by Lana Sky
“There isn’t much to choose from,” they tell me tiredly before glancing over their shoulder to focus a pair of brilliant, blue eyes in my direction. “We’ll have to settle for just eggs.”
Before I can protest, he snags a carton from the fridge and approaches the stove. He must know the contents of the cupboards, because he easily fishes out a frying pan and a few utensils. By the time he cracks the first egg over an open flame, I’ve finally mustered up the energy to speak.
“I’m not hungry—”
“We need to talk.” He sounds so casual. The only clue that betrays even a hint of uncertainty is how the second egg shatters right in his grip as he attempts to crack it along the end of the counter. He pitches the mess into the sink and starts over with a fresh egg and another attempt. This unbroken yolk joins the first to sizzle in the pan.
I watch him against my own better judgment. He’s good with his hands—even the prosthetic fingers. He works quickly to scramble the yolks before they can set and then scrapes two servings onto two mismatched plates. He offers one to me.
I shake my head, but my stomach contradicts the refusal and makes its hunger known in a loud, gurgling rumble. Jerking his head toward the couch, Espi sits first, taking up a corner and leaving me to perch myself on the opposite end. He sets one of the plates down between us and greedily attacks the food piled onto the other one.
I watch him until my fingers start to twitch, desperate for something to do. I snatch up the other plate and balance it on my lap while taking a bite of the eggs. Then another.
“I don’t want you to think I’m some sick pervert,” Espisido says once I’ve gathered up enough of a mouthful to swallow.
I promptly choke, spraying egg across the floor. “What…what are you talking about?”
He shakes his head. “I’ll stop coming into the dressing room at night.” He opens his mouth, seemingly on the verge of saying more, but then he closes it.
And I don’t know whether to laugh or count my damn blessings. Without him there, the world is gray again, dominated by Piotr. I’ll have no excuse to dwell on feelings and needs that shouldn’t matter. An addict only ever knows how to survive on the verge of needing a fix.
“Okay.”
We both tentatively swallow another steaming mouthful of eggs.
He exhales sharply as the food goes down his throat. “But…I still need to check out those stitches.”
Of course, he does. I shift around so that he’s facing my left side. With a clinical precision, he helps me peel off the sleeve of the hoodie I’m wearing—his. He breathes out sharply when he sees my arm—bruised from Arno’s manhandling, inflamed from my nights at the bar, still leaking tiny droplets of blood in places.
He rises and gets a rag from the kitchen counter. When he comes back, it’s damp with the water from the faucet, and he gingerly dabs away at the area around the stitches. When all is said and done, they’ve held at least.
But Espisido doesn’t finish his examination just yet. His hand goes to my shoulder, flicking back the hair shielding my neck from his gaze. At the moment, Jose’s marks take precedence over Vladimir’s little wound. Whenever I swallow, the muscles throb in torment. I know from experience that most of the danger from strangulation comes after the fact, when the sore muscle swelled and damaged the windpipe. I’ve seen girls suffocate a day after having been choked, but I don’t have any trouble breathing. For now.
Or at least any difficulty caused by the injuries. My lungs are frozen due to an entirely different reason.
“That crazy motherfucker,” Espisido says softly while his fingertips feather over the bruising.
Is he referring to Arno or Jose? I don’t know, and I don’t bother to ask. There’s a certain look in his eyes that I vaguely recognize. Something distant and pained.
“I take it he’s not a ‘friend’ of yours?”
He flinches, his gaze cutting down to the floor. After a minute, he shakes his head. “You could say that.”
I’m satisfied with his gruff admission—until he continues to speak.
“A few years ago, I was doing something for Arno. Something stupid. Something he technically wouldn’t allow me to do, but I thought I could make him some decent money, so I tried it anyway.”
“What was it?”
He shrugs. “Running drugs. Look, Arno’s no citizen of the year, but he’s not entirely insane.” He cracks a worn, small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I did it on my own. Thought I could make a quick buck. Make him proud so that he’d let me handle bigger jobs. I was almost out of school by then. I had nowhere else to go but the Gardai. Thought I had to earn my keep. It was stupid. I know.”
