Cosa Nostra: A Steamy Mafia Romance (Kids of The District Book 3)

by Nicci Harris

  The sonographer starts to talk about the different parts: the sack, the heart. She draws lines across the screen, measuring the different black and white and grey shapes. Because that is what they are. . . shapes. Circle. Shading. Blob. Beating dot.

  It is all done within fifteen minutes. The lady gives me a picture: black and white and nothing much to look at at all. The name at the top: Cassidy Slater.

  Me.

  That is my blob. The picture itself is fine, a cute token. That sloshing beat though. . . The heart that represents the love Max and I share is my new favourite sound.

  As we leave, I'm overwhelmed with emotion. Leaving the room where I got to see and hear him, evokes a little sadness. Now, as we move out into the shopping centre, we enter a world he's not a part of yet, not really.

  Max pulls me to his side in a possessive firm hold that I adore. While we walk past the shop fronts, not going anywhere in particular, Max stays silent. He's usually broody, but this is more aloof than broody. A strange kind of emotional fatigue has settled around him. Like he's done for the day. He has nothing left to give. Maybe for him that was like climbing a mountain. He needs to rest at the peak for a while before he descends or he might hurt himself - break something. More like, break someone.

  He looks out of place, as usual. Even in his casual attire - jeans and a black shirt- he still seems larger than life. Too large to mix with commoners as they browse the discount clothing racks for a new outfit or pick the best oranges from the fruit stands.

  We wander through the sliding doors and out into the piazza district. The warm wind hits me, bringing with it the smell from some of the nicest restaurants in Connolly. Garlic hits me first and I immediately crave Italian food.

  It's lunch time and there are people everywhere, but my line of sight is snatched by the children playing with the water and light show. A blue and cream floor mosaic shoots illuminated water high into the air while the children rush through it.

  I smile.

  I really want to do that.

  The arm around me pulls me in tighter as the amount of people around us increases.

  I place my hand against his chest, peering up at him. He glances down, catching my gaze. His eyes, like the first time I ever truly stared into them, tunnel beneath my layers. Searching. Owning me. Chaotic emotions are strangled and buried deep inside their grey-blue depths. Beautiful. They are beautiful.

  His eyes narrow and he stops walking. "What is it?"

  "You're beautiful."

  Raising his gaze, he continues walking. "Are you hungry?"

  I giggle. "Subtle transition."

  "Did you expect anything else?"

  Shaking my head at him, I talk through a smile. "No, Master of the Subtle Transition. And yes, I'm hungry."

  He steers me into a little Italian restaurant, the kind with mismatched chairs and tables, the Italian flag over a beautiful wooden bar, and a ceramic Mother Mary by the cash register. It's full of patrons.

  As we enter, all eyes flick in our direction, bouncing away almost immediately as if the sight of us has scorched their irises. A man behind the bar smiles widely, but his lips are also pursed. The greeting both friendly and somehow not.

  "Let me guess," I whisper as Max guides me into a red cushioned booth. "Jimmy owns this place."

  He slides in beside me and opens a menu. He always sits next to me, not opposite me. "Bite your tongue. Jimmy is Sicilian and they hate being called Italian."

  Turning towards him, I cross my legs and hook my foot around his calf. A young brunette girl is suddenly beside us, pulling a pad from her apron and preparing herself to take our order. She looks younger than me. Maybe sixteen. The pen shakes in her hand, its tip bouncing on the sheet of paper. She beams at Max, making me realise that her nervous energy isn't a result of fear or intimidation - she's flustered.

  Her cheeks glow the way mine still do when I see him. The way they did a few nights ago when he came home past midnight and I could smell the whiskey on his breath. See the hunger in his eyes. There was a lingering scent of perfume that night as well, which only made me want to show him why he had become monogamous. Made me want to connect us in a way only we fit together. More than sex. I'm his strength when he's vulnerable. I lighten the hold the darkness has on him.

  Max looks at me. "What do you feel like, little one?"

  I peer up when the bartender appears beside our table and ushers the girl away. When her smile turns to a pout, I can't help but stifle a giggle.

  The man takes a big breath. "Ciao, Max. What can I get for you? Anything. It's on the house."

