Reign: A Romance Anthology

by Nina Levine

  I did some quick research on Bradford King. God knows what he was doing in a dive bar with a bartender when he’s a billionaire, who usually spends his downtime in the arms of society women and supermodels. I expect he’s left by now disgusted about being dragged into my stepfather’s mess.

  I don’t like what I read about Charlie Roemer. Maybe I can pay the debt off by taking out a loan against Kingdom of Wigs to keep us both alive, and then I will get my stepfather to sign over Queenie’s to me and the building (a year early) for paying off his debt, which seems only fair and then good riddance to him.

  I am having trouble believing the man I have known for eight years could have gone away to leave me to the wolves. Something feels off, and until I have all the pieces, I can’t think about getting attacked and the what-ifs. I need to be in the right state of mind to take Lorenzo on, and shaking from the fear that comes with getting attacked can wait until later.

  Angry words from raised voices float their way up the staircase as I draw closer to the ground floor, which increases to multiple gruff male voices joining in, and then I hear scuffling and barstools and chairs getting knocked over—hastening my descent down the stairs.

  I pull up at the last second before giving my whereabouts away when I hear my stepfather snarl, “Roemer should have made Queenie disappear, paying off my debt in full with her body. This place is dead in the water. I should never have come back.”

  I can’t move. Lorenzo sounds bitter and hateful. I’m reeling from the words he just said. He wants me to disappear? Pay his debt with my body? What does that even mean? I’m shocked, confused, and fucking angry.

  Bradford strings together a multitude of curses.

  There is more scuffling, furniture getting knocked about, grunts, and cursing, and it doesn’t sound like the noises are coming from Bradford.

  Charlie Roemer, his thugs, and Lorenzo can all suck a rotten egg!

  I want to throw up all over again. Lorenzo sickens me. The slimy piece of shi—

  “King! Your woman—”

  “She’s not my woman,” Bradford bites back at the voice. Yeah, he got that bit right.

  There is a rumble of murmurings from the peanut gallery.

  “I beg to differ. Never seen you like this before.” I don’t know this voice.

  “Fuck-off, Xander. Think of her as a charity case.”

  “Charity case?! Well, fuck you, Bradford. I’m nobody’s burden,” I mutter under my breath, pissed off to the max at his audacity.

  “You invited all of us here, not the other way around.” Bradford invited unknown numbers of men to Queenie’s. Why? “And by the way, you cut me off before I could finish my sentence. I was trying to tell you, the female’s around the corner listening, and she’s rather displeased by the conversation playing out.” The deep voice exposes my arrival.

  I could have sworn nobody would be able to hear what I said.

  I channel all the patients I visit in the hospitals and the customers who come into Kingdom of Wigs and march right around the corner into the bar, holding my bald head held high, channeling my inner lioness.

  Before I get very far, Hemsworth steps in my way. “Miss, would you like a cup of tea?”

  “No. I. Ducking. Would. Not!” I am furious, but I do have manners. Swearing at the older gentleman doesn’t seem appropriate. “Thank you anyway, Hemsworth, for the offer. It is very nice of you.”

  “The least I can do considering.” He steps out of my way and makes a sweeping arm motion. “After you, Miss.”

  Bradford’s raised fists are clenched, ready for battle. He’s bare-chested, and his abdominal muscles are rippling under his heaving chest as though he has exerted a lot of energy.

  “Why isn’t Bradford wearing a shirt?” I mutter to Hemsworth.

  “I believe, Miss, he’s defending your honor, contrary to his foot and mouth of a moment ago, he cares about you,” he whispers back.

  I don’t even know what to say to that proclamation. “Calling me a ‘charity case’ isn’t exactly going to warm me to him.”

  “That would be the foot in his mouth, Miss. He’s got a lot on his mind, and he doesn’t like to admit when his defenses are down. You’ve changed Bradford overnight, and he’s trying to figure that out.”

  My God, he looks like a boxer who has been working out at the gym. The gym being Queenie’s. Casual black pants sit low on his hips, distracting me for a moment as I take in that sexy as fuck V-line that points the way to—

  I mentally give myself a swift kick up the ass for ogling him. I saw enough of him naked last night before I wound up in a dumpster. He’s gorgeous, but I am no charity case.