“So, what happened?”
“My dumb ass cut through territory run by the Cartel. I didn’t know it at the time, but Arno and Jose had already tussled over ‘boundaries’ before. When he caught me, Jose thought Arno was breaking their little treaty.” He draws back so swiftly that my entire body resonates with the loss of his heat. His eyes shut as he tears a trembling hand through his hair, holding the black curls away from his face. “He decided to make an example out of me.”
The memory of the man chained to the floor, Jose’s breakfast companion, makes my blood run cold, numbing my skin.
“He strung me up against the wall,” Espisido says. “He went at me with whips. Different shapes. Different kinds. For hours.”
The view of his back springs to my mind—the scars, lengthy and jagged. I’m already reaching out for him. My fingers grip his shoulder and tug. After a moment’s hesitation, he allows me to lift the corner of his shirt.
With single-minded determination, I paw the dark cotton away and peer at the pale skin underneath. The worst of the scars are easy to see, bulging against taut muscle and the ridges of his shoulder blades. The full extent of the damage, however, can only be felt through my fingertips. Every twitch and shudder of scar tissue. Every bumpy stretch of tendon where I assume he can’t feel sensation anymore.
Jose made an “example” out of him, all right. He gave him wings—a twisted, broken mockery of them.
“Did he do this too?” My hand slides down to his right wrist. Two of my fingers slip in between his, ghosting the spaces where his are missing.
Shaking his head, he pulls away. “No. No…that was someone else.”
For a moment, I can only stare, taking him in. Every inch. He wears his scars so differently from mine. Open and guarded at the same time. He doesn’t cut them away or hide them behind masks and different names.
He just is.
I find the voice to ask when he doesn’t continue the thread of the story himself. “What happened?” There is a reason why he didn’t wind up like Julio, wasting away while Jose ate a meal on his bloodied remains.
“Arno happened,” Espi says gruffly. He readjusts his shirt, pulling the hem back down to his waist and covering the scars. “He found out what I’d done. He came in the nick of time. I know he might seem like a hardass, but the Cartel outnumbers the Gardai two to one. It was suicide for him to go in alone, but he did. He had to beg Jose to let me go. He begged.”
I can’t see his face—I merely hear the icy, tormented edge to his words—and have to imagine his expression on my own. Indigo eyes narrowed in pain. Beautiful features chiseled and hardened.
“Even after all that, I’m not sure what he had to promise Jose to make him stop. It took me four months to heal.”
The gravity of the violence washes over me. I have to brace one hand against the couch cushions to find my breath. In the midst of the tumult of emotions raging in my head, one thought sticks out.
“Where was your brother? What did he do when he—”
“Dante?” Espisido chokes out a laugh. “Dante was in prison. By the time he got out, there didn’t seem to be a point in mentioning that little story.”
My throat feels tighter. “Where is he now?”
I don’t know what to expect. A different gamut of emotions
comes over him when he speaks of Dante versus Arno. With Arno, he’s angry, loyal, aggravated, and understanding all at the same time. When all thrown together, I think it’s love. With Dante, there’s just…pain.
“He got out of prison about a year ago,” he says, his shoulders hunched away from me. “For a while, it was good. Then, six months later, he cut out again. Just left some money on the table for me and was gone. Again.” He shakes his head, his dark hair flying, and fights to suck in air. One ragged breath paints the air between us.
I don’t realize I’ve touched him until I feel him shiver beneath my palm while his heart beats furiously against his skin.
“If he got bored of me or sick of me tagging along or something like that…I could handle it. But Dante only breaks loose when something’s wrong. When he’s trying to protect someone.”
“You and Arno are looking for him?”
He scoffs. “Something like that. We won’t find him, though, until he wants to be found. But…” He faces me, brushing off the hand I have on his back. “This time, I have a feeling that having him back won’t be as easy as him ditching an orange jumpsuit.”
