The Hitman's Desire: A Mafia Romance (The Silent Family Book 1)

by T Steele

  “The quicker you go to sleep, the quicker you’ll get to wake up and see this face,” I say with a cheeky grin.

  He purses his lips but I can tell he’s trying not to laugh.

  My stomach growls loudly. “Would it be weird if we go down stairs together to eat?”

  John shrugs. “Not unless you make it weird. I’ll just do my usual: ignoring most people,” he finishes with a yawn.

  I furrow my brow in concern. “Why don’t you just go to sleep. I feel bad that you’re up all night, every night.”

  “It’s not too bad.” He shrugs.

  “Why do you have such a hard time sleeping?” I ask. Intuition tells me I already know, but I also want to ask anyway. Even if I do fear the answer. I’m hoping I can help him with these things. I’m not a miracle worker, nor am I such a fool to think I can somehow ‘save’ John after all he’s done and been through, but I would like to help. I want him to know I’ve got his back and he can count on me because I don’t think he’s ever felt that way. I don’t think he’s ever allowed anyone to be his support.

  “You have to feel peace in order to sleep.”

  I feel myself crumble at his words, but I try to keep my expression neutral. If there’s anything I’ve learned from John, it’s that he wouldn’t want my pity.

  “John, how did you become my father’s hitman?”

  He sighs and I brace myself for the impact of him shutting me out again.

  But, he doesn’t.

  He paces around the room, calling to mind a caged beast. His powerful strides are forceful and his fists are clenched at his sides in agitation. “When Malcolm first found me, I was only eight. After witnessing . . . everything I’d seen, I was always flinty and jumpy. But my anger and guilt consumed me,” he says, his voice is ragged and pained and I want so badly to reach out and touch him, but I stay still in fear that he’ll stop talking if I make any sudden moves. “He saw that anger and taught me how to hone it, and cherish it. Turn it into a weapon.” His voice is so soft, it sends chills down my spine and not the good kind.

  “We were both in pain. I didn’t know it at the time, but I realize now we had a kinship. He never showed it, but he hated that you and your mom weren’t here. Our anger and guilt was all encompassing. Not only did he teach me how to fight, he also hired private professionals to come and teach me, too. He raised me as if I were his own and we bonded over our shared torment.” John sighs, and he finally meets my eyes. I’m shocked to find his cheeks a bit red—I don’t know if it’s from talking about this old anger? I can’t imagine the pain he felt, but if I didn’t know any better, I’d also say he might be ashamed as well.

  “When I was eleven he took me on one of my first outings with him. I was on the path of becoming a made man. We were at the casino finishing one of our deals. Malcolm had all the drugs we were going to sell camouflaged in a vase. It was all very clean and made to look like some sort of art show. We had backup, but he realized too late it was an ambush. The chaos must have triggered something in me, and all I kept thinking about was my mom and how I couldn’t save her.” John paces across the carpet, hands braced behind his neck. This is obviously difficult for him to get out, so I don’t make any move to interrupt him.

  He blows out a harsh breath before continuing, “So when I saw a man pull out a gun on the man I had come to think of as a father, I acted on instinct and threw a knife clean through his eye. Another came up behind your dad and I pushed him out of the way. The guy’s knife that was meant to go in your dad's back scraped my shoulder. It didn’t stick or anything, but it got a pretty good chunk out of me. I passed out and woke up in a hospital with your dad at my bedside.”

  John Russo was willing to take a knife to his chest at the ripe age of eleven years old. For my father. My father who would currently kill him if he found out our current situation. My father who was a fucking idiot.

  “People in the mafia don’t do hospitals, Ruby,” John murmurs, shaking his head as if he still can’t believe that actually happened.

  If my father had died then, it would have likely killed John. And it seems the opposite was true, too.

  I know my eyes are glistening with tears, but I’m trying my damndest not to let them fall. My father and John, odd as it may be, actually do love each other. John became a made man at eleven, killing for my father and risking his life for him because he knew what it was like to lose a parent. The awful and unforgiving grief that never leaves. Something that is always there in the shadows like a physical injury that never quite heals.

