Walking The Line (Satan's Knights Prospect Trilogy Book 3)

by Janine Infante Bosco

  My luck she’d come in and watch.

  No thanks.

  Me and my broken hand will pass.

  I called Stryker and asked if he would stay at the house, told him I had some shit I needed to take care of—when in reality, I had long been relieved of any duties as per my father’s orders. I was strictly on Carrie duty, which made this situation even more fucked up.

  Still, twenty minutes later, he showed—no questions asked.

  For a good while, I drove aimlessly, trying to clear my head. My guilt morphed into anger and I needed to purge that shit. Before I knew it, I was at Pipe’s garage, grabbing the keys to one of the cages parked on the lot.

  I barely made it to the driver’s side door before Pipe cornered me, asking why my bike was parked in the no parking zone. Then he spotted the keys in my hand. I lifted my broken hand and told him I couldn’t ride, but I could drive one-handed. He seemed to buy my bullshit and cut me loose.

  I thought about going to the overpass with a can of spray paint. Every man and woman should be warned that fucking spot was a game-changer and not the kind that leaves you with thirty seconds on the clock and the winning shot.

  It was doomed and if I could spare some other poor bastard, maybe I’d buy myself a short trip to purgatory. I could chill there until the Devil called to deliver my penance.

  I didn’t go to the overpass.

  Instead, I found myself parked across the street from Carrie’s dad’s office. Over the last few months, I occasionally drove past his house to check things out. He was barely ever there, and Enzo was keeping tabs on anything he found in the papers. The man was all work and no play. Worse than that, he was all work and no heart.

  Heart.

  I remember hearing uncle Jack talk about it a lot—actually, preach might be a better word. He used to say if a man doesn’t have heart, he’s got nothing. No reason to wake up and grind. Nothing good to go home to and nothing great to look forward to.

  It’s a sad way to live when you think about it and if the man hadn’t thrown his daughter out, I might’ve pitied him. But my life was in shambles because he cared more about his career than his goddamn kid.

  More than his grandkid.

  If he gave just one shit, I wouldn’t have a broken hand.

  I wouldn’t have a hard on for my brother’s girlfriend.

  I wouldn’t wish it was my kid and not his.

  I wouldn’t fucking be questioning my sanity or my goddamn life.

  I wouldn’t be sitting across the street from his house after spending the day following him from his office to the courthouse, back to the office and then home.

  Eight fucking hours of my life I’ll never get back.

  Eight fucking hours away from Carrie.

  Eight fucking hours and I still want her.

  I stare at his Lexus in the driveway, watching as the lights dim. He opens the door and for a split second; I contemplate getting out of the car and walking across the street. He climbs out of his car, briefcase in one hand and his cell pressed to his ear with the other.

  There’s no look of pain on his face.

  No look of worry.

  He hasn’t spoken to his daughter in months. He has no fucking idea where she is if she’s dead or alive and he couldn’t care less.

  That’s a despicable cunt.

  Not me, the guy who cares when he shouldn’t.

  Him, the guy who doesn’t care when he should.

  He’s a fucking cunt, but no one will see it that way.

  That’s not how life works.

  The nice guy never finishes first.

  Always last.

  Ritzer struts up the perfectly paved walkway to his front door and belts out a chuckle. My fists tighten around the steering wheel and I growl—partly from the pain in my hand, but mostly because this bastard has the balls to laugh. I’m so consumed in plotting his fucking death that I don’t realize I’m being watched.

  The passenger door opens just as Ritzer disappears inside his house. Instinct has me reaching for my gun, but my hand freezes as Uncle Jack slides in beside me, closing the door.

  Fuck.

  Now, let me tell you a little bit about Uncle Jack. He’s batshit crazy. When I was a kid he was diagnosed as a manic depressive, since then he’s been on Lithium. Everyone says it helped him, I still thought he was crazy. Then he stopped the medication, and I realized they were right. Off the meds, he was a fucking lunatic. It’s hard to label him now because he’s on some new drug and of all the people, in all the land, they chose Jack Parrish to be their guinea pig.

