaying his patience. “My only other choice is to be alone in that house.”

He could desert me and go back. He must be bored already.

“I’ll take a shower now, then we can go grab breakfast. I’m sweaty after painting all night.” I drop the paintbrush, surveying the half-finished black and red artwork. My inner critic is still judging the choice of colors, unnatural shadows, and technical imperfections but I’m so, so proud of having accomplished so much in a single night.

The shower is perfectly hot to dissolve the aches in my muscles, but I don’t spend too long there. I keep waiting for Gabriele to walk in through the door I didn’t lock and initiate shower sex, but he does nothing of the sort.

When I step out of the bathroom, his attention settles on my skin like a warm spring breeze. A tremor grazes my spine when his gaze draws all the way down my body, spanning over the black midi dress I’m wearing. It’s pretty modest as far as dresses go.

“You’re not wearing blue?” Mock surprise stains through his poker face.

“I don’t wear blue every day.” I pause for effect. “Sometimes, I wear other colors, too.”

Gabriele’s mouth screws into a frown. “Black doesn’t suit you.”

“You always wear black, though. Thought I’d match my outfit with yours for today.”

“That’s because I need to hide the bloodstains that get on me during the job. You have nothing to hide, Francesca. You’re pure and innocent.”

“Even though I came on your tongue a few hours ago?”

Before I can turn this conversation into a full-blown flirting session, Gabriele sighs. His thick, strong shoulders brush past mine as he arrows into the bathroom.

I hear the lock click.

I suppose he wants to wash up, too.

Despite the buds of craving already unfurling inside me, we manage to drive into town without getting caught up in another mind-blowing carnal fest. I break then, unable to hold back. I’m probably the only one who orders a beer for breakfast alongside my eggs.

The corners of Gabriele’s eyes tighten but he doesn’t comment.

“I have had some success quitting coke,” I say. “I’ve been clean since I started sleeping with you. But alcohol is harder.”

“You have to go to rehab, Francesca. I cannot approve of your method of quitting one addiction by developing another.”

“Good for me I don’t need your approval then.”

His exasperated exhale is loud enough to make the old couple from the next booth squint at us in concern. I wonder what they think we are—lovers, friends, or is it obvious that we’re just two strangers who share a dark, ill-fated connection?

A faint wash of pink is smattered over Gabriele’s features. Even the tip of his nose is pink. I’m wondering if he came down with something after staying up all night, but his awkward throat clearing, followed by “How’re you feeling?” dissolves my doubts.

He must have debated asking me that. It almost makes him sound like a nice guy, after all.

Scratch that. He is a nice guy.

The only reason that wasn’t more obvious to me is that, like most people, I see the stereotype of the tough, ruthless mafia hitman before I see the man underneath. I remember the rough sex before I recall the gentle moments afterward. I still cannot erase the effect of his profession on my image of him, even though I said I wouldn’t judge him.

“Healthy,” I reply, grinding my knee against his under the table. “I’m planning to do more work after breakfast.”

“When do you sleep?”

“After that.” I brush my thumb up and down the length of the ketchup bottle.

“Don’t neglect your health just because you’re focused on art,” he says.

“Gabriele, why do you care so much for my health?”

“Because I’ve always lived while relying on my body.” He clasps his hands on the table. “I would be terrified if something went wrong with my body. I can’t imagine how you could be okay with abusing your health. You need your body to continue painting.”

“I never thought about it like that.”

“You don’t think a whole lot,” he chides. “You’re just reacting to your fears right now, doing whatever it takes to stop feeling them at the moment. That’s escapism. Avoidance”

“If sex with you is avoidance, it feels too good for me to stop.”

He screws his eyebrows in mild disgust. “It’s supposed to hurt, though.”

“It doesn’t though. It feels great. My ex-boyfriends were all self-absorbed. They played it safe, only caring about their pleasure.”

“Not every guy is a dick. I know it doesn’t sound convincing coming from me, but there it is.”