  He stops pacing and is just staring at me wide eyed. Poor John.

  I throw my arms around him, nuzzling my head against his chest. I want to tell him that I love him so much I’m nearly choking on the words. I feel it with every bone in my body and every inhale of breath. But my fear comes creeping back up my throat. I know John cares about me. We had a rough start, but I know him better than anyone now. I understood the bitter and jaded way he sees the world. I understand how he can be so confident and brave, yet cruel and insecure at the same time. And I absolutely hate the way he feels about himself, but from his point of view, I understand that now, too.

  My chin rests along his sternum as I stare up at him and I imagine my eyes being in actual heart shapes, like the emoji. Again, a pang of sadness hits me because John would never notice it. He would never think I actually loved him even though I don’t hide my feelings at all.

  His hands cradle my cheeks, stroking them with his thumbs, and he has one of the softest facial expressions I’ve ever seen him wear. My hands glide up his chest to cup his cheeks, and I can’t hold it back any longer.

  “I love you,” I say, smiling so wide my cheeks hurt. “You don’t have to say anything, but I wanted you to know that, John Russo. I’m so deeply in love with you. No one could ever make me feel the way you do and I know you don’t trust easily, but I want you to know, you can trust me. I’ve got your back and I hope you know you can always come to me whether it’s to fuck the pain away or just to simply exist.”

  I want to keep talking, rambling on and on as my nerves get the better of me. But I freeze up. John’s staring at me with a slack expression. His gaze is cloudy and I see his adam’s apple bob in his throat. There’s a deep V between his brows and he opens his mouth, then closes it as if he’s going to speak, but can’t form words.

  Swiftly, he turns away from me and my insides crumble, but then there's a knock at the door, and I recoil. How is his hearing so good?

  “Ruby . . . it’s me.” My father sounds tired on the other end of the door and I feel my whole body tense up, not knowing how to handle this situation. My fight or flight instincts are kicking in and I'm tempted to jump straight out of my window, even though I’m on the second story.

  John’s staring at me, and I realize he hasn’t opened the door. He’s letting me make this decision myself. Not following my dad’s order.

  “I don’t know if I can face him right now,” I whisper.

  John gives a curt nod and takes my hand, walking me back to the bed and covering me up. “Pretend you’re asleep,” he murmurs.

  I sigh, closing my eyes, and hear John step outside the room, the door lightly clasping shut, indicating I’m alone.

  My heart beats wildly in my chest.

  I don’t regret that I told John I was in love with him, but it doesn’t stop the worry and insecurities from popping into my head.

  But then, a horrible thought rises from the back of my mind. What if he thinks I only told him that because of what he’d told me? I tell him I love him after he tells me his tragic story, then he just stared at me as if I had pasta coming out of my nose. God, I should’ve done things differently, I think as I mentally facepalm myself.

  Is it too much to ask to be able to ignore my problems for a little while?

  That’s exactly what you’re doing, a voice in my head pops up that sounds suspiciously like John.

  I’m laying here, pretending to be asleep l
ike a small child whose parent is about to yell at them to go to bed because they have school the next morning.

  I don't know how to approach this situation with my father. I understand why he didn’t initially tell me, but then again, was he ever planning to? He has to know my mother was the most important person in the world to me. Finding out she was murdered was like putting a knife through my chest and twisting it. Finding out he knew was like setting the knife on fire.

  My eyes start to burn again and I squeeze them shut.

  I hear the door open, and when I don’t hear any footsteps but can sense his presence getting closer, I know John is back.

  “It’s me,” he whispers, clarifying I was right. The mattress dips when he sits beside me on the edge of the bed.

  I sit up, grimacing and ready to ask what he said to my dad, but then I see what he’s holding and smell the mouth-watering scent in the air.

  “Is that bacon?” I ask.