I don’t answer in favor of scrutinizing the planes of his face and memorizing every angelic detail. Why? The act does little to diminish the inexplicable ache humming through my veins whenever he’s near. It’s not lust—not that I’ve ever felt that emotion for myself. I just watch it unfurl in the men who look at me and only see a body. A hole. A quick fuck and the loss of a maybe a few bucks.
Even after I left the Syndicate, dating didn’t repair any of the damage left behind. So what I feel for him isn’t lust.
It’s something more pathetic than that. Something needy and aching that won’t let me back away from him, even though I can tell he wants me to. I’m not his type.
Maybe he doesn’t like blondes or box-brunettes. Maybe he doesn’t touch dancers on principle. Maybe…
So I’m the one who touches him, sliding my hand along the top of his shoulder. Just once. It’s not enough. My fingers curl, catching the muscle underneath. I’m pulling him closer before common sense can warn me to stop. Closer. Too close.
For some reason, he lets my lips brush his—too chaste a touch to even be called a kiss. Even so, I taste him as I breathe him in—cigarette smoke, mint, and the faintest sting of alcohol. He’s virtue and vice in one conflicting taste.
I surface once I’ve gotten my fix, but he has other plans. I don’t think he means to kiss me so much as he intends to feel. How my lips feel. What I taste like. The sounds I make when his body presses into mine. Gasps. Moans. I can’t control it.
He exhales himself into me, and my tongue sneaks out to steal more of him away. More mint. Acidic smoke. Sweetness. Egg. Everything.
We’re fused at the mouth, his body positioned between my legs, his hands surely on my waist. His fingertips graze my stomach while his tongue flutters against the outside of my lower lips. Soft. Tempting. I can’t stop myself from reaching for the waistband of his pants, and I barely brush the denim before he shoves my hand away.
“Stop!”
I’m left panting, staring up at him as he lurches to his feet. His eyes flicker, catching the emotions laid bare in mine. He shakes his head, tearing a hand through his hair, and groans. There’s nothing boyish or cute about the motion. He’s more devil than angel again. Shadows drape his innocent features, adding definition to the ivory.
“It’s not like I don’t…like I don’t want you,” he says thickly. “I do.”
I do. Everything in my body rides the wave of those words. I want you.
I’m already croaking out an argument. “But—”
“But you won’t want me,” he says.
And then he’s gone. The door slams. Reality descends, and my body ramps up for yet another grueling withdrawal. Good. I deserve to suffer.
Biting my lip so hard that I taste blood does nothing to assuage the self-hate surging through my veins. God, how could I be so fucking pathetic? I look down at my fingers in disgust. Then again, how could I not be?
Piotr taught me that the only way to process lust is to take what you want. Demand it from those weaker than you and break down anyone strong enough to resist. I’m still his creature, so desperate for affection.
So broken.
Tears escape my eyes before I can blink them back, searing fiery trails down my cheeks. The sting of rejection shouldn’t affect me so harshly. So fucking deeply.
But it hurts.
As it should. Maybe I’ll learn my lesson now. I’ll heed Arno’s advice. I’ll stay away.
I won’t consume another dizzying dose from a dealer who wants nothing to do with me.
Chapter Twenty
Espi
Fuck.
I never used to smoke in bed, making it the one place that didn’t reek of ash. Better to be safe than sorry. I knew a druggie once who lit up half-asleep and set himself on fire.
She changed that. I wake up with a cig already in my mouth. The first thing I do is feel around for my lighter and flick the flame with my eyes still closed. One puff and the risk is worth it—I’d burn alive rather than feel what I do when I see her face. When I hear her voice.
In a way, she makes me feel like Dante. Out of fucking control. Or maybe more like him… Sick. Deluded. Like father, like son.
A cold shower is the only weapon I have against her. I stagger into the bathroom while I inhale the rest of the cig, and then I wrench the showerhead on, grappling for control. The shitty water pressure won’t help much. I need a damn tsunami to knock her out of my system.
The reaction doesn’t make any damn sense. I’ve had women come onto me before. I’ve seen them naked. Barely a night can go by at Mulligan’s without someone shaking their ass in my face.