  Max smirks, his eyes scanning the menu. "Stop sucking up, Giuseppe. I'm just here for lunch."

  He shuffles. "Ti devo delle scuse. I've been meaning to-"

  "Stop," Max drawls. "Look beside me." Giuseppe glances at me, swallowing hard. I bite my bottom lip and smile awkwardly up at him. "Make her something special. If she fucking loves it, I'll credit this month." Max finally raises his amused gaze to Giuseppe, a provocative curve to his lips. "Generous, right?"

  Ugh, he's such a menace.

  Giuseppe brightens. "E per il tuo piatto principale?"

  Max closes his menu and slides it to the other side of the table. "Gnocchi and a Jameson's neat. For Cassidy, no unpasteurized cheese. Cook everything thoroughly. No alcohol!"

  He nods knowingly. "Anything to drink, Miss?"

  "Champagne," I state teasingly and then grin at Max, who is now scowling at me. "Kidding. Orange juice, please."

  Giuseppe rushes away, his demeanour more relaxed than when he approached. Max spins to face me, hanging his arm over the headrest. His grey-blue eyes rake over my face. . . They are like a vacuum or a tornado or a tsunami, akin in both beauty and destruction. Whenever they focus on me, sense, rationality, and, well, my knickers fly away. . . I clear my throat. Clear my thoughts.

  His lips pull to the side. "Did that bother you?"

  I shrug nonchalantly. "What? The baby scan or the weird interaction I just witnessed?"

  His hand encloses the curve of my neck, his fingers stroking my skin affectionately. "You have just saved him thousands of dollars, little one."

  Trying to remain cavalier, I say, "What if I don't like the food?"

  He grins wider, his left cheek indenting with a dimple which I just can't resist.

  I raise my finger, poking the little divot. "Boop."

  He shakes his head, veiling a chuckle despite his serious mood. "You will."

  I trace the outline of his unshaven jawline. "Can we talk about the baby?"

  He nods, staring over my shoulder at his hand on my neck. "Sure."

  When my skin ignites under his featherlight caress, I roll my shoulder up to squeeze his hand against my cheek. I sigh and say, "What was that like for you? The scan?"

  His eyes meet mine again. "I don't have the words."

  I lift a blonde brow at him, thinking he's copping out of answering. "Is Max Butcher speechless?"

  He deadpans. "That's what I said."

  Oh my God, he's serious.

  He's speechless. . . My heart pirouettes. "Would you like me to give you some words?" I ask.

  Before he can answer or I can tell him anyway, a middle-aged waitress arrives at our table with a tray. She sets down an ice bucket, an empty tumbler, an entire bottle of Jameson's, and an orange juice in a highball on the table. She then nods and quickly leaves.

  Max prepares his own drink, adding the ice and then pouring the whiskey. He encloses the glass in his hand but doesn't drink any. "Go ahead."

  I stare at my orange juice in contemplation before murmuring through a smile, "Magical. Privileged. Thankful. Real. Love."

  His finger taps at his whiskey glass. "Love?"

  "Of course. I'm in love with him. I didn’t think it was possible to love a strang. . ." I trail off when Max's face tightens.

  He presses the glass to his mouth, looking at me over the rim before draining it entirely. He sets it down, his eyes still
trained on me. They narrow, suppressing something too strong for him to show. It's an intense stare that is veiled with pride and guarded with warning. "Is he going to take you away from me?"

  My breath catches and I falter. "No. No, Max. Never." It dawns on me in this moment that I may be the only female who has ever truly loved him. For all his pieces - good and bad. Sharing my love with another, just as important, might truly distress him.

  It's a different kind of love.

  Of course, I know that. But how could he possibly know? How could he know that when he's never felt the love of a mother? My heart breaks for him. Like it always does when I think about that kind of emotional neglect.

  "It's a different kind of love, Max." Pressing my hands to his cheeks, I bring my lips to his. His are stiff with defiance at first, so I coax them with mine. Coax the concern from them. From him. His hand drops to the lowest part of my back, pushing me closer, as he accepts my kiss. My mouth moves over his lovingly. My tongue sweeps out to massage his. I can feel his frown on my forehead. Feel his rough exhales against my chest. The longer we kiss, the looser his body becomes, the steadier his breaths. He succumbs to our affections - submits to them.