  Checking myself by tugging on the bottom of my sweater, I resume firing on all cylinders, making a path toward Lorenzo, who is bent over with his hands on his knees, blood dripping onto the wooden floor from an injury, his navy button-up torn in places. His light brown hair clings to his sweaty neck as he catches his breath.

  I come to a standstill several feet away from both men, taking in numerous pieces of bar furniture no longer in their places. Barstools upended with tables bumped over several feet from their usual places.

  I point to bare-chested Bradford, mouthing, “You are next.” In response, he beams me a shit-eating grin, drilling those damn dimples into his cheeks.

  Conceited asshole.

  “Looking beautiful, by the way,” he murmurs in my ear as I stalk past him.

  Exasperated, I reply in a deadpan voice out the corner of my mouth without looking back, “Don’t patronize me. I’m bald last time I looked, and I’m nobody’s charity case, dickhead.”

  I’m gripped by my elbow, sending me swinging around with a surprised look on my face. “Please forgive me for speaking out of term. I can see you are not a charity case. Now say what you need to say to this piece of shit; then we can talk later. We’ve got your back.”

  And that’s when I remember there were more voices I heard as I eavesdropped from the staircase.

  I tug my elbow out of Bradford’s grip, turning in a circle, eyeing up six tall, mostly bearded men dressed in black boots, jeans, and short-sleeved button-up shirts in various colors and patterns. They are handsome in a wild way. Their tattooed biceps bulge under the constraints of the material. Who the hell are all these guys?

  The men look like hired-muscle with their impressive arms folded across their muscular chests. Their stance reminds me of a military pose, making them seem more threatening until one of them winks at me—a handsome guy with black hair and a stylish man bun fade. He looks about the same age as Bradford.

  There’s also a dark-skinned guy I nearly didn’t notice in a booth; he’s positioned not to be seen by my stepfather. He doesn’t belong with the other pack of men (the only word that comes to mind). He holds a finger up to his lips, signaling me to stay silent about his whereabouts.

  I mentally shake my head.

  “Queenie, I can explain.” Lorenzo is upright, holding his side as though he’s in a great deal of pain. He’s got the beginnings of a black eye, and his nose looks broken. I want to roll my eyes at him because he needs to shut the fuck up.

  In the past year, he’s let himself go. His once fit body is now portly and doughy, and his hair is receding, making him look a lot older than forty-three. He’s five-nine, which makes us eye to eye in my bike boots.

  I hold a hand up, silencing him.

  The man-bun guy nods with approval in my peripheral vision, strengthening my resolve to not go easy on my stepfather.

  Lorenzo’s lack of concern for how I look rubs me even further the wrong way. We’ve never been close, but he doesn’t at all look surprised by my lack of hair and split lip. Instead, he is going to attempt to sell me a pile of steaming bullshit. I’m not a kid anymore, and he’s only nineteen years older than me.

  For my mother’s sake, I was polite and respectful of Lorenzo’s authority when I was younger. After she died six years ago, we became more of acquaintances sharing a fl
oor above the bar with polite enough interaction when our paths crossed. We kept any awkwardness at bay by playing our roles well. There was no bonding over Christmas or birthdays. We just lived under the same roof, and I worked two nights a week at Queenie’s. Lorenzo didn’t try to tell me what to do, and with little choice on my behalf, he had full reign of Queenie’s and even the roof over my head. He didn’t invade Kingdom of Wigs, and I only spent time in the bar area when I had to work.

  Lorenzo never grieved for my mother like a man in love should. He had a roof over his head, and he seemed content with managing the bar.

  Time flew by, and here we are now.

  In the back of my mind, I always wondered if it would be as easy as signing the bar over to me when I turned twenty-five. I guess we will never know because I’m taking back what is mine.

  “Miss, are you feeling well?” My shoulder is squeezed gently by Hemsworth. “You were pacing back and forth, muttering to yourself, looking zoned out for a bit.”

  “Umm…” I look around, frowning at all the men watching me.