My heart skips a beat. My fingers curl around his biceps. “I want you to feel good, too. I want to do something for you, Gabriele. Tell me what you want. What do you desire the most in the world?”

“What I desire the most isn’t a sexual fantasy.”

“I still want to give it to you,” I say.

“It’s something you can’t give me.”

“Love?”

“Peace.” His breath stutters. “Stability. People I don’t have to worry about losing.”

The depths of his eyes paint a clearer picture of his desires. He wants to belong somewhere, to have a steady place, a steady person to call his own. I’ve sensed that about him ever since he told me about his mother. Gabriele was always betrayed by the people he wanted to belong to the most. He never had a safe place to call home because his home was polluted by disgusting men who preyed on him. I don’t know how it is in the mafia, but he had to kill his best friend, so I’m assuming it’s not a great place, either.

Gabriele is a mystery boxed inside an iron cage. He rarely reveals anything about himself. I’ve heard about his mother and the friend who had died at his hands, but those were tragic parts of his past. I want to know the good parts, too. His dreams. Hopes. Wishes.

And I want to fulfill all of them for him.

“Did you ever have dreams as a child?” I ask around a mouthful of my beer, which was just delivered to the table by a waitress who gave me a pitying look.

“Don’t all children have dreams?”

“What happened to those dreams? Did you already fulfill them?”

“No, I gave up on them. I had to think about other things. Money, survival, the next job, not getting caught by the feds.”

I grab one of the napkins from the holder and push it to his side of the table, along with a pen I pick out of my purse.

“Let’s do something fun. I want you to write me a bucket list.”

“A what?”

“Bucket list of things you want to do the most. Include anything you can think of—food, hobbies, travel, experiences.”

“So you can use all that information to blackmail me later?”

“You overestimate my blackmailing skills. I suck at manipulating people.” I can’t hold back a smile. “You said it yourself: I’m pure and innocent.”

“Is that why you can twist my arm into fucking you whenever you want?”

“No, that’s because you want it, too. Just admit it.”

He doesn’t bother denying it. What would be the point when we both know it’s the truth? He stares out the window, his fingers drumming against his thigh. Gabriele, despite his very classical-sounding name, isn’t classically good-looking. But my whole body sighs at his beauty, every muscle going limp with satisfaction from visually tracing the planes and curves of his features.

The napkin remains spotlessly white and the bucket list nonexistent, so I begin questioning him, hoping I’ll wear down the walls around his heart quicker that way.

“Is there anywhere you’ve dreamed of traveling to?” I tilt my body forward, loose strands of hair sweeping across the surface of the table.

I’m fully expecting my question to be brushed aside, so the low, husky reply catches me by surprise. “Italy. My ancestry is Italian but I was born in The Bronx like my mother, so I have never been to Italy.”

“How about next weekend?”

“What do you mean?”

“We can go to Italy for a weekend break. I’ll take care of the hotels, tickets, everything. All you need to do is show up.”

“It isn’t that easy.”

“Ahem.” I play the fork on the table like a ceremonial drum as I clear my throat. “I would like to remind you that you’re in the presence of the heiress of Astor Hotels. I have access to hotels across the world and my network extends far and wide. Nothing is impossible for me.”

Gabriele’s left eyebrow slopes downward in an unconvinced slant. “Is that why you can’t even pay your cocaine dealer?”

“That…that’s because my family will suspect me if I make too many big cash withdrawals often without a reason. But if I say that I’m going to Italy with a friend, nobody would blink twice. I do impulsive things like that all the time.”

“Except I’m not your friend and you’re not going to Italy with me.” Gabriele digs his elbows into the table, resting his face on his flat palms.

“You are my friend. We hang out together so much.”

“I’m your stalker.”

“You’re my stalker friend.”

“I held a knife to your throat just yesterday.”

“Fine. You’re my knife-wielding stalker friend. Wow, that almost sounded cool.”

Scorn laces through his bark of laughter. “There’s something seriously wrong with you.”

