by Callie Hart
“You want me, Sloane? How bad do you want me inside you right now?”
“Fuck. Please. Please… Please… I need you,” she moans.
I could wait, I could play with her some more, but my balls feel like they’re going to burst. I slam myself home, not holding back, fire singing through my veins as Sloane screams out my name.
My fingers dig into her hips as I pull her back against me. She doesn’t resist. She moves with me, sighing and melting against me as I thrust so hard I’m seeing stars myself. When we come, we come together, and we’re both incoherent.
Just. Too. Good.
We collapse together onto the bed as one, me still inside her, my body angled slightly to the side to keep my weight off her. When we’ve both regained our breath, I begin tracing my fingers absentmindedly up and down her side. Her skin is soft as silk. “You bought weird fruit,” I whisper into her hair.
She laughs, and the feel of it travels through her and into me, spreading some deep, strange contentment down into my bones. This woman is going to be the end of me. “I did it for you,” she says.
“Oh? How d’you figure that?”
“They say…” She seems bemused. “They say that if you eat lots of pineapple, it makes you taste good.”
The irony of what she’s said hits me full on, given that I’ve just used a piece of it between her legs. I bite down lightly on her shoulder, growling. “You don’t need to eat anything to taste good, Sloane. I’m addicted to how you taste, just as you are.”
She laughs. “Well, since you spend about ninety per cent of your day with your head between my legs, I just wanted to make sure you enjo—” The sound of my burner ringing on the bedside table cuts her off. We both just look at it. Before earlier this morning when the Barbieri brothers called me, the thing hasn’t rung in…in fucking forever. Since shit went down with my ex-employer and everything changed. And now it’s ringing again? Bets are on it being Theo again. I do not want to talk to him. I don’t want to talk to anyone who might be asking me to beat the ever loving shit out of anyone, or worse. It’s not as though I’ve gone soft. I’ll still tear anyone limb from limb should the situation require it, but it’s more on an as needed basis. For protection and defense as apposed to for money.
Sloane presses her face into the pillow, and a muffled, “You’d better get that,” reaches my ears. I do answer, but only because the people who are likely to call my burner aren’t the kind of people who give up after calling once.
When I hear the voice on the other end of the line, I find that the Barbieri situation has been escalated up the ranks. “Zeth,” Roberto Barbieri, the Barber of Brooklyn himself, says. “I hear you didn’t much like talking to my sons?”
“I’m more of an email kind of guy these days.”
“Good to know. I’ll make sure to forward you the details of our arrangement in a message once our conversation is over, then. Does that suit you?”
“And what arrangement might that be? I already told Theo, I’m not working for anyone else anymore.” I don’t like this guy’s tone of voice. I sure as fuck don’t like how he’s ruining my post orgasm glow. Sloane’s watching me with wide eyes, clearly able to hear what’s being said. There’s a time not too long ago when I would have left the room, but not anymore. I don’t hide anything from her these days. She knows all about the fights, the underground gambling, and the occasional gun deal that goes down at the fighting gym I run. She knows me, knows who I am, and knows I will never live on the straight and narrow like other, normal people. She can handle fights and dirty money so long as I’m not getting hurt. And she can handle the guns so long as I don’t get my ass shot.
I doubt very much she’d handle me going out on task for the Barber of Brooklyn, though.
“Zeth, you and I both know this sedentary life you’re leading isn’t what you were built for. You’re a cutthroat, just like I am. I’m coming for Seattle. You must have known someone would eventually. I’m laying out my cards here and now. New York is where the throne of my empire rests. I can’t be in two places at once. I need someone to run my west coast operations, and I want that someone to be you.”
“I have no interest in being your understudy, Roberto. Absolutely no fucking interest whatsoever.” The guy is crazy if he thinks I’m putting myself into yet another position like I was in with Charlie. You don’t climb out from underneath the shit heap only to voluntarily climb back under again.
