The door closes behind him, the sound echoing against the tall ceilings in this loveless castle, and pleasure floods my heart at his parting remarks.
That’s exactly what I’m counting on.
I’m not exactly a stranger to having someone tail me when I travel; as a senator’s daughter, it comes with the territory. But it’s an entirely different feeling when it’s not your father following you, and instead, a beefy bald man who looks like he could crush me with one thumb. At least he let Liv tag along.
Benito—who keeps insisting I call him Benny—drives me to Locust Grove, stopping at the curb of the last house in the neighborhood. And even though it’s only been forty-eight hours since I last stepped foot inside, it feels like an entire lifetime.
It doesn’t help that Elia hasn’t been home since the afternoon we got married; Benito won’t tell me where exactly he went, just that he’d be home whenever he finished the job. Of course, if I’d known his version of “protection” meant hiring a babysitter, I wouldn’t have bothered with the union at all.
He did, at least, send Luca over with groceries and a few evening gowns, for the occasions in which we might need to make an appearance. I tossed them to the back of the walk-in closet I’d made my own in the guest bedroom and clung to Luca’s arm, vying for information on what Elia’s been up to.
Unsurprisingly, he gave very little information, too busy trying to resume our long-dead and much-regretted relationship. His parting piece was to inform me that my father was still trying to negotiate his freedom or find a way to rip mine away. And that he had flown to Las Vegas for business meetings—which meant, temporarily, my house would be free of the scumbag.
When we’ve packed all the items in my bedroom into as few boxes as possible, Benito helps us load them into the car. Liv leans against the sedan, folding her arms across her chest and fiddling with the zipper on her raincoat. She won’t meet my eyes, and it’s starting to grate on my nerves.
“What’s up?” I ask, coming around with my last box. Setting it gently on the ground, I stand beside her, mimicking her pose.
She runs a hand through her curls. “Nothing, really. I just hate all of this for you.”
“You hate that I’m married and moving out of my parents’ house? Come on, Liv, you moved out at seventeen and married your career right out of college.”
After graduation, she secured a small business loan from her father, a lawyer for Stonemore’s Minority Business Development Agency, and opened up her own marketing firm. Now, Liv offers services to residents in King’s Trace and our surrounding areas trying to make their mark on the world.
It was an immediate success, propelled partly by her parents’ influence and connections around town. The hours are grueling even a year later, but she seems entirely satisfied with the results. Jupiter Media flourishes, priding itself on its creativity and black leadership.
“It’s not that I’m upset about it.” She swipes a finger beneath her eye, flicking away dried mascara. “When do you get to live your life, though? I thought you were gonna open up your bakery finally. Cater to the tweaked-out tourists of King’s Trace.”
That was before my father stole my startup money; before he used it in bad investments. Before the mafia got involved and my name was thrown in as collateral—as payment.
I laugh, bumping her shoulder with mine, ignoring the pain radiating in my chest. “That’s still the dream. There have just been a few... hiccups along the way. But trust me when I say, Elia Montalto will not be a problem.”
“I don’t think he’ll be anything but a problem, but I’ll reserve judgment for now. Let's go get you unpacked and then drink until we’re belligerent. Three-day-weekend, and all.”
“Wait. Why? It’s the middle of May; there isn’t a holiday for another week.”
“I know.” She winks, pushing off the car. “I took tomorrow off because I’d planned on being hungover, anyway. You don’t want me to look like a liar to my employees, do you?”
“Liv, you’re the boss. Who cares what they think?”
“A good boss trying to set a good example. Most of my underlings are interns, they need to see a thriving work ethic, or they’re gonna start asking me to pay them.”
My stomach sinks as she climbs in the backseat of the car, ready to leave. There’s still something inside I’ve yet to get, and if I don’t do it now, I miss my chance.
Benito rounds the trunk and gestures to the box at my feet. “Done with this?”
Nodding, my gaze drifts to the large, red front door of my childhood home, my body moving of its own accord before I have a chance to stop it.