  Like I do.

  Our food arrives and Max growls quietly at the interruption. We break our connection, and I stare down at creamy chicken and mushroom risotto with freshly grated parmesan cheese, lemon, and truffle. I immediately salivate. I smile at Max. "I think he gets his credit."

  After I finish all of my risotto and a piece of garlic bread, we exit the restaurant. Max's arm is draped over my shoulder but in no way relaxed on it.

  I notice Carter from across the piazza and smile, but then my face falls at his expression. I follow his piercing stare. An elderly Italian lady is suddenly blocking our path, bowed slightly with her hands clasped together in a prayer-like position.

  When she reaches for Max's arm, he forces me behind him, blocking me with his tall strong body. Her fingers cling to him with desperation, as if he is the only thing tethering her to earth. Twisting his free arm behind his back, he touches the gun I know is tucked down his jeans. I nearly lunge to stop him, but he's not drawing it out. Just tapping it with his finger.

  This little lady must be in her eighties. Speaking in Italian and English, her words are expelled between sobs and whimpers.

  She wails. "Please! Please. Tis to implorando. Where is my Marco?" She won't look Max directly in the eyes, instead gazing at his shoes. As if he were God and could actually smite her down. "Lui e un bravo ragazzo!"

  I shuffle backwards. Max tries to gently shake her off, but then Carter is upon her, dragging her away. Her fingers slip from Max's arm. The tether broken. She reaches out for him with desperation, her gaze rising to meet his. Her face crumbles and with trembling fingers, she makes the sign of the cross over her chest before clasping her hands together again.

  My heart races.

  My breath stops abruptly in my throat when she glances past Max and spears me with her bloodshot eyes. "Please," she cries. "Tis to implorando."

  I suck at the thick hot air as tears flood my face. Wanting to rush to her, to hold her, to help her, I dig my heels into the pavement to stop them from moving. Max whirls around to face me, grips me by the elbow, and steers me in the opposite direction.

  My eyes are torn from hers.

  But I can still hear her.

  Hear her wailing with absolute heartbreak behind me. "Mafioso. Mafioso."

  Mafioso.

  Cassidy

  * * *

  Max drags me to a nearby car. A man I've never seen before is sitting in the driver's seat.

  "Get in," Max orders, opening the door and guiding me onto the squeaky black seats. He leans across me, buckling my seatbelt in, and I'm so glad he did because I'm not sure my trembling hands would have managed. The driver's eyes shift around, but when they meet mine, they cut back to the road ahead. "Keep your fucking eyes off her. Drive her straight home. Walk her inside. Bronson will be there."

  My shoulders rise and fall as I draw in shaky, shallow breaths.

  Max goes to leave, so I lunge for him and wrap my fingers around his forearm. "Come with me," I beg.

  "I'll be home soon." He leans back into the car, placing his hand on the leather seat to my side. That scent of his, whiskey and man and Max, soothes me. I know how I should feel. My concern should be with that woman and it is, and yet, it's Max's heart - his darkness - I am committed to understand. To lighten.

  As I raise my chin to accept his lips, he freezes and scowls over my head. His whole mien turns steel-like. He crushes his teeth together and exhales angrily through his nose. He squeezes the seat, the leather protesting within his white-knuckled grip.

  My pulse beats hard in my throat. Beats in my ears. Head. I twist around, following his death stare out the passenger side window to a parked black SUV. Two men sit inside, both sets of eyes drilling holes through our vehicle. Are they policemen? Jimmy's men?

  "Fuck," he bites out, then glares at his driver. "You have never been given a more important job. Get her home." As I reach for Max again, he closes the door.

  The absence of him sinks my heart. Is he in danger? I sit up as the car pulls away and watch as Max walks back towards the restaurant. I look down at my fingers, now scrunched into fists, shaking in my lap.

  Trees and cars start to blur as we pass them, becoming formless streams of colour. The man driving does as he was instructed - never once peering back at me. I shuffle my feet around. Shift my weight. Pick at my nail polish.

  Breathing methodically, I try to settle my nerves.