  “Queenie, if you want, I can—”

  “No, Bradford… umm… no, I’m fine.” I need to hear it face to face for it to sink in. Rounding on Lorenzo, I ask, “You wanted Roemer to kidnap me and, what? Kill me to pay your debt off?”

  “Yes, repeat what you said to me about offering Queenie up to be sold and trafficked as part payment of your debt in exchange for extra time.” What did Bradford just say?

  “I honestly didn’t think he would agree to take you as payment, but desperation calls for desperate measures. I thought Roemer’s instructions would be to kill you instead of merely taking your hair and leaving you in a dumpster for me—”

  Oh, my God. Am I really hearing this?

  “—give a shit what happens to you. This has only worked”—he points back and forth between the two of us—“because you knew your place. You kept to yourself and worked hard. If Roemer killed you, I would own Kingdom of Wigs. I made sure that modification made it into the last will of your dear mother’s.”

  “You did what?!” I screech, launching myself at the prick, grabbing him by his torn shirt, shoving him back into a blond-haired guy who doesn’t budge from the arms-crossed stance he’s still holding firm.

  Lorenzo shrugs, stepping away from the man-wall. “So you lost some hair, it will grow back,” he sneers, “now hands off!” He raises his right arm as though he’s going to strike me. Bring it on, bitch!

  The blond dude snatches the raised hand in a crushing grip, leaning down next to Lorenzo’s ear. “Lay a finger on Queenie, and I’ll lay my fists on you. And you won’t get up. Nod if you comprende.”

  Lorenzo’s face scrunches up with pain, and then he nods rapidly. “Call your dog off, King.”

  “I’m not in charge. It’s big man’s call.” Bradford's smile is wicked.

  Blondie keeps crushing the hand he holds until my stepfather cries out as a bone snaps, then he releases my stepfather, shoving him roughly away from me in disgust. “Oopsie.”

  I feel no pity. I’m still far too angry for useless emotions to get in the way where this man is concerned. My mind is trying to absorb everything this evil shit of a man is saying to me. I feel like I am watching my life unfold through a parallel dimension.

  Suddenly I’m not feeling as generous with my fucks to give. Sorry, Mom. I silently apologize for what will become of her Lorenzo Ros—

  “And if all that isn’t enough, your stepfather is a con-man and a chronic gambler.” Bradford’s words cut me off mid-thought. “I did a little research on the prick. He moves around the country preying on terminal women, and his name is Gino Carrollo. Not Lorenzo Rossi. The different well-established alias’ he uses with each woman has kept him from getting caught and changing his look over the years. Once he bleeds them dry or they pass away, he moves on. But this time, he broke the pattern, and he went too far. Your stepfather royally fucked up.”

  “Jesus, Lor—Gino. You even lied about your name. My poor mother, I bet that was all a lie too.” Call me naïve. “Did you even love her?” I hate my voice breaks showing weakness in front of this con artist.

  He’s cradling his hand, throwing a pity-party for one. “I cared enough for her. I am still here making sure you aren’t lonely, you stupid bitch.” His attempt to belittle me is a joke.

  “You’re a despicable human being. What the everloving hell is wrong with you, Lor—Gino?!” I growl like a wounded animal, getting all up in his face.

  “How much is your debt?” I still hold out hope I can fix this mess. “Charlie Roemer is happy to kill me if you don’t pay the debt you owe. Why do you even have debt? The bar covers itself, and the building belongs to my family. You are just the caretaker until I turn twenty-five, in case your memory has slipped you. What jeopardy have you put my family’s legacy in and cut the bullshit?”

  “I owe Roemer four million from gambling debts. I used the tavern as collateral… and the building.” His smirk breaks the camel’s back.

  “YOU WHAT?!” I roar, my fists balled as I take a swing at his nose, connecting with a satisfying crunch and a river of blood. But I suspect his nose was already broken from his scuffle with Bradford.

  Loren—Gino howls, cursing me.

  “I’m calling the police.” I wave my phone in the air.

  “Queenie, look out!” Bradford shouts, launching himself toward me, taking the kick that was meant for me to his right hip bone.