I slide my hand over his on the table, watching the lines on his face soften immediately in response. His skin is cool, but when I touch it, warmth spreads all the way to my heart. This isn’t the heat of lust like yesterday. A new dimension has been unlocked in our relationship as a result of the time we shared in my studio. A hidden layer of subtext that makes him seem less like a hot, dangerous guy who fulfills my sexual fantasies and more like a hot, dangerous guy who makes me feel human again. Like I’m more than a failure, privileged princess, or a screw-up.

“You have to let me do this for you, Gabriele.” I squeeze his fingers because I want more of the warmth that leaks from his skin into me. “Otherwise I’ll feel like a parasite who is always taking advantage of your help.”

“I’ve told you before: I’m not helping you. This is a mutually beneficial sexual relationship.”

“You might think so, but you believed in me and stuck by my side last night. That wasn’t sex or even related to our physical relationship. When I’m with you, I start to believe in myself.”

“Francesca.” One terse word that contains a whole universe of emotions inside it. He wants the trip; he wants the dream. He wants it but fear chokes his wishes because his mother was an addict and so am I. Does he think I’ll get his hopes up and then flake out at the last minute because I’m too hungover to make it to the airport?

I won’t. My ongoing battle with creativity and substances might be intense, but I take my promises seriously.

“Next weekend,” I remind him. “Do we have a deal?”

He grumbles, knuckles tracing the edge of the table. I’m certain that’s a yes in Gabriele-tongue.

“My bucket list stops right there. I’m not telling you any more of it.”

“Not fair. I could turn all your dreams into reality.”

“My biggest dream would be for you to stop talking right now.”

God must be on his side because the waitress sets down our plates before he can complete that sentence. I’m so hungry that all words die on my tongue instantly. I attack the food, stuffing my face until my stomach is close to bursting.

“You eat like a toddler.” Gabriele reaches forward and wipes ketchup from the corners of my lips.

The second our gazes collide, we both freeze, like we were caught doing something illicit, even though it was nothing more than an innocent reflex.

He must be thinking the same thing: our relationship is changing without us being aware of it.

This is the second time he’s wiping ketchup off my face and it has a very different connotation than the first time. Once could be a mistake, but twice is deliberate. Becoming acquainted with my chaotic mind last night must have made him feel more protective of me, just like it has made me trust him more.

“Know what’s weird?” he continues, pulling back. “Before I met you, I didn’t know what I was looking for. I never realized that I needed a place where I’m surrounded by people I can trust. That I need people in my life I can rely on to be there for me.”

“Gabriele, you can have all of that. Don’t let what your mother did affect your view of the world.”

He licks his lips, stalling. “What I’m saying is that you might think you haven’t helped me, but you’ve helped me realize something pretty important.”

Happiness crests in my chest, the waves hitting so high, I can’t believe it isn’t an illusion.

I labor over my painting in the morning. Time blurs into a muddy stream of colors and dancing visions. In the afternoon when my energy crashes, I fall asleep on the couch in my studio. Gabriele already went to sleep after we got back from the diner so he’s in my bedroom.

Even without him constantly keeping me on track, I manage to push through. When the voices in my head accuse me of being delusional, I fight back with: it’s not my idea; it’s Gabriele’s. And I trust him.

He was onto something with his suggestion that I stop overexerting myself to prove a point to people who aren’t even in my life anymore.

The last time art was so freeing and fun was way back before I attended the art camp. When I simply lived for the feeling of getting lost in creating something beautiful.

Did he say a rose and knife make an odd picture?

I’m going to show him they make a masterpiece.

Paper rustles in my ears. I don’t know what the time is, but the sky is dark. Exhaling, I put the final touch to my painting, fingers trembling as I let my brush rest on the palette.

It’s amazing how I finished a whole painting in a day. Then again, with my muse so close to me and all the passionate sex we have been having, I should have expected it. Gabriele truly is magical. He said he didn’t want to save me because I couldn’t be saved, but he has saved me again and again from falling into despair.

