King: A Power Players Novel

by Leo, Cassia

  I chuckle to detract from the dark meaning behind her words. “No more morphine. Do you need anything?”

  “Just you,” she replies with a smile. “Did they ask you a lot of questions?”

  I nod. “About a million and one. Tried to catch me in a lie, but I don’t think they were successful,” I reply, brushing her brown hair away from her face. “And now that I’m here with you, I have just one question for you.”

  I need to give her one final opportunity to turn around and never look back.

  “Shoot,” she replies eagerly.

  “Interesting choice of words,” I muse, soaking in her Kool-Aid grin as I retrieve a black diamond engagement ring from my jeans pocket. “You can still back out,” I begin, holding the ring up so she can see it clearly. “Pretend I abducted you and forced you to do all sorts of unsavory things. It’s not too late for you to become Izzy Lake again. Are you sure you want to do this? Are you sure you want to become Mrs. Ray Everett?”

  She smiles as she nods toward the small shelf on the wall, which serves as a bedside table. I pick up the Canadian passport and flip to the first page to see a picture of Izzy with her new red hair. The name inside reads: Everett, Hayley.

  She shrugs as I shake my head. “If you get to be named after Ray LaMontagne, I get to be named after Hayley Williams from Paramore.”

  I lean down to kiss her, but she pushes me away and clears her throat as she glances at the ring in my hand.

  I laugh as I slide it on her finger. “Are you ready to spend the rest of your days singing me to sleep with that angel voice?”

  She grins as she stares at the black diamond for a moment. “I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life. In fact, I think I should start now.” She pats the mattress next to her. “Lie with me.”

  I can’t shake the stupid grin off my face as I carefully climb onto the bed and lie on my side facing Izzy. “Don’t sing if your throat still hurts.”

  She waves off my warning. “It’ll make me sound even better,” she says, as she carefully rolls onto her good arm to face me. “This one is called ‘King of My Heart.’”

  I smile. “Go off, queen.”

  * * *

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  Preview of Knox

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  “Oh, Marco, don’t stop.”

  His blue eyes are fixed on mine as he grinds into me, penetrating me deeper with each thrust. He’s smiling at me. Oh, how I love that smile. I close my eyes and imagine the first time I saw it. Sitting in a booth in the corner of the shop. My father’s arm around his shoulders, congratulating him.

  “I’ve missed you, Marco.”

  I slide my hand behind his neck and pull his mouth against mine. It feels just like our first kiss, only better. We’re older now. Wiser. I work for the department and Marco, he….

  What does Marco do for a living?

  “I love you, Marco. Tell me you love me.”

  He smiles as he kisses the corner of my mouth, but he doesn’t say anything. I rake my fingers over his back and he doesn’t make a sound. Not a hiss of air through his teeth or a soft moan. Nothing.

  “Marco, please.”

  His cock is so thick, stretching me as he lifts my leg and pierces me slowly. I wrap my other leg around his hip, beckoning him further inside. Gasping, I throw my head back and he kisses the hollow of my throat. Ecstasy. This is pure, ethereal ecstasy. Dream-like. He slides his hand between us to caress my clit and my body quakes beneath him.

  “I’m going to come, Marco. I’m coming! I’m coming!”

  A soft chuckle wakes me and I find August next to me. The room is dark. I’m holding his hand prisoner between my thighs. A searing heat creeps up my cheeks as I realize I was dreaming about Marco again.

  “Did you come?” August says, and I can hear the smug grin in his voice.

  I push his hand back then turn around to face away from him. “Sorry.”

  He slides his arm around my waist and presses his chest against my back. “Goodnight, Becky.”

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  “When was the last time you two went on a date?” Lita asks as we cross Vanderbilt.

  A jerk in a silver hatchback blares his horn at us. Aren’t hatchback drivers supposed to be stereotypically nice?

  Lita and I pause on the corner of 42nd and Vanderbilt, Grand Central Terminal. I make a move to hug her goodbye and she laughs.

  “Nuh-uh. Answer my question, Becky. When was the last time you and August went on a date?”

  Her light-brown hair is a bit frizzy and her top lip is sweating from the sticky night air. She still manages to look gorgeous, like she just stepped off a photo shoot at an exotic location. Like she’s been spritzed and primped to look exactly this way. Lita hates when people tell her she looks like a model. She actually thinks it’s an insult. She desperately wants to be taken seriously. She gets this from working on Wall Street where her model stature and smooth voice must command notice.

  “We’re not dating. We’re in a relationship. Date nights are for married couples trying to revive their relationship. There’s nothing wrong with August and me. We’re solid.”

  “Solid as the wall between you. When was the last time you went to his apartment?”

  I want to launch into my usual spiel, but I’m actually afraid of how many times I’ve said the words aloud.

  August and I have a comfortable relationship. We don’t need to cling to each other every second of every day to feel secure. August loves me. I know that because he remembers my birthday and my favorite ice cream flavor. He knows how many kids I want—two, he wants four. And the biggest plus of all: he’s not afraid to talk about marriage. He loves that I want a big wedding. And as soon as his blog is established enough that he can take more time off, we’re getting married.