  Closing my eyes, I take a big breath in. But then I'm fraught with the image of that elderly lady's face. I open my eyes again and my leg starts to jiggle. What exactly just happened? That lady was looking for someone. His name is on my tongue and yet, I can't seem to push it out. I remember her referring to him as hers - my . . .someone. A missing boy, perhaps. She was elderly, so if this person is her son, then he would be older than Max and more than capable of looking after himself. I find comfort in that thought.

  I'm not sure why, but I nod. As if I'm compiling a case in my mind. A case for why I shouldn't be concerned. But. . . Max's response to her presence. . . So cold. So defensive. He shook her off like an insect climbing on his arm. And Carter, my gentle giant, pulled her away without hesitation. Where is he now? Where is Max now? He wouldn't hurt her, would he? Surely not. And with that, I hold on to his words. I hold onto them with absolute desperation: he doesn’t hurt people like me, only people like him.

  My fear for that lady lessens as I believe those words to be true.

  Max

  * * *

  "E tu sì sicuru ca erunu vàddia?"Jimmy's voice booms through the speakerphone, his accent so thick I can't decipher a fucking word. He must be pissed.

  Forcing my way into the right lane, I flatten my foot to the pedal and pick-up speed.

  "Jimmy, speak English. I can’t understand you," I state curtly.

  "My boy. Work on your Sicilian. It is your mother tongue." Jimmy tsks. "Are you sure that they were officers?"

  Frowning at the other cars on the road as they cruise without urgency or care, I confirm, "Yes. I recognised one of them."

  "And this. . . nonna?" Jimmy asks, reminding me about the bitch who scared Cassidy.

  She had the fucking balls to approach me in public, not to mention to then address Cassidy directly and beg her for help. I fist the wheel. Glancing at the white roses lying on my passenger seat, I cringe. The domesticated man, Max Butcher. The man who brings flowers home to coax his girl into forgetting what she saw and heard. My arms twitch with the need to throw them from the car. Not that she doesn’t deserve flowers. . . Fuck. "She made a scene."

  "They will think her pazzu, se? Mad." He laughs loudly and states, "Either way, I will get one of my men to pay her a visit. You believe her to be Paul and Marco's mother?"

  He is far too jovial to not either be halfway through a b
ottle of whiskey or be staring at an open pussy he's about to whip. I hesitate on the yes, knowing what this means for the old woman and her family. "I believe so."

  "Leave it with me," he states. I go to hang up, not wanting any part in what happens moving forward. "Ah, my boy, before you go, I believe congratulations are in order, se?" I tense, my finger stroking the cancel call icon. "I thought this might be the case when you told me your bedda girlfriend had moved in with you. I've been waiting for you to settle down. I suppose I won't have to read about you in the paper anymore with, how do you say it politely, an array of . . . conquests?"

  "I won't be fucking around," I rumble, trying to stifle the growing agitation inside me. I just want to get home, check on my girl, reassure her. Not talk about cheating on her because that sure as hell will never happen. If I ever do that. Ever hurt her. Disrespect her. In that way. . . I'm content with the knowledge that both Xander and Bronson will cut me up.

  "Ah, young love. I am very pleased with that," Jimmy coos and it's never an agreeable tone for me to hear. In fact, I despise it. I don't need or want his approval. "Inconspicuous, my boy. That is all I ask. That is what I want for you. And she is a fine, upstanding citizen from a very influential family. An honourable family. The District loves Ben Slater. I know this. And we have Cassidy now. She is, well. . . she is famous for her sweet nature. People think little birds dress her in the morning, se? You have done well. This is good for our reputation. For Clay."

  Red.

  I see red.

  His cheerful words singe a hot trail from my ears to my eyes and I don't hear anything past 'we have Cassidy now'. The bones in my hands shift and ache as I try to crush the steering wheel. I have Cassidy! She isn't an asset or a mutual possession; she's fucking mine.

  I hit the cancel call button.

  As I walk slowly down the hallway towards our new room, I notice the glow of a light under the door - a possible indicator that she's awake. I stop just before entering and stare down at the flowers in my clenched fist. I note the illuminated 12:20 a.m. on my wrist. She should be curled on her side, deep in slumber, dreaming about the good in this world. The soft things. I should buy her a puppy, not flowers. So she can cuddle her at night when I have to leave. I breathe out loudly, physically trying to dowse all the anger bubbling near the surface.