  John smiles handing me a pate of eggs, bacon, and biscuits, and my stomach grumbles again loudly. “Oh my God. Thank you so much!”

  I take the plate from him and dig in like a wild animal, and I hear John let out a soft chuckle.

  “No, I didn’t want any. Thanks for asking.”

  My cheeks heat in embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” I say around a mouth full of eggs, then hurry my chewing and swallow the deliciousness down my throat. I go to speak again, but John shakes his head, grinning.

  “I’m kidding, Ruby. I knew you were starving and that you were likely going to want to avoid your father for the time being.”

  A lump forms in my throat at his thoughtfulness and how well he seems to understand me.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  “Don’t mention it.” He bends forward, sliding the back of his knuckles against my cheek and then leans back. “Now, eat.”

  I scarf down my food like a ravenous beast who’s never been fed.

  I feel John’s eyes on me while I eat. I don’t know what it is, but his stares could always be sensed. When one was on the full receiving end of John Russo’s stare, it was an all consuming thing. When you looked at him, you knew he wasn’t missing anything. And that’s how I felt when he looked at me. Like he was consuming me. Like he knew me—he had seen me for exactly what I was and it was still the best thing he ever saw.

  Then I remember the words I’d admitted before my father knocked on the door. I’m not going to bring them up again. I don’t want John to feel like he has to say it back, but I want to see where he is mentally. How did he feel about me loving him? I know he has to have strong feelings for me, too, unless he’s the world's best actor.

  “Ruby . . .” he starts, his expression looks as though he’s choosing his words carefully. “I don’t think you should perform tonight.”

  “I know,” I say quietly.

  John narrows his eyes, likely wondering why I’m agreeing with him so quickly. “You do?”

  I set my plate on the end table beside my bed and lick my lips. “Well, yeah. Last night was scary. I’m not some adrenaline junkie who goes out looking for trouble or anything. The Russians obviously know who I am, and I still value my life. I don’t want a repeat of last night.”

  John sighs in relief. “Thank God,” he says. “I thought I was going to have to talk you into staying here because before everything turned into a giant shit show, I saw the light in your eyes when you stood up there. I didn’t want to steal that from you.”

  I smile at him.

  “How do you do that?” he asks.

  “Do what?”

  “Disarm me with one fucking smile.”

  My smile turns timid, and my eyes drift downward as I feel a flush take over my face. I want to ask him if he loves me like I love him. Does he feel like he’s going mad, like I do? Mad because it’s overwhelming and fiery and passionate? Does he find himself having to refrain from pulling me into his arms whenever he wants? I wonder what the once dead-eyed assassin feels when I’m near him. Is it anywhere near equal to the volcanic attraction I’m feeling? The happiness? The feeling of safety?

  “I’m going to get some rest now,” John says softly.

  My eyes dart back up to his and I nod. “I’ll see you when you wake up.”

  Daphnee takes up the space in my mind when John’s gone. It’s like when he’s around me, I can’t think straight. Like his presence demands every tiny little nook and cranny available inside my head.

  I don’t think I’m going to call her, and I have to squeeze my eyes shut so that I stop thinking about what a coward I’m being. I just don’t think there’s a universe in which I can call and outright lie to her. And knowing Daphnee, she’ll see right through my bullshit and end up getting the cops involved. Or worse, the mob. After the last phone call we had, she’ll think I was kidnapped, which isn’t technically all that wrong—even if I do feel safer here now, regardless of my asshole father.

  I still hate my dad for stealing a normal life away from me. For lying and never showing up to just be there. Something normal parents would do without thought. We can’t all be that lucky and have something so simple as two parents who love them. And then there’s the fact that he knew my mom was murdered and didn’t have the decency to tell me . . . my anger and frustration mount until it’s nearly overwhelming.