  This is the part where you begin wondering if I’m actually this naïve. I’m not. I’m far from naïve. I may be a midtown girl now, but I was born and raised in Bensonhurst.

  Born and raised in Bensonhurst. Whenever someone hears this phrase, they automatically assume I must be related to a crime family. Some people are brazen enough to come right out and ask me—in a joking manner, as if that makes the question less inappropriate. I just chuckle and say something like, “Wouldn’t that be cool if I was?” That’s what people want to hear.

  People don’t want to know the truth. They don’t want to know that I left my entire family behind at the age of eighteen, except for the occasional phone call to my mother. They don’t want to know that I chose a job in law enforcement with the hopes of sending my family a message. That message: I want nothing more to do with them. They especially don’t want to know the things I’ve seen. Because people who idolize the mafia actually think that being the daughter of a crime boss is glamorous.

  They imagine me in my fur coat and diamond-encrusted fingernails. Maybe I’m dangling a designer handbag from my arm, stuffed with an adorable teacup Chihuahua. They imagine men who aren’t afraid to get their hands bloody, coming home and using those same hands to rip off my lacy panties and claim me. They imagine a sexy, sinful cocktail of glamor spiked with a large dose of unyielding power.

  For the most part, they’re right. But they still haven’t seen what I’ve seen. And what I saw in my living room, at the tender age of thirteen, was my father strangling a man I had come to know as Uncle Frank. A crime for which he was never punished, despite the many times my father has been in and out of jail for pettier crimes. The truth is that I barely know my father. I hope that never changes.

  I look into Lita’s wide gray eyes and I lie. “I was at August’s apartment last week.” I clap her arm awkwardly. She shakes her head, so I lean in to hug her goodbye. “Enjoy your trip to Poughkeepsie. I’m sure your mom will have plenty of potato salad and honey-glazed ham to fatten you up.”

  “Don’t rub it in.”

  She releases me and her f
ingers glance over my forearm as she walks away. As I watch her set off toward Grand Central Terminal, all I can think is that I am naïve. I am so naïve. I haven’t been to August’s apartment in four months.

  I spin around to face the street and flag down the first cab. I’m going to August’s apartment. I’m going to demand to know what is wrong with us. I’m twenty-three years old with a gorgeous twenty-five-year-old boyfriend who never takes me to his apartment. I know what he’s going to say. He’s going to say it’s because I prefer midtown to the lower east side. Avoiding his apartment is just his way of trying to be agreeable. I’m not falling for that.

  I throw my arm out angrily, determined to hail a cab and fly to August’s apartment on a wind of fury. But the first car that stops for me is not a taxi. It’s a shiny black SUV. And before I can step aside to try to hail a real cab, a man appears at my side, his fingers discreetly curling around my wrist.

  “Your car is here.” His dark eyes are locked on mine, never blinking, not even as the SUV door is flung open. “Your father needs to speak to you.”

  That’s all he has to say.

  Chapter 3

  I climb into the SUV and I’m not surprised to find that there’s another man in there waiting to receive me. Both he and the guy who met me on the curb are wearing dark suits and sunglasses. I’m sure if I could get close enough, I’d find earpieces inside their ears.

  When all three of us are settled into the backseat, the SUV pulls away from Grand Central Terminal and sets off down 42nd. The bigger guy on my left reaches behind his back and my heart stops. They wouldn’t kill me just like that, would they? I brace myself for whatever he’s about to do, my body tensed and ready to flail about. But when he pulls his hand out, he’s holding a large piece of black cloth. Upon further inspection, I notice it’s a black hood.

  I can’t see his eyes through the sunglasses, but the fact that he’s offering it to me instead of putting it on me himself seems to be some show of respect. They’re not going to kill me. They don’t even want to hurt me. They’re too afraid of my father. Which means my father is not as angry with me for abandoning the family as I had imagined. Or… he wants something.

  I huff as I snatch the black silk hood out of his hand. I quickly note my surroundings before I pull it over my head. We’re just approaching Fifth Avenue. Everything goes black and I try to keep track of the many turns the vehicle makes. But it doesn’t take long for me to realize they’re probably taking me on a winding route just to confuse me.

  When the car finally stops and the engine dies, my stomach vaults. I haven’t seen my father in four years, since the last time I visited Mom at home and he was actually there—a rare occasion. I was nineteen and terribly homesick during Spring Break at Hunter College where I was studying, of all things, creative writing. My visit home was supposed to be soothing and relaxing and familiar. Instead, my father decided to get out of jail three weeks early and I left the house without him uttering a word to me, his eyes watching me as I walked out the door, his lips unable to break a smile or silence for his only child.

  The worst part about leaving home is the conversations with my mother. She’s had to endure my father’s grief over the fact that she never gave him more than one child. She’s never admitted it, but I can imagine him calling her useless. My mother is far from useless. Without my mother, I’d probably be traipsing around town with diamond-encrusted fingernails and a designer dog. My mother taught me to want more.