But no one looks at me the way she does. Hell, most people wouldn’t dare. Little Miss Yellow. She’s a cigarette, demanding my sole attention or she’ll set my ass on fire.
Kind of like the one I’m smoking now. I flinch as hot ash trickles from the overgrown end and burns through my sweatpants. I flick it off and pat myself down, but the pain lingers. Like her scent. Like this hard-on.
The burn of nicotine doesn’t diminish the ache in my stomach. I’m too damn wound. I have to toss the cigarette into the toilet bowl and slide a hand beneath my waistband. I roughly grab my dick, squeezing it at the root, desperate to cut off all fucking feeling. It doesn’t help. I pump my hand along the shaft, squeezing my eyes shut to block my surroundings out.
The physical touch does nothing. I have to envision it… I have to see her riding high on the pole, her legs splayed, her breasts swaying. It’s not even her body that gets me off though. It’s those eyes. The hunger in them. That need. Like she might actually feel whatever the fuck I do.
“Shit.” My hand flies out, my palm hitting the wall. The fire building in the base of my stomach spreads, but it needs more fucking fuel. Like the feel of her skin. The gasp she let out when I touched her. The feel of her nipples grazing my palm. And then her pussy…
A grunt rips from my throat. My hand keeps moving. Faster. Harder. I only have to imagine what it would be like to thrust inside her and I come so hard that my ears pop with the force of it. I’m still in a daze when I shake the hot cum from my fingers and climb into the shower.
I stay here until my teeth start to chatter. Until every inch of me is numb. Then I climb out, get dressed, and head out. When I reach Mulligan’s, Arno is already there, taking up a stool near the bar. When he sees me, he just grunts and lifts a shot glass in salute. Domi’s at the bar counter behind him, and Ksei…
She’s in the corner, a broom in her hand. The bruise around her throat looks even worse in the daylight, but she wears it like someone who’s been through worse—healed from worse.
I turn my back on her and seek out Francisco. I need a job. Something to take my mind off Dante. Arno’s no fucking use when he’s this deep into the bottle, but Frank already has a task in mind
.
“I need your expertise,” he tells me when I find him in the back, moving crates of liquor into the basement, where Arno stores the good stuff. “Arno won’t like it, but the fucker won’t talk.”
“What is it?” My stomach clenches the same way it does at the mention of any new “side job.” I’ve tried to rationalize it in so many ways. At the end of the day, it was even a hobby of sorts. Some people fix cars in their spare time. Mow lawns. Clean gutters. The busywork no one else wants to do.
We all have our quirks, I guess. Mine’s no different—I tell myself that repeatedly. Whatever helps me sleep at night.
“One of our Russian friends survived Arno’s fun and games,” he says under his breath. “He knows something, but he won’t fucking talk. I think you should try to convince him before Arno gets bored and snuffs out this lead.”
“A lead,” I echo. “This have anything to do with the real reason why he had me try to get up Vlad’s ass?”
He might have lost his shit even more than usual, but Arno’s not entirely insane. He wouldn’t push me toward the Russians without a reason—a much better one than the gun-running excuse he fed me when I asked. It has to be something deeper than that. Something he couldn’t ask the Russians outright. Something more than just Dante.
Francisco knows what, at least more than I do. He’s not willing to tell me though. His loyalty to Arno goes deeper than any favors I could ever deliver. “Just trust me on this. You know how he gets when he’s desperate.”
I know, all right—better than anyone. “He gets sloppy. I’ll do it. I just gotta get my kit.”
“Thanks, kid,” Francisco says. He’s smart enough not to sound too grateful though. He still has a soul in there somewhere. Maybe in any other situation, it wouldn’t come to this. “I know it isn’t easy on you. But this fucker is a real piece of shit. Trust me—He deserves it—”
“I’ll get my kit.” The excuse takes me away from him, but not far enough. If I had to get the stuff I keep at the house, maybe I would change my mind along the way. But, whether out of convenience or guilt, I’ve learned to keep a spare kit at the bar.