“I can understand your reluctance, Zeth, I really can. But you are a very dangerous individual. If I place someone else in charge over there, I wouldn’t be able to allow a man like you to be operating in the same district. It wouldn’t be smart business.”
“I’m not operating. I run a few fights and broker a few deals. You don’t need to concern yourself with what I’m doing, Roberto. I’m none of your fucking business.”
“And what about the lovely young Ms. Romera? Will she end up being my business? I fear she will if we can’t find a way to make both of us happy right now.”
Sloane sits up, clearly having heard her name. She looks mildly concerned, which makes my blood boil. Who does this guy think he fucking is, threatening her to get his own way? I won’t allow it. I will burn down his whole fucking New York empire before I let that happen. “You don’t say her name. You don’t ever say her name,” I growl.
“Don’t forget who you’re talking to right now, boy. I’m bigger and I’m badder than Charlie Holsan ever was. When I offer someone a title within my organization, they fucking jump,” he spits. “And this isn’t just any old title. I’m offering to make you the motherfucking King of the west coast. You’d be answerable to no one but me. You need to think about this for a couple of hours, Zeth. Bear in mind, I don’t make these kinds of calls personally very often. It’s unlikely I’ll be making another one. And also, you should bear in mind that I am not someone to be fucked with.”
I laugh, and it feels raw in my throat. Caustic, poisonous laughter that gives away what I think of his threats before I can put my thoughts into words. “I vowed after Charlie that I would never be answerable to anyone ever again. And I won’t. I don’t want to be the King of the west coast or anywhere else for that matter. And something you should bear in mind, Roberto? I am a dangerous individual. And people don’t usually live to tell the tale after fucking with me either.”
THIRTEEN
GRACIE
Serving in the military teaches you a lot about … well, everything. My time in the army taught me how to overcome fear and think with a cool head in situations where I might otherwise break down. It taught me how to fight, how to defend myself and those around me. It also taught me how to deal with hostage situations.
And this was not what I was taught. Allowing myself to get side tracked by Theo Barbieri administering a very particular brand of punishment to an apparently dim-witted blonde is not how I should be passing the time. I should have fucking bolted. I mean, come on, Gracie? What the fuck?
My cell phone is gone. It’s around about now that my employer will be flipping his shit. He’s used to me picking up whenever he calls, and the fact that I was escorting up his precious, spoiled-ass daughter today means he will have phoned the moment it looked like we were waylaid. He’s going to be furious. He wanted me to bring Ian with me—two men on the job are always better than one, love—but I’d told him I could handle a simple pick-up. It hadn’t escaped my attention that he’d said two men. He’s always been like that—unwilling to believe I can be good at my job. When my parents died and Paddy took me in, he told me that being strong had nothing to do with your sex. It had everything to do with determination and willingness to sacrifice. If I was willing to sacrifice the love I felt for my parents, it wouldn’t hurt that they were gone anymore. That was being strong. If I was willing to sacrifice petty things like boys and shopping and high heels, if I concentrated and trained hard, I could become the kind of person other people feared. That’s always been a big thing for Paddy:
instilling fear in others. So I did whatever he told me to. I stopped loving my dead parents and I didn’t kiss boys, and the people of the McLaughlin household hug the motherfucking wall when I walk by them, but still … Paddy’s never believed I’m cut-throat enough to survive his world. I’ve always felt like a disappointment to him. Always. It’s his own daughter who should be the disappointment, and yet the girl can do no wrong. She fucks around. She takes drugs. She has a foul temper on her and is constantly finding herself in situations that would get most people killed, and yet the old man thinks the sun shines out of her perfect little ass. I mean, she’s the reason behind the entire feud between the Barbieris and the McLaughlins, after all. Waiting in the musty-smelling dry store with nothing to do but kill time, I find myself wondering if Theo knows about that.