  Ferocious growls fill the room as the pack of men swiftly circle Gino like he’s prey, cutting him off from the two of us. If their bodies had fur instead of skin, I swear it would all be standing on end.

  “Bradford—?”

  He holds a hand up, effectively silencing me. “I’m okay,” he grits out through his teeth. Please step way back from these men.” I’m not sure if he is more worried about Gino or the circle of large men about to go wild.

  What I know is he chivalrously saved me from suffering the pain I can see etched into his face. I need to do something. I ignore Bradford and push at the shoulders of two men, trying unsuccessfully to get them to part the way. “Step aside, gym-lovers. It’s my family’s business. The bastard is mine.”

  Blondie ignores my request, punches Gino hard in the eye, and then without hesitation, attaches himself to my stepfather’s back, his thick muscular arms acting like two belts securing Gino in place. “I told you what I would do. I don’t make idle threats.” I like Blondie. He talks the talk and walks the walk.

  The sea of muscle divides the way. “I can work with that. Please hold him still.” I line up the goalposts (Gino’s legs) and swiftly kick as hard as possible between the posts. From the sounds Gino makes, I scored the highest score of the day.

  With tears trailing down his now purple face, he sucks in mouthfuls of air until he can speak. “The message you received states, no police,” he coughs out angrily.

  “Rules are meant to be broken. I want you out of my family’s home and locked up. I can deal with paying Roemer the money he needs.”

  “Your word against mine.” The demented smug shit thinks he can pull one over me.

  “Lucky for you, Miss, I’ve been filming the whole time. Unlucky for you, Gino.” Hemsworth points to the bar. “Over there is a recording device wedged between two bottles behind the bar and one on the table of that booth”—he points—“capturing two different angles. You can thank Mr. King for that idea. He didn’t trust the cameras to be operational you have set up in the bar. And if it isn’t enough, you might want to note the only African-American guy in the room, sitting in a booth, is subtly filming you with his phone; therefore, your confession is undeniable even with this number of witnesses to back it up. And the bonus? His father is Chief of Police. I would say you are ‘ducked’ as Miss would put it.”

  “Queenie, what you need to understand, is Roemer’s men could get to Gino in jail. Gino won’t be the one paying the debt off, so he will not be pleased the contract got b
roken. Your stepfather will have a better chance if he disappears. I can make that happen. It’s your decision."

  “I’ve got a cement foundation waiting to get poured,” Xander offers.

  I’m not sure if he is joking.

  Gino is furious. “Queenie, the last laugh is on you because King not only is paying off my debt to save your ass, but you are now looking at your new boss. I would say you are ducked,” he spits out.

  “What the hell is he talking about, Bradford?” This can’t be happening.

  “Gag him, or I will,” Bradford tells Blondie, who does one better by putting Gino in a sleeper hold until his body goes limp and he’s unconscious.

  “Or, you can do that,” Bradford quips before turning back to me. “This is not how I wanted to have this conversation.”

  “No time like the present.”

  “Just before you walked in, I agreed to pay off the gambling debt Gino encumbered with Roemer, thus saving his skin, and he, in turn, signed the papers I had drawn up while you were sleeping. The money got transferred. It is true. Queenie’s is now legally mine—the whole building is mine. Gino wasn’t agreeable at first, but we eventually nutted that all out with a little convincing.” He holds up a bruised and bloody fist proudly. “It is time for Gino to get permanently ejected from your life, taking any menacing danger with him, and now your family’s home and business is safe and in my capable hands. Bankruptcy will no longer be an issue for you.”

  I hold my hands up. “Slow down. Bankruptcy? Gino had a gambling debt with Roemer, but we aren’t bankrupt.”

  “Gino will be if I don’t step in and pour in the money owed. He’s borrowed against the building to pay wagers, invoices, and gambling debts over the past two years, but his addiction had him looking elsewhere for a loan. He made it look like there are no money problems until he couldn’t cover the debts anymore, and he took out a loan with Roemer to cover his gambling addiction. He would have found a way to use Kingdom of Wigs given more time. Excuse me for digging into your family’s financials, but I had to know what I was dealing with.”