Thanks to
Autumn Wrought
Jennifer Mahoney
Cindy Webster
HIS: Tony
Sabatini Family, Volume 2
Fiona Murphy
Published by Fiona Murphy, 2021.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
HIS: TONY
First edition. March 19, 2021.
Copyright © 2021 Fiona Murphy.
Written by Fiona Murphy.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
HIS: Tony (Sabatini Family, #2)
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20
Author’s note:
Cesare’s name is pronounced Chezeray
A Sabatini may be a lot of things: an asshole, rude, ruthless, even a killer. But one thing we never are is sloppy, not with our money, not our business, and especially not with our bodies.
Until the moment I got sloppy with the most dangerous thing I could: a woman. I’m third generation in the Outfit. I’ve killed more than my share of men, have had more than a few guns held to my head. Christy wasn’t the first person who tried to kill me, she wasn’t the last, and I’m sure there will be more in the future.
I knew how we started was messed up. I’m old enough to be her father. She was thirty to my fifty. I should have spanked her ass, taken the gun away from her, and killed her the way I planned. She wanted me dead to pay for her childhood trauma. The way I saw it, I’ve done a lot of messed up things, but I wasn’t to blame for what she went through. If she wanted me dead, there was only one thing for me to do, kill her before she could kill me. Only the moment I laid eyes on her, everything changed: the plan, me, her.
When I put the ring on her finger and she promised forever, I believed we had a future. There was no hint I would wake up the next morning and find her gone. I tried to let her go, I can’t. She promised forever, I’m holding her to it. It doesn’t matter how far she’s gone. I will find her.
Christy belongs to me, and a Sabatini keeps what is his.
1
FIVE YEARS AGO
Christy
I’m less than two steps into the apartment when the door closes behind me with an ominous click. Dimly, I hear the snick of a key locking me in. It’s dark, with only one muted lamp on, on the other side of the room. My eyes follow the light to a table at the elbow of him—Tony Sabatini. Heat hits me, burning me from the inside out. I clash with bright blue sapphire eyes and my world comes crashing down around me with a thunderous roaring in my ears. Even though he’s sitting in a chair at least fifteen feet away from me, I take a step back from the raw aggression rolling off him in waves. Everything in me screams to run. Run fast, run far, and don’t stop until he’s lost my scent.
Yet fear holds me in place. No, I’m lying. It’s not fear. It’s that same curiosity that killed the cat. I don’t understand what is happening to me. I desperately need answers. If I stay, I’ll get them. That, and I can’t feel my legs.
He blinks and finally so can I. As I do, a tear runs down my cheek and I realize I haven’t blinked since our eyes met. A shiver hits me, at odds with the heat threatening to consume me. Shock sends my stomach into painful twisting at how wet and aching I am at the apex of my thighs in response to those jewel eyes running over me as heavy as a touch.
What the fuck is happening right now?
I’ve been staring at pictures of him for years, almost daily for the last four months. None of them came close to capturing the full impact of Tony Sabatini. Beautiful, stunning, I already knew that. In person, he is breath-taking, leaving me in awe.
A large nose, obviously once broken and reset, should take away from his beauty. Oddly, it adds to it. My eyes trace over the way his caramel skin is taut over sharp cheekbones. My fingertips are tingling with the need to learn the feel of his skin. His broad forehead is hooded over those sapphire eyes, giving them a deeper intensity, as if he sees into my soul—my every secret and desire I try to hide. My lungs stutter to a stop, terrified he knows the real reason I’m here.
Another blink, the fire eases slightly. “Ms. Teller, please have a seat.” Smoky and deep, his voice is as smooth as silk. He motions to the leather chair in front of him. My legs still refuse to move. A tilt of his head as an eyebrow lifts. “Ms. Teller, what happens next is up to you. You are only here because you want to be. I will not prevent you from leaving. I’m a busy man with other matters requiring my attention. Decide. Now.”
Despite the heat in the warning, ice slides down my spine. I’m captivated by his large hands clenching into fists before he loosens them again. Why the hell am I desperate to have those hands on me? Nothing is making any sense right now. Leave, leave now.
Only I find myself moving forward on unsteady legs. It didn’t matter what he said. There was an underlying demand compelling me not just to stay but to come to him. A throbbing stirs low inside me with the need to please him. I don’t understand it. Yet I can no more deny it than to stop breathing.
With the first step I take toward him, I swear he exhales in relief. It can’t be. He is tightly coiled power, every inch of him muscle, every ounce of him lethal. What could it matter to him if I stayed or left? Does he feel this... connection, desire, lust, whatever it is, too? Can he explain it to me? I move faster now, eagerness to answer the question dimming my fear.
The living room is set up as if it were any regular apartment, except it doesn’t feel lived in. There’s a