He’s gone for an hour. When he comes back, I’m ready for him. I’ve smashed a jar from one of the shelves and I’m hiding behind the door like a goddamn idiot with a shard of glass in my hand. I’m a second away from sinking the wicked point into his neck when I see he’s already bleeding. That kind of throws me.
Theo looks at me, looks at the weapon in my hand and then has the gall to look unimpressed. “Planning on slitting my throat?”
“Thinking about it.”
“Awesome. Make sure you dig in deep. My father only just about broke the skin.”
“I didn’t think Roberto Barbieri went half-assed on Columbian neckties.”
Theo gives me a bland smile. “Turns out being his son does have its occasional advantages. Now, you gonna shank me with that, or are we gonna get the hell out of here before we both end up dead?”
“You letting me go?”
He quirks one eyebrow upward, clearly amused by the thought. “When you’ve helped me figure out where Kaitlin is, I’ll be glad to part company with you.”
“And how the hell do you think I’ll be able to do that? She ran, remember. New York’s a big place, in case you hadn’t noticed. I’m not psychic. I can’t just concentrate really hard and somehow know exactly where she is.”
“True. But what about if you had this?” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cell phone—mine. The screen’s shattered but it’s lit up. Chances are it’s still working.
“You took that from the car.”
“I did. And when we get to my place, you’re going to call your ward and find out where the hell she is. And then we’re going to find my brother and go get this girl, and then you can be on your merry way.”
He’s dreaming if he thinks I’m actually going to do that for him, but I flash him a cold smile anyway. “Sure. If you can get me out of here, that is.” I’d have made a break for it already if I weren’t convinced that I’d end up with my head mounted on one of the Barber of Brooklyn’s living room walls. I’m just one person, and, yeah, I can fight, but Cucina Diavolo is massive and full of guys who can also fight. I don’t have a death wish, so I’ve done the smart thing and stayed put. Theo knows this place, though. He knows how to sneak me out. If he thinks I’ll help him find Kaitlin, he’ll take me back to his place, wherever that is, and I can slip him there, no problem.
Theo watches me, green eyes skimming over each of my facial features in turn, as though he’s trying to figure me out. Or maybe it’s because of what he did to that blonde and how badly he made me squirm. I hate that he saw that. “Turn around,” he says.
“Why?”
Holding up a pair of handcuffs, he grins at me. “I’d say I’m not going to enjoy this, but I’d be lying.”
Kind of ridiculous that he thinks I can’t work my way out of a pair of handcuffs, but whatever. I toss the shard of glass onto the ground and turn around, holding my wrists together behind my back. If he really does think I won’t jimmy my way out of the cuffs, perhaps that will make him even more complacent. I might be able to grab my phone and get the hell out of Dodge before we even get to his place.
“Being such a good girl,” he says. His breath hits the back of my neck, warm and close. My body reacts automatically, against my will, making the skin across my shoulders break out in goose bumps. It’s fucked that he’s having an effect on me whatsoever. I seriously do not like it. Why couldn’t he have been disfigured or something, instead of some smoking-hot Italian god with green eyes? Fate is a cruel bitch.
I shiver as I feel the cold press of the metal snapping closed around my wrists. Theo must have cuffed a lot of people in the past; he tightens them enough so that they’re digging into my skin, giving me no room to contort my hands and slide them free. It doesn’t matter, though. There’s more than one way to get myself free.
The next few minutes are adrenaline filled as I’m led silently out of the pokey room and down the corridor. We descend the stairs at the end of the hallway but instead of turning right and heading back through the kitchen, Theo guides me to the left, along another hallway. I can hear someone shouting—angry threats about cutting off someone’s balls. By the stern, cold look on Theo’s face I know it’s his father. Has to be. My suspicions are confirmed when I hear the infuriated voice hissing, “This isn’t just any old title. I’m offering to make you the motherfucking King of the west coast. You’d be answerable to no one but me. You—”
Theo hurries me along through more winding hallways, preventing me from hearing the rest of the conversation, his hand resting in the small of my back. He looks troubled. We pass a waitress, not the blonde from earlier but another one, dark hair pulled back into a perfect chignon. She looks Italian, like she could be Theo’s sister or something. But she’s not. I know enough about the Barbieri family to know Theo and Salvatore were the Barber’s only children. The waitress smiles politely at Theo, dark brown eyes skimming over me as though she doesn’t even see me. I’m hardly surprised. Paddy’s employees are just as discreet.