  Not a fine idea if you ask me.

  “You ever see the movie The Untouchables?”

  No hello.

  No what the fuck are you doing, Nico.

  Have you ever seen a movie—that’s what he starts off with.

  “Uh…not that I can recall.”

  He nods, sticking a toothpick in his mouth. His eyes trained to Ritzer’s house.

  “There’s a part in the movie where the guy is walking towards his house, carrying a gift for his daughter and a man parked across the street from his house calls out to him. He tells him he’s got a nice house, asks him if he lives there. The guy doesn’t really answer and the man in the car eyes the present in his hand. He asks him if his little girl has a birthday and the man replies yeah. The guy in the car looks at him and says…” his voice trails as he clears his throat. He continues, imitating the character from the movie. “Nice to have a family.”

  Not sure where this is going or when he became such a movie buff, I interrupt him.

  “Uncle Jack—”

  “I ain’t finished,” he clips. “The man turns to the guy in the car and agrees its nice to have a family and the guy in the car tailing him replies by saying a man should take care of his family.”

  “Good advice.”

  What else does someone say when their crazy uncle starts spouting movie quotes? Oh, I know, maybe he asks him where the fuck he came from—that would be good.

  “You want to tell me why the fuck you’re following the district attorney?”

  “Who said I’m following him?”

  “I fucking said it, that’s who. Pipe called me, said you were off…that your hand was busted and were riding a cage.”

  Fucking Pipe.

  “So.”

  “Don’t get smart with me, kid. You may be taller than me these days, but I’ll still kick your ass,” he growls.

  “I can’t ride with my hand, so I took a van.”

  “Still doesn’t explain why you’re sitting in front of the district attorney’s house.”

  “And I’m still waiting to hear why you’re here.”

  He peels his gaze away from the house and fixes me with a glare. His teeth grinding the toothpick to dust.

  I wonder if he gets splinters with those things.

  “Okay,” he says, spitting the mangled toothpick onto the dashboard.

  Classy.

  “We’ll do this your way.”

  I’m not a fool…not really. Jack Parrish doesn’t do anything anyone’s way. It’s his way or the fucking highway.

  “After I hung up with Pipe, I called Riggs and had him put a feeler out on your phone. The funny thing is, I was on my way to pay our good friend the D.A. a visit and before he could alert me of where your phone pinged, I saw you outside the fucking office. Been tailing your ass for six hours and you never saw me once.”

  “Talented,” I mutter, swiping my good hand over my face.

  I’m so fucked.

  “Nico, what the fuck are you doing here?”

  Sighing, I lift my head and meet his gaze.

  “You going to tell my father?”

  “Only if you’re not straight with me.”

  I glance across the street and then back at him. Do I risk digging myself an early grave and confess to him that I’m barely hanging on by a thread? It might help me to tell someone…to rid myself of the poison that’s suffocating me. Who
am I kidding? He’d fucking kill me if I told him I wanted to fuck Carrie’s brains out much less fuck her and keep her.

  “This about you having had your fill of being a guard dog? I fucking told your old man you were going to crack, that you needed to be riding the wind, but he’s too busy trying to turn the club into a bunch of fucking monks to see that. I swear to Christ the man is soft. He needs to shoot something. You want me to talk to him? Blackie befriended some guy in jail, working on making him a prospect and with B.A.C.A to help his kid. I could use a pair of extra hands.” He pauses and glances at my broken hand. “Or hand.”

  I try not to linger on the fact he basically expected me to fail at this whole babysitting gig thing and seriously contemplate his offer but then I recall Carrie’s face and the vulnerability that shone in her eyes when she told me she needed me last night. I can’t turn my back on her. Not when everyone in her fucking life abandons her.

  Her mother.

  Her father.

