by Bethany-Kris
Lily, like his mother.
Oh, damn, that thought just made his dick shrivel—
“No,” Damian murmured, “and as far as I can recall, she has always asked to be called Liliana.”
Oh, good.
There was his dick again.
“Also, I might have been wrong about the age thing. I believe she’s the oldest, actually. A year older than you, not younger. How do you feel about an older woman?”
Joe gave his father a look. He was doing that annoying fucking thing again. He needed to stop.
“Got it,” Damian muttered at the look on Joe’s face, “now fix yourself.”
“Damian,” the man in the middle greeted, “and company. Good to see you, old friend.”
“Dante,” Damian replied, taking the hand the Marcello boss offered. “Gio, Lucian; nice to see the two of you. Theo says hi, Gio.”
Gio—or Giovanni—Marcello grinned. A sight that threw the man’s features back a good fifteen years in a blink. “How’s Chicago, D?”
“It’s good. You should visit more often.”
“Unlikely,” the quiet man said.
Lucian.
Liliana’s father.
Lucian’s gaze drifted over Joe momentarily as though he was studying him. Although for what, Joe had no fucking clue. He still didn’t even know what in the hell he was here for to begin with. Just as quickly as Lucian gave him that appraisal, he moved his attention back to Damian when Joe’s father spoke.
“You’re never going to get over that little incident from years ago, are you, Lucian?” Damian asked.
“I don’t kill one of you every time someone from the Outfit comes into my city,” Lucian replied, “and so if I were you, I would take that as a win.”
Damn.
Seemed this man didn’t pull any fucking punches.
“We do consider that as a win, actually,” Damian returned easily.
“Play nice, Lucian,” Dante said. And then to Damian just as quickly, he added, “We should take this conversation inside. The girls were heading to the store for … well, junk food and whatever else. I don’t think we need to be on the steps discussing business when they get back shortly.”
“Agreed,” Damian said.
As they climbed the last couple of steps, and the Marcello mansion was opened to them, Lucian Marcello glanced back at Joe with a grin that came off as altogether cold, and just a little bit sly. Joe rarely found himself put on edge by someone else. He just wasn’t the type, and he was usually the one with his linebacker size, towering height, and silent nature to make people feel nervous.
This change was strange for him.
Entirely unsettling.
“Welcome to New York, Joe,” Lucian said, his smile fading in a grim line, “I certainly hope you’re worth the amount of money I am about to pay for you.”
What?
“Fair warning,” Damian said as he took a seat across from the large oak desk Dante rested behind, “he doesn’t know why he’s here. I figured it best to let him in on the secret when it was needed.”
Joe shot his father a look from where he stood in the corner—the other chairs in the room were already taken, and only a seat with the back facing the window remained. He was not a stupid man, and he was not about to put his back to a window in a house he wasn’t familiar with, not to mention around men he wasn’t sure if he could fully trust.
Dante glanced over at Lucian, asking, “Do you want to start this, or should I?”
“You’re the boss, brother,” Lucian replied.
“And this is—”
“You’re the boss.”
Joe stiffened a bit as the two men passed a look between each other while everyone else stayed quiet. He could never imagine interrupting his boss without some kind of action for disobedience, but clearly there was a different kind of relationship with these brothers. They were made men, sure, but family still held a firm line where it counted.
Dante nodded, and pushed his chair back just enough to open a drawer in the desk. Pulling out a file, he tossed it on the desk, and then gestured to Joe. “Go on, pick it up, Rossi.”
He moved away from the wall with footsteps that didn’t make a sound, and plucked up the folder. Opening it, he scanned the contents, and then flipped through the items inside. Pictures of older men stared back at him—details of them, and their life. Their careers, too.
One, a politician—George Earl. Republican senator for the state of New York. Joe remembered him winning by a landslide during the last election.
Another, a Chief of Police for the city of New York. A man by the name of Martin Abraham. Joe didn’t recognize him as well as the first man, but his title was more than enough to make Joe hesitate.
Fuck.
Already, Joe was not liking where this was going. The only reason he would be given a file like this with marks inside was to rid the world of them. He could make a business out of being a hitman, if he wanted to. He wasn’t stuck with only work in Chicago, but that’s where his loyalty and family were at the end of the day. So, he only willingly offered his services to his family.
After all, that’s just what he was good at. Like his father had once been, too.
“These look like prospective marks for me,” Joe said.