Inside, I pad across the hardwood floors to the double doors leading into my father’s office. Glancing around to make sure my mother and sister haven’t returned yet, I push the doors open and close them gently behind me, inhaling the deep, musky scent in the air. Dusty bookshelves line the walls, and ostentatious cherry furniture takes up the floor space, making it look like the den of a man with something to prove.
I walk to the desk and unlock the combination to the bottom drawer. When we came here, I hadn’t planned on taking this, but now that we’re about to leave, I don’t want to go without it. Upstairs, I pocketed my knife and the ankle sheath I sometimes wear when it doesn’t fit in the band of my underwear—useful in a pinch, but this is the ultimate betrayal. His only defense.
The pistol is heavy in my palm, the metal cold and scintillating in the dim sunlight pouring in from the window. My fingers mold around the barrel like the weapon was made for my hands.
I stand and tuck it into the back of my jeans; it digs into my skin as I exit the house, an uncomfortable reminder of the life I’m trying to avenge.
GIA SHAKES A CIGARETTE from the pack tucked in his suit jacket, offering it to me. I wave him off, ignoring the way my blood warms at the slight tobacco scent. “I quit.”
“Really? Luca seems to think you left quite the opposite impression on his mother’s foyer.”
Pushing off the metal wall, I stuff my hands in my pants pockets and turn to the garage door, waiting for Marco to let us inside. “Luca should learn to keep his stupid fucking mouth shut.”
“Must run in the family.”
I scrub a hand over my jaw, ignoring the jab. Not because Gia means well, but because my mind is completely stuck on whatever Caroline might be doing at the house. It’s been a couple of days since I’ve even been able to get back, and I hate that there wasn’t time for me to show her around and help get her settled.
And even though Benny’s at home watching over her, I can’t stop my heart from beating erratically at the thought of something happening to her. Which is completely irrational, considering I’ve known her officially for all of a week and a half—but still.
My legs itch to carry me back to the car and the club, where I can sit behind my computer screen and keep watch over her. Something about her screams trouble—both causation and attraction; a delicate bird with a damaged soul, looking for predators to prey on, with no idea of how small and ineffectual she is.
“You seem on edge.” Gia takes a drag of his cigarette, propping his foot against the wall as he examines me. “Married life not all it’s cracked up to be?”
“What are you, a fucking shrink?” The heels of my hands dig into my eye sockets, rubbing until a kaleidoscope obscures my vision. “And anyway, I’ve not even been home long enough to experience domestic bliss.”
“Ah.” He flicks ash onto the ground, smoothing it into the pavement with his boot. Black counter tracking boots without tread, keeping our involvement at the warehouse anonymous. “So, that’s your problem.”
If Marco isn’t here in the next sixty seconds, I’m liable to rip out Gia’s jugular. “What is?”
“How long’s it been since you got laid?”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I grit my teeth together, trying to reel in the irritation lacing my blood. His self-righteousness
really puts a damper on our friendship. “None of your damn business.”
“Testy.” Snapping his fingers, he cracks a smile. A rarity. Montalto men don’t smile, except when we’re throwing our power around or trying to get pussy. My fist balls, desperate to erase it from his face. “Oops, sorry. Wrong word.”
“Are you twelve, G? Because only a fucking prepubescent child would find that funny.”
“I’m just saying. I thought part of the benefit of this relationship would be you getting to bend that prim and proper ass of hers over any time you please.”
You and me both.
At my sides, my hands curl into themselves, nails digging into my palms. I feel the skin break, feel the blood blot under the nails, feel my heart rate kick up until I can hear it in my ears. It pounds mercilessly, drowning out every other thought. “I didn’t ask for your goddamn opinion. Shut the fuck up, or I’ll put a bullet through that thick skull of yours.”
He clamps his jaw closed just as the garage door finally slides up, Marco’s lanky form appearing from behind. He’s in black jeans and a black muscle tee, revealing his heavily inked body. Must have just left Siena; she’s a sucker for tattoos, and he rarely walks around with them on display. Too identifiable.