  Frankie too. It might not have been his choice, but let’s call a spade a spade, he isn’t the one with her. I am.

  “Oh shit.”

  I lift my head, my eyes darting across the street, thinking Ritzer is on the move. But there’s no activity so I turn back to Jack.

  “You fucking idiot.”

  “What?”

  “You’re fucking her, aren’t you?”

  “No!” I shake my head. “I didn’t fucking touch her.”

  “You damn well want to.”

  That might be the understatement of the year.

  “I’m just glad you got over my daughter. With Blackie out and he and Lacey finding their groove with the baby, they don’t need no trouble.”

  “Wait a minute, you knew about that?”

  “For fuck’s sake, I don’t know how many times I gotta tell you people, I’m crazy. Not fucking blind. The only reason I didn’t split your head open is that you never crossed the line. You remained a friend to my daughter when she needed you and that’s pretty fucking admirable. This shit with your brother’s girl…not so much.”

  “I’m not going to do anything about it. I know where I stand.”

  “You need to get the hell away from her is what you need to do.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  I swallow and point across the street.

  “Because this guy doesn’t give a fuck about her, all he cares about his fucking bullshit career.”

  “Liar.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Does it offend you?”

  “You’re playing with fire, Nico.”

  “You wanna tell me something I don’t know, old wise one?” I spat.

  “No, I think I’ll just watch you burn.”

  Excellent.

  I hope you got your popcorn ready, crazy man.

  -Fifteen-

  Carina

  I think I’ve got it!

  “What are you doing?”

  Startled by the sound of Nico’s voice, I lose my grip on the perfectly poised brush and stare at the stroke of bright pink nail polish now decorating my big toe. I growl in frustration, diverting my eyes over my shoulder.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?”

  Wiping his hands on a rag, he raises an amused eyebrow. I can tell he’s trying not to laugh at me and I’m not even mad about it…I love that little playful smirk. It’s a shame he doesn’t use it as often as he used to.

  “I think I’m going to play it safe on this one and plead the fifth,” he says, leaning against the door jamb.

  “I’m polishing my toenails, which by the way is not an easy task when you’re nearly eight months pregnant.”

  Hence the reason I’m lying on my side, trying to lift my leg over my stomach, polishing my toe and not the actual nail.

  Cupping the back of his neck, he looks at me thoughtfully. Though he tries to mask it, I’ve become a self-proclaimed expert at reading Nico’s eyes and right now, for some reason, there is a battle raging in those brown eyes.

  “I thought you were studying for the G.E.D.”

  I sigh.

  I never thought I’d say this, but I miss school.

  For the last month I have been diligently studying for my G.E.D, so much so that I’ve run out of practice tests. Literally, I think I took all the ones I could find on the internet twice. My hope is that I’ll be able to take the test as soon as the baby is born and move forward with applying to college. I don’t expect a Harvard acceptance letter anytime soon, but I’d like to at least be able to enroll in online courses while I’m adapting to motherhood.

  Sliding the brush back into the bottle of nail polish, I screw the cap tight and meet his gaze.

  “Quiz me,” I dare him, blowing a wayward strand of hair out of my eyes.

  He cocks his head to the side before kicking off the door jamb and entering my bedroom. I lift an eyebrow, not bothering to hide my surprise as he makes his way towards me.

  After the night we don’t speak of—you know the one where he broke his hand, and I confessed my feelings for him—we made a pact not to enter one another’s room anymore and until this moment neither of us have crossed that line.

  In case things are still a little foggy for you, I’m referencing the night he told me he wanted to kiss me, then proceeded to suck on my neck, giving me a hickey—my first by the way.

  Yeah, that night.

  It was over a month ago and as much as I’ve tried to push it to the back of my mind, I haven’t been very successful.

  I think about it in the middle of the day.

  Sometimes at night.

  Always in my dreams.

  It’s a problem, but what’s another to add to the list.