“Because they are,” Lucian said from his chair.
Joe flipped through the pages again. “Shit, you’ve even laid out details for me the way I like …” He passed his father a glance, adding, “Which tells me this has been in the works for longer than I actually was aware.”
“Yes, well …”
“I don’t hire out my services,” he said quietly. “I work for the Chicago Outfit only.”
“You will in this circumstance,” his father said quietly.
Joe’s jaw flexed at that comment. “No offense—”
“Joe.”
“Don’t give me that rhetoric again, I mean this to be fucking offensive.”
Damian sighed. “Then don’t color it up with useless nonsense. Just say it.”
Joe passed a look at the quiet, waiting men. “Maybe I shouldn’t right now.”
“What, son? Just say it, Jesus.”
Fine.
“I’m not going to work for them just because the Outfit is still trying to get on friendlier terms with the Marcello family. Beyond that, look at these names, Dad.” Joe dropped the file into his father’s lap, and quickly retook his place in the corner before he added, “Very high fucking profile names. A politician? Chief of Police? That’s asking for trouble, and it’s not the kind of shit I want to be stepping in. It looks like someone else’s shit, to be honest, and they’re probably not even going to give me the decency of telling me what kind of shit before I step in it.”
“On that, you’re correct,” Dante said, finally stepping into the conversation. “We’re not going to tell you why we want these men dead. We will tell you why we want you to be the one who does it.”
Christ.
Joe’s molars were going to crack from the way he was clenching his jaw so goddamn tight. “Try me, but don’t assume it will make any difference to what I already said.”
Gio chuckled from the couch. “Damn, Damian, I like him. He’s … got balls.”
Damian scowled. “Usually, he’s quieter than this.”
Dante went on speaking to Joe as though the other men weren’t conversing at all. “These men need to go for reasons we’re not willing to disclose. However, that shouldn’t be important to whether or not you’re able and willing to do the job, not to mention, how much we’re going to pay you to do it. What is important is that you come from Chicago, not New York. You, Joseph, have never even been in the presence of our family properly. Not been pictured with any of our made men, or our women. Nothing. Invisible, essentially, which is exactly what we need. We cannot afford for attention to be put on our family for these hits, although we assume we’ll get some spotlight anyway just because. Nonetheless, with nothing to find by way
of connections, we’ll all make it out unscathed.”
Joe was barely listening because he was now staring at his father. “Give me one reason why I should agree to take on this job when you know I have only worked for Chicago.”
“I can give you two, actually.”
“Try me.”
“The thing we talked about outside, for one. Might want to be here a while. It could help with that, you know.”
Ah, yeah.
Liliana.
He heard his father’s unspoken words. Although frankly, working for her family like this might put a serious fucking dent in those plans. Not to mention who her goddamn father was. Shit could never be simple for Joe.
“And for two?” Joe asked.
“Because I am asking you to take it, Joe,” Damian said, “and not for any reason you might assume, but because sometimes, we lend a hand when it is desperately needed. There was a time once when you started taking on marks because you wanted to remove those who did not deserve to breathe the same air we did—maybe it’s time to get back to that place for a while.”
His rosary felt heavy around his throat.
Like a noose, almost.
“Asking me, or telling me?”
“Asking,” his father murmured.
“What was it they called you, Damian?” Lucian asked, quietly jumping into the conversation again. “Back when you did all the dirty work for the Outfit, I mean.”
Damian grinned a little. “Ghost.”
“Hmm.”
“And you?” Dante asked, glancing up at Joe. “What do they call you?”
He didn’t want to answer.
He was going to have to take this job, anyway. His father asked, and something inside told him it was the right thing to do even if he didn’t have all the details.
“Well?” Lucian pressed when Dante didn’t.
“Shadow,” Joe said.
“Pardon?”
“When the Outfit wants someone gone,” Joe clarified, “they send the Shadow.”
Because he moved quietly, as though he wasn’t there at all. Because he blended in with the crowd, and was never really seen. Because in darkness, and in the shadows, he was the most dangerous.
There, he felt the most normal, too.
Strange how that worked.
“Five million for both,” Dante said, “and they both have to be successful hits. We’re not particularly working on a tight deadline, either. We’ve been briefed that you can take a while to make sure … everything is good and clean.”
“Half in my account by tonight,” Joe returned.