  I scream and throw the phone at the wall and it shatters. My chest heaves as tears stream down my cheeks. It’s like when John left, the rest of my calm and happiness, what little happiness I had, anyway, went with him. Resolving into nothing but fury. My emotions are wild and all over the place as I pace my room. I also hate that I can’t go to the casino tonight. Even with the threat of danger, it had felt good to leave this house—to finally sing and let my voice be heard. The adrenaline had made me feel alive. It was fun. The only other time I had fun was when I was working on cars . . . or when I was with John.

  I shove my fingers into my hair, wanting to rip the strands out, reveling in the slight pain. The pain which adds oil to my already burning rage.

  I forcefully shove on some clothes and open my bedroom door. I find Ryder standing there looking uncomfortable as if he’s been waiting for me.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  If I wasn’t so angry I’d laugh at his nervous expression. “Whenever John leaves, I’m supposed to stand at your door. I mean, it’s fucking midday, but the Boss isn’t taking any chances after last night.”

  I sigh. I expected as much, but just bringing up my father in any way gets my blood boiling once more. I feel my nails digging into my palms as I clench my fists.

  I try to reign in my temper. It’s not Ryder’s fault, even though he’s a pain in my ass. “Please, just take me to the barn. I don’t want to think about anything at all,” I say.

  He nods, not acting like a total douche for once, and that tells me I must look as bad as I feel.

  Hours later after I’m covered in dirt and oil, and the calluses have returned to my hands. I’m trying to sneak back to my room. I want nothing more than to shower and if I’m being completely honest, ask John to “fuck my pain away” some more.

  Once I shower and get dressed again, I brush my hair and add a light layer of makeup to my face.

  I take a deep breath and walk to my bedroom door. My hand grips the knob and turns. Once it opens, I step out to find John leaning against the wall beside the door, his arms and ankles crossed.

  His eyes do a slow sweep of my plaid skirt and turtleneck and his throat bobs subtly.

  “I made sure I’d be awake for dinner,” he says.

  I smile and it’s as if a weight lifts from my shoulders. I want so badly to sag against him but I refrain, grinning up at him instead.

  “Let’s go.”

  We walk to the elevator and step inside.

  The view of the house passes us as we go and I feel my palms start to sweat with nerves. I usually sit by Liz at dinner and it’s not as awkward, but tonight, under the circumstance of the situati
on with my father, nothing could make this dinner any less cringe worthy than it is going to be.

  We step out of the elevator and walk to the kitchen. I halt when my father’s face comes into view, but then straighten my shoulders and keep walking. My stomach churns with anxiety and everyone in the family quiets for a beat, but just as quickly their light chatter resumes. I go to the cupboard, deciding on a small bowl of cereal for dinner, which isn’t ideal, but I don’t want anything heavy. The plan is to eat and retreat back to my bedroom. I don’t know if the family knows what went down with my father and I, but they can feel the tension.

  I open the cupboard and sigh. Of course, the bowls are on the top shelf and I really don’t want to appear like a monkey and climb onto the counter just so I can reach a damn bowl. Hashtag: short girl problems, I think to myself.

  I stand on my tip-toes, stretching my arms as far as I can but to no avail. I wish I could just disappear, but instead of turning around and walking to the table—deciding to eat something else like a normal person would probably do—I grit my teeth in determination and continue my stretching. A deep chuckle comes from right behind me and then a hand comes into view over my head, grabbing a bowl. I turn around and Luca is there, smirking. He presents me with the bowl in a mocking manner, as if it’s some sweet act of kindness. I roll my eyes, and as soon as I take the bowl from him, he’s shoved away. It’s nothing too hard, but enough to make him throw a hand out to catch himself on the other side of the counter. John is standing there glaring daggers at him.

  “Personal boundaries, Luca,” John growls. “Ever heard of them?”

  I stare open mouthed and wide eyed.

  My eyes bounce back and forth from John to Luca, then to my father and I inwardly cringe at the suspicion in his eyes.

  Everyone else at the dinner table, dressed in their suits, and dresses, and pearls look shocked and appalled, but also a little excited. Of course, they’d want this kind of entertainment. It’s free; right in their own house. They even have food and drinks already.