  Anyway, he hasn’t been in here since then—hence the shock. He stretches out his hand, offering it to me and I stare at it like it’s a ticking bomb waiting to explode.

  I mean it might as well be seeing as the man can provoke unwanted emotions with the brush of his fingertips.

  “What topic should I quiz you on? We did math last night, social studies?” he asks as I carefully slide my hand into his.

  He never went to the doctor but after two days (one of which he went completely AWOL) ignoring the pain, he called one of the club guys, Cobra. His wife, Celeste, is a registered nurse—a great occupation to have amongst a bunch of outlaws who avoid the hospital at all costs, something I caught on to quickly. Celeste came by and confirmed it was broken. Nico being Nico, refused treatment, and a month later, he is still wearing an Ace bandage.

  If his hand aches, he doesn’t show it as he pulls me to my feet. Speaking of feet, I glance down at my bare toes…well, I try to. I can’t see them from this angle because Baby Scotto is ginormous.

  Huffing out an exasperated breath, I plop down on the foot of my bed.

  “Social studies it is,” I say miserably as I lift my foot to stare at the splash of pink.

  How the hell am I going to get that off?

  “Hmm…okay, under the U.S. Constitution which body has the sole authority to declare war?”

  My gaze travels up to his.

  “That’s an easy one, congress.”

  He smiles at me.

  “Okay, smartass. The ‘right to bear arms’ is granted by which amend—”

  “The second amendment.” I pause, watching as he drops to his knees in front of me. “What are you doing?”

  Ignoring me, he reaches for the bottle of nail polish. He lifts it in his hand, staring at it like it’s a foreign object.

  “I think you’re good with social studies,” he says, twisting the cap off the bottle. He pulls the brush out, wiping the excess on the rim of the bottle before taking my foot with his bandaged hand. Holding it steady, he rests the sole flush against his hard abs and starts to polish my nails.

  I try to speak, but even if I could find my voice, my words are lost somewhere in my fluttering heart. This is a prime example of why we don’t enter one another’
s rooms.

  We can’t be trusted not to touch each other.

  One touch is all it takes for me to be transcended back to that night.

  One touch and I feel all those forbidden feelings I swore to bury.

  “Hold steady,” he orders softly.

  Does breathing count? It doesn’t matter, I seem to have lost that basic function.

  “You’re pretty good at this,” I croak.

  “I just painted a nursery. I think I can manage ten nails,” he replies, keeping his focus pinned to the task at hand. There’s no denying Nico is an attractive man, but the look of concentration on his face tips the scales in the hotness department and I find myself curling my fingers around the fabric of the comforter—it’s all I can do to keep my hands off him.

  Needing a distraction, I force my mind back to the nursery. Last week Wolf ordered him to clean out the third bedroom. The next day everything was moved into the garage. He and Maria went to the paint store and construction on Baby Scotto’s nursery began. Frankie and I were still adamant about keeping the gender a surprise, so I wasn’t sure what theme they had decided on. But Maria had good taste and I’m sure whatever it is, it’s better than anything I could’ve given my baby.

  “Are you going to let me see it?”

  “And risk the wrath of Maria, nope. I’ll pass.”

  I smile at that.

  It was worth a shot.

  “Frankie called me,” he reveals, keeping his eyes on my toes. “He wants me to change the shipping address on the crib.”

  After our fight about him getting the job, Frankie called the next day to apologize. I had my own apology to give, but if I gave it, I knew I would be starting a war between brothers. I also knew I’d be breaking Frankie’s heart and as badly as I had fucked up, I wasn’t lying when I told Nico I loved Frankie.

  I do love him.

  We made up and when he got paid, he sent Nico the money for the crib and a link to the one he had picked out. Nico didn’t order it right away and I’m not sure why. I figure he was waiting until the room was done.

  “Change the shipping address to what?”

  “To the cabin,” he supplies, his eyes finally meeting mine. “Says after the baby is born you are moving up there with him.”