Dante nodded, and waved a hand toward the door. “Done … now, you should probably acquaint yourself with the mansion, as this is where you’ll be coming to brief or get orders. Have a look around, and if you see my mother, say hello. She enjoys guests.”
Great.
TWO
“JUST COME OUT this weekend,” Cella said. “What’s one weekend going to hurt?”
Liliana’s younger sister always liked to dangle that rope to her as though she seriously thought it was going to work. It never did.
“Gordo would kill me,” Liliana replied. “If he knew the shit I was about to shove into my mouth, he would have a fit. Imagine him finding out I was drinking and partying all weekend when I am supposed to be resting in prep for next week.”
Cella and her two friends—mutual with Liliana, too, really—piled out of the SUV. “You’re no fun anymore, Liliana. All you care about is dance, and that company.”
“That’s not true, but I worked hard to even get my spot in that company. I have the chance to be the lead dancer again for the upcoming production, and I don’t want to piss off my—”
“Whatever.”
Catherine, their cousin, rolled her eyes in the front seat when the door slammed. “She’s dramatic today.”
Liliana would tend to agree. “I think she misses me being available all the time.”
“Maybe.”
Fact was, even before Liliana had gotten her spot in the Wylder Ballet Company three years ago—a couple of years later than most of the dancers in the company, as some of the people there liked to point out—she still hadn’t been able to spend every waking moment with her sister. From the age of ten, her focus on ballet had been a huge part of her life. She didn’t want to do anything her parents tried to put her in for extracurricular activities.
Then, ballet was on the table.
God, she hated it at first. Despised it, really. But she watched all the ballerinas come into the studio to work, and something about them was amazing. They were beautiful, graceful, and strong. Sylph-like in their pointe shoes, and moving across the floor as though they were completely weightless. Like fairies with their hair tied up in perfect buns, and their soft pink or flat black leotards.
Liliana had been young enough—and dumb enough—to think she should be able to do ballet just like them, and that was where the frustration came in. And then she nailed her first en pointe and she got it. She finally understood why doing the work, learning the craft, and earning the praise, was a far better reward than anything else.
She respected ballet.
She worked hard for it.
Cella didn’t understand, and Liliana didn’t know how to explain it to her sister. Cella was two years younger than Liliana’s twenty-two, and she was just trying to have the time of her life. She was living her best life.
Her sister didn’t realize that Liliana was trying to do that, too. They didn’t have to be doing the same things to reach a similar goal, or to be happy.
What did it even matter?
“Maybe she’ll be out of her mood by the time we get upstairs to the theater room,” Liliana grumbled.
Catherine pushed out of the SUV with a laugh over her shoulder. “You know how Cella is—that’s unlikely.”
Tell me about it.
Liliana’s gaze scanned the driveway of the old Marcello estate as Catherine headed for the mansion. She didn’t see the same black car that had been parked off to the side when they first left for the store.
Or the gorgeous man she couldn’t stop staring at, either. The man with the sky-blue eyes, and dark hair. Just his size alone should have been enough to make Liliana a little hesitant considering he was built like a linebacker with the height to match, and an almost blank expression, but still … she had stared, and couldn’t seem to stop.
Which was altogether strange for her, considering … Liliana didn’t take notice of men anymore. At least, not ones she would consider strangers. She wasn’t as trusting as she once had been. Life taught her to be wary, in a way.
And yet, she wondered about him.
Who was he?
“You coming?” Catherine called.
“Yep.”
Liliana shook off the curiosity still burning in her gut, and headed after her cousin.
Before long, the two were inside the mansion, and heading for the upstairs where the theater room was situated. Her grandparents owned the mansion—no one lived there but Antony and Cecelia, most of the time. Still, Liliana liked to visit them as much as she could. Usually, she brought along others like her sisters, cousin, or a friend.
It gave the place some noise. Life, even. And her grandparents loved to entertain. They never complained, and even welcomed it.
So was the Marcello way.
Upstairs, Liliana could already hear the laughter coming down the hall from the theater room. Catherine shot her a sly smile.
“Maybe Cella is in a better mood,” she said.
Liliana shrugged. “Maybe. I’ll be right in. I need to use the bathroom first.”
“Okay.”
Disappearing into the closest bathroom—one of probably twenty in the large, two-wing monster that was the Marcello mansion—Liliana didn’t actually need to use it. She pulled out her phone, and checked for any messages or missed calls.
The director of the Wylder Ballet Company could