My mother had two full sleeves, tattoos she got before she ever met my father. They were daisies and sweet peas—her birth month flowers—rising from her wrist to the crook of her elbow.
They’re visible in every picture I have of her, making her a clear target. Not many tattooed Danish women in New York City ever shacked up with an Italian underboss. I’ve just got the one, a sort sol like she used to talk about. A phenomenon of birds, gathering to nest for the night, that she took as a sign of fate.
She should’ve known the translation, black sun, could’ve never meant anything good—for the world, or for me.
As the thoughts worm their way through the pounding in my ears, Marco hurries us inside, slams the door shut as soon as our feet clear the threshold, and crosses to the other side where a few decrepit, polyester couches sit. Swiping a black button-down shirt off the arm of one couch, he pulls it on and leaves it hanging, gesturing around at the stacks of packaged coke lining the tables.
“You’re fucking late.” I make my way around the pallets, inspecting packages for tampering. If we hadn’t already been balls-deep in the fucking drug trade when I took over as capo, I would’ve let the antiquated process die with Gia’s father’s career. Unfortunately, King’s Trace tourists are coke fiends willing to pay a pretty penny for a quarter ounce.
Now, I have to make weekly trips to the fucking warehouse and make sure shipments are coming in clean; until we figure out exactly who’s skimming off the top, I have to be vigilant. Colombian exports are expensive, and losing money makes me look like a goddamn pussy.
Marco side-eyes Gia, who shrugs. “Don’t mind him. He’s grumpy because his wife is giving him permanent blue balls.”
“Jesus Christ.” Tilting my head back to look up at the rafters in the ceiling, I press past the anger dancing inside. Killing my second-in-command wouldn’t be a good look and could jeopardize Caroline’s semi-freedom since he’s investigating her father’s finances.
Coming over to stand beside me, Marco sweeps his hand out over the bricks filling the room. “As you can see, everything comes prepackaged, and I’m sure as shit not tampering with anything. No desire to do blow here, Boss.”
“Would probably get in the way of your addiction to alcohol.” I move through the aisles, glossing over each minute detail. Some bricks are packaged individually—for tourists who make it out about once a year and like to shell out a cool twenty-five grand for a kilo of aggressive fun. Others are packed in a baker’s dozen, running a good quarter of a million dollars, sold in bulk only to reputable, returning customers.
Each pallet appears to be intact, sealed with industrial-strength plastic wrap, and reinforced with packing tape. At the end of the far aisle next to Marco’s unorganized desk sits a locked crate that I know is stuffed full of guns of varying sizes, in the event anyone ever discovers this little hellhole.
“If everything comes in off the truck intact, and we’ve not had any issues with our suppliers in the past, our best bet is that someone in our own ranks is skimming the product before delivery, and then telling the Stonemore gang where we sell in exchange for a cut of the cash.”
Marco nods, solemn. “Any ideas who it might be?”
“Not a fucking clue.” I look to Gia, who stands off to the side, surveying the area. Always on the lookout.
He meets my eyes, and I don’t even have to mention his older brother’s name before he lets out a heavy sigh, shoulders slumping. “Fuck. Angelo?”
“Unfortunately, he’s the only one of my men ever to have a coke problem, and the one constantly testing his boundaries with me.”
“For the record, I don’t let that fucker anywhere near this place.” Marco strokes his chin in thought. “If he’s stealing, it means he knows where this is, potentially making it a target.”
“Anywhere we go is a goddamn target. That’s why we carry.”
Gia frowns. “I’ll talk to Angelo, see what he knows.”
“Good. In the meantime, we’ll double security here and at the drop-off locations. No one delivers by themselves anymore. I don’t put it past Kieran to leave that fucking gothic castle of his just to come down and ambush us during a deal.”