I drag my gaze away from the picture. I might start picking out the flaws in my work if I stare too long. It’s my intention to drag out this moment of triumph for as long as possible before I crash back into the valley of self-judgment.

My shoulders and arms are wailing from the labor. My eyelids are drooping from lack of sleep. I haven’t stopped or taken a break since breakfast. Gabriele woke up a few hours ago and came around to check on me, but I told him to not disrupt my rare moment of focus so he went back to the cabin.

My fingertips caress the note lying on the table. I thought I heard the door open again after Gabriele visited, but it was barely a whisper and I was absorbed in my art so I didn’t pay attention.

You can get through this fear, Francesca. 

The writing is sharp and jagged, exactly what I’d expect from a mobster. Still, it’s a shocker to find a handwritten note from Gabriele. It feels far too intimate given the nature of our relationship.

“You left this?” I brandish the note in front of Gabriele’s face. He’s sitting on the sofa scrolling through his phone in his sweatpants.

In his regular black shirt and suit, he looks every inch like a sleek criminal.

But in his gray sweatpants and sweatshirt, he’s every inch mine. Only I get to keep this secret side of him.

“Yeah,” he replies, lifting his head. “In case you started overthinking again while I was gone.”

“That’s sweet.”

Gabriele shrugs like it’s no big deal. But it means something to me. He made an effort to ensure I wasn’t lonely and trapped in his absence. That kind of consideration could only come from deep empathy. Yet, if I tell him that, he’ll probably deny it.

I love how much he cares for me and how deeply invested he is in my mental well-being. At the same time, if he continues with these small gestures I’m afraid I’ll one-sidedly start liking him, only to feel disappointed later when he doesn’t return my feelings.

“What now?” he asks. “You’re going to paint more?”

“We’re going on a date.” I tap his back and he jumps as if I stabbed him. “Stop looking like the sky fell. It was a joke. I need to eat and they sell great hot dogs at the drive-in theatre. And we might as well watch a movie while we’re there.”

“I’m hungry, too,” he confesses. “Your fridge is emptier and colder than Nico’s heart.”

“Who’s Nico?” My Tesla SUV roars as I turn the key in the ignition and reverse it. I didn’t drink last night and country roads are much less stressful than city roads.

“My superior and the underboss of the Russo family. He’s the one you saw leaving my apartment the day you came over.”

“The one who looks like a snake? He’s an absolute asshole, isn’t he?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“You’re not denying it, either.”

Gabriele’s knees bump my glovebox as full-body laughter rumbles through him. “I’m glad you didn’t major in law or all the criminals in New York would be in trouble. Cross-examination could be your specialty.”

“It’s the legal profession’s loss.”

I’ve only ever been to the drive-in theatre once before with Mom. She loved the quaint small-town charm it had. It reminded her of her childhood. There aren’t many drive-in theatres left. So it’s like being in a time machine.

A small number of cars already populate the grassy ground. Mops of hair stick out from convertibles. The big screen in front is white like an untouched canvas. The smell of butter and popcorn permeates the air.

I buy tickets for Gabriele and me. They’re cheap, only $10 per person for two films with an intermission in between.

“These movies are PG-13.” Gabriele turns up his nose in disgust. “I was down for R-rated with you.”

“Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“It’s not my mind that’s in the gutter. When I said R-rated, I meant violence and bloodshed, not sex.” His shoulder rises in exasperation. “You’re such a nymphomaniac.”

I fight the heat filling my cheeks. “What about you? You see enough violence and bloodshed in your day job. Why do you need more?”

“You get enough sex in your daily life, too.” His eyebrows cock and it’s so sexy. It takes all my resolve not to jump him. He’s right. Sex is all I think about these days. “But you still want to see it on screen.”

Fair point.

“I guess we can’t help liking what we like. Though it might be healthy to change up our routine once in a while.” I wave the tickets in the air. “Watching something cute and fluffy might be good for our sanity.”

“Doing anything with you is bad for my sanity,” he mutters, rotating his head to scan the surroundings. What’s he expecting to find, a hidden enemy? Because this is a PG-13 place through and through.