  But I must admit that, as they help me out of the SUV and my heart pounds so hard I can barely breathe, it’s not just fear of my father that has me this stressed. I’m also intrigued. For my father to have me essentially kidnapped and forced to meet with him, he must be desperate.

  My summer sandals crunch on the gravelly pavement as someone grips my forearm and guides me forward. A door creaks open and I’m blasted with a cool gust of air. The smell of rubber and grease stings the inside of my nostrils as I’m pulled farther inside this new environment.

  The whoosh of another door opening.

  More walking.

  Stop.

  Is he here?

  Silence.

  “Brace yourself, kid.” This warning issued by the guy on my right feels more ominous than it should. It’s just my father in there, isn’t it?

  The silk hood is slipped off my head and we’re standing in the middle of a wide garage with hydraulic lifts and tires and an assortment of equipment for repairing cars. But there are no cars in this garage. One person stands about ten feet away from me, facing me.

  And it’s not my father.

  * * *

  Click here to continue reading Knox.

  Preview of Unmasked

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  The monsters we can’t see are the scariest ones of all.

  Six blocks and the guy walking on the opposite side of the street is still going in the same direction as me. I don’t spook easily. I’m used to walking the streets at night. In fact, I only walk the streets at night. But something about this guy doesn’t feel right.

  I can’t see his face.

  This shouldn’t scare me, since he can’t see mine either, but being able to see another person’s face naturally puts us at ease. This is one of the reasons some people despise talking on the phone. And also why I have had zero friends and boyfriends in all my nineteen years on this planet. No one ever sees my face. Ever.

  Even when I applied for my job at the gas station. I told the guy on the phone that I had a day job and I’d have to conduct the interview in the evening. Besides, I was applying for the nightshift position at the station. The guy bought it. The day job was a lie. The truth is, I don’t go out during the day. I haven’t been outside during daylight hours in years.

  I don’t have one of those diseases that make you break out in blisters when your skin is exposed to sunlight. My reasons for not allowing anyone to see my face in the light of day are much more vain than that, and it started the day I was born. My biological mother took one look at my face and begged them to take me away. I’ve been hiding ever since.

  So it shouldn’t make me uneasy that I can’t see this guy’s face, but something about the way his hoodie covers it and the fact that he never turns his head is giving me the creeps.

  The gas station is in my sight now. Just a block and a half away. I can make it there.

  The streets of downtown L.A. are crawling with all kinds of shady characters at night. It’s like when you turn the lights out on a filthy apartment and all the cockroaches come out of their hiding places. The drug addicts and whores dominate this area. The homeless and the lost wanderers, picking through the garbage, looking for a place to lie down for the night. Then there’s the drug dealers and gang members who try to lay low, but they have to come out and stake their claim and make their deals every once in a while.

  Downtown Los Angeles is not a place where a scrawny nineteen-year-old girl like me should be walking the streets at night. But that’s exactly why I do it. People see me walking down the street and they smile, thinking I’m an easy mark. They can rob me or rape me, maybe even murder me, and they’ll get away with it. I won’t put up a fight. But they don’t know me. I’m far from easy.

  The monsters we can’t see are the scariest ones of all.

  You probably think it’s impossible for someone to be afraid of little ol’ me when I’m walking these streets, but you’d be surprised. Our face is what we show to the world. It’s how we’re recognized. It’s how we’re remembered. Our face is our identity. When you hide your face, you’re hiding your identity, and this makes people very nervous. In our feeble little minds, the only people who hide their faces in public are criminals and clowns.

  Everyone’s afraid of clowns. Criminals, on the other hand, are either feared or revered.

  Hiding my face is how I make it through the streets of L.A. without getting raped and murdered. Those who don’t fear me are fascinated by me.

&
nbsp; Well, that and the fact that there’s always someone watching over me. He watches from a distance because he knows better than to get too close.

  I haven’t spoken to my father since I moved out eight months ago. I’ve walked these streets every day since then, and I’ve only seen him on a dozen or so occasions. But I know my father. He was black ops for the army until my mother made him quit when he was just twenty-eight. Now he has his own private investigation firm. I’ve only seen him following me in his silver Audi S4 a dozen times because that’s how many times he wanted me to see him.

  But even without my father watching over me, I can take care of myself. No one knows that better than my father. He trained me.

  I glance across the street at the guy in the hood and a gold Mercedes SUV drives by for the second time since I left the house six minutes ago. Now I’m even more nervous. I can deal with just about any deadly situation thrown at me, but I can’t outrun a car.

  I glance around the familiar neighborhood, looking for an escape route in case the car is working with the guy across the road. The gas station is just a block away on the other side of the street. The guy in the hoodie will get there before me. So I can’t bolt for it and barricade myself inside.

  A strange chill passes over my skin as my instincts kick in. I should probably turn around, but I hate admitting defeat. I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, half a block from the gas station.

  Then the gold Mercedes is back, but it’s not coming for me. It cuts across the double-stripe painted in the middle of the street, driving against oncoming traffic, and pulls up next to the guy in the hoodie. A white Honda driving on the other side of the road blares its horn at the Mercedes. The shrill sound of the horn fades away as the guy in the hoodie approaches the Mercedes.