“What are you gonna do if it’s Angelo stealing?” Marco cocks an eyebrow, shoving his hands into his jeans.
“I’m gonna fucking kill him.”
We double check each pallet for missed details, lock up the warehouse after stationing two soldiers at both entrances, and head back to Crimson as the sun sets along the King’s Trace skyline.
The pink splashed against the clouds reminds me of the heat dotting Caroline’s cheeks when I say something particularly crass or rub my erection up against her. The flush that coats her creamy skin when we kiss—like the mere connection of our mouths sends her blood singing. My body aches for hers, a wanton muscle in desperate need of a massage, and the desire coursing through me makes me nervous.
Something strange is going on with her, and I know I shouldn’t trust her or let my guard down in her presence. She could kill me. Maybe not physically, but this attraction is dangerous and part of the reason I’ve been staying away. I only married her to appease the ghost of my mother.
And yet, I can’t deny the way the base of my neck knots up at the mere thought of her, and that’s a huge problem.
Instead of indulging my perverted fantasies when I get back to Crimson by calling her, I spot Siena in the VIP lounge, dressed in skimpy, leather lingerie, and drag her up to my office. She stumbles inside as I slam the door, not bothering to lock it. “On your knees.”
A little grin lights up her face as she kneels before me, reaching to adjust the cup of the studded bra barely large enough to contain her tits. “I thought for sure you were done with me now that you’re married.”
Undoing my belt buckle, I slide the leather band out from the loops around my waist and unzip my slacks. “I don’t remember asking you to fucking speak.”
Licking her lips, she bounces on her heels and moves forward, cupping me through my black boxer briefs. For a moment, as I stare down at her, the red of her hair morphs to a golden blonde, and it’s almost possible to imagine this is Caroline and not some common whore.
That I’m in a regular marriage where my wife isn’t plotting something, keeping secrets, and not sleeping with me; that I don’t need to turn to one of my own strippers to relieve myself of the dark thoughts swarming my mind when I think about Caroline Harrison.
Fuck. Harrison. Siena slips her fingers beneath the waist of my boxers, tugging down until my cock springs free, and the face of the senator flashes through my mind, causing my hands to ball into fists at my sides.
My gut tells me he’s the one that put those bru
ises on her neck, but I can’t figure out why. Why he’d do it, and why she’d let him. I need to figure out what’s going on there, before it ruins everything.
Siena’s botoxed lips close around my shaft, which is only half-hard at this point and becoming softer the longer I get stuck in my head. I grip a handful of her hair, trying to force myself into the moment, but it just isn’t working.
There’s only one set of lips I want on my cock, and she’s nowhere around the club tonight.
“Suck harder,” I grit out, my grip becoming punishing as I refocus on the task at hand. Siena pumps my base with her hand, circling the tip with her tongue, drawing her mouth in around me as tight as she can get. It feels good, but it’s not enough.
No, my brain is stuck on going home and fighting with Caroline until her face pinkens. I’d grasp the back of her neck and pull her body into me, enjoying the resistance she’d inevitably put up. Pressing my hips into hers, feeling the heat emanating from her pussy, I’d bring my face to hers and revel in the sharp intake of breath, the uptake of her heartbeat.
I’d bring my mouth to hers, fusing our lips in a kiss rivaling the greatest of fireworks, and strip her bare before she even realizes what’s happening—before she has a chance to fight back.
The thought of her putting up walls against my touch, of pretending she doesn’t want me as badly as I do her, has me growing inside Siena’s mouth, my dick throbbing with unbridled desire. My fingers dig into her scalp as I think about spreading Caroline’s legs and diving straight into her, guiding Siena’s shallow strokes, so her mouth is seated more fully on my shaft.
She works me, feverish, reaching up to cup her own breast since I’m positively ignoring her needs. I don’t fucking care about them; I just want to fuck this fantasy out of my head.
Sweet Surrender: A Dark Mafia Enemies-to-Lovers Romance (King's Trace Antiheroes Book 1) Page 6