A quick survey of the lot tells me that most of the people here look like they are on dates, except for a few families. Gabriele and I might be the odd ones here. We look too edgy in black.

Gabriele notices the overabundance of couples too, for his lips draw into a silent line. He marches away, mumbling, “You bought the tickets so I’ll buy food. Wait for me in the car.”

Earlier, the staff at the ticket counter let me in on how I could use the radio in my car to listen to the sound of the movie playing so I fiddle with that to make sure it’s working like it’s supposed to.

“Scoot over.” Right before the movie starts, Gabriele returns.

He’s cradling so much food. Popcorn, cheese hot dogs, cinnamon pretzels, nachos with cheese, two bottles of Iced tea, and chicken breast tenders. My mouth drops open when he hands the bottle of cold iced tea to me.

A smile flickers over his lips, slow and sensual. “You said you needed to eat.”

“I’m one woman, not an army.” I unscrew the cap on the bottle, relishing the coolness of the iced tea as it washes over my parched tongue. “Also, I’m surprised you bought iced tea when they sell Coke in the shop.”

“I know you only drink this,” Gabriele says. “It’s all you ever get from the vending machine in college.”

My eyebrow sharpens in a raise.

He pays that much attention to what I drink?

“Here.” He stashes a bunch of candy bars into my glove compartment. “You always nibble on it in the afternoon when your creative inspiration is crashing.”

The crinkle of plastic wrappers crunches in my ears as he unwraps one and hands it to me. “Eat.”

My throat closes around a lump of emotion. My eyes prickle.

No, I need to have higher standards. I cannot be crying over a guy buying me Snickers. That’s just pathetic. Yet this has me in a chokehold.

“Thank you for always looking out for me.” I kiss his cheek.

Then the unimaginable happens: he blushes.

Our silences speak louder than words as we look away from each other at the same time. In the last few weeks, I’ve seen Gabriele act strong, ruthless, determined, sexy, protective, and even brutal.

But it’s the first time I’m seeing him being honest, his heart laid bare for me.

The handwritten note from earlier.

My favorite snacks. The fact that he even knows what my favorite snack is.

A gift like that has no material value but touches my heart.

That’s all I need to regain my footing in the world that spins around me chaotically.

It’s all I need to remember that there are people who care that I keep painting, and who want to see me grow and evolve as a person and as an artist.

The loneliness that sits like a rock in my stomach all the time dissolves when he’s around.

I need more. I’m not craving drugs right now, nor am I craving escape. I’m craving the warmth and comfort of a beautiful monster who has a heart of gold.

Before I can stop myself, I straddle Gabriele. My lips find him in the dark confines of the car.

His hands roam over the swell of my ass like it’s no big deal. Heat ignites between my thighs. “Aren’t there rules in this place? Can we do this?” His huskiness casts a spell around me. All I see is him, all I hear is the siren call of his body.

I press one finger to his lips. “We’re both rule-breakers anyway.”

His throat flexes. His arousal is wedged between my legs, inciting a low flutter in my belly. One hand slips under my bra to palm my breasts. The sensation of slowly catching fire travels over me like silk.

I writhe in his arms, whimpering like a kitten lost in pleasure, paying no attention to where I am.

A sharp cry tears out of my throat.

“Shhh,” he says as his fingers slide into the wet and ready spot between my legs. Pleasure clouds my vision. He’s going to make me come without even trying.

My skin itches with both nerves and delights as his fingers lock around the back of my neck.

The top of his forehead presses against mine. “Francesca, what are you doing to me?”

“Kissing you.”

“No, baby, you’re breaking your promise. And I’m letting you.”

A jarring noise beeps inside my brain, a slow, creeping alarm telling me this is no longer just sex. Not for him.

And I’m letting you. 

He’s letting me turn this into more. He’s a willing participant as much as I am.

As my hand finds purchase in his hair, I’m faced with the one question I still don’t know the answer to: What is Gabriele to me when he’s not my muse?

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