We end up walking straight through the floor of the restaurant, more waiters and waitresses acknowledging Theo and pointedly ignoring me, and then we’re out on the streets of Hell’s Kitchen. A sleek black 1969 Ford Mustang idles at the roadside, a tall, chubby guy in a neatly pressed suit leaning against the driver side door. He straightens when he sees Theo, hands folded in front of him. Theo walks with me around the other side of the car, unfazed by the people on the sidewalk; he presses his body up close behind mine, so close that people would assume we were lovers and not that he was trying to conceal my handcuffed wrists. I’m bundled into the car and then Theo is talking to the chubby guy. It almost makes me laugh when I hear him telling the guy off for leaning against the Mustang. I mean, the guy’s priorities must be fucked if he’s worried about his paintwork right now. When he climbs into the car, he’s wearing a grim expression.
“It’s not exactly comfortable trying to sit like this with my arms pinned behind my back. You feel like taking these off me now?”
“No.”
Well, shit. It was worth a shot. Theo guns the engine and merges into the slow-moving traffic, eyes fixed steadily in the rearview mirror. He’s tense. Even more tense than he was before, inside the building. By the way he’s paying more attention to what’s happening behind us instead of what’s going on in front, I’d say he thinks we’re being followed. I casually glance in the side mirror, seeing if I can spot anything. I get the idea into my head that Paddy might already have someone watching the Barbieris’ place, but that’s just wishful thinking. After about fifteen minutes, I’m pretty sure we’re not being tailed and it would seem so is Theo. He relaxes, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. I decide to fuck with him. If he won’t take the handcuffs off, then why the hell should I behave myself? I kick my foot up, resting it against the dash, the heel of my boot making a scraping sound as I drag it across the console.
Theo’s eyes go wide. Gripping hold of the steering wheel, he stares at my foot on the dash, unblinking and unmoving. I’m fairly certain he’s stopped breathing. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asks.
“Trying to make the best out of a bad situation.”
“Get your feet down. Now.”
“Or what? Are you gonna kick me out of the car?” One can always dream.
“No. But I will shoot you in the thigh. Jesus, woman, you’re scuffing everything!”
I am, as well. It gives me great pleasure to see the long mark I leave behind when I let my foot fall back into the foot well. Theo swears the whole way across Hell’s Kitchen and into Tribeca, where he takes us along the wharf and parks the Mustang outside a low, sprawling warehouse. The place has been restored, converted into living space. The tinted windows and the lack of dirt really give away its residential status. I try not to look impressed as Theo hustles me out of the car and inside the place.
The warehouse is one large, open-plan space inside. Haphazardly placed furniture splits the floor into different areas—a monstrous black leather couch separates the living-room area from the sleeping area, where a huge king-sized bed sits against the back wall. The kitchen runs down the side of one wall. No bathroom in sight. That must be tucked away through the only other door I can see, positioned in between a row of bookcases.
I’m not interested in how the guy’s decorated, or what books he’s been reading. I’m only interested in an escape route, and it appears that there’s only one: back the way we just came in. The windows are too high to climb out of, and there are no other exits that I can see.
“Sit down,” Theo commands. He nudges me toward the couch, so I sink myself down on it, throwing my feet up again. The only reaction I get out of him is raised eyebrows. Seems he’s not as precious about his couch as he is about his car. “Now. You’re gonna phone Kaitlin and you’re gonna find out where she is. And then all of this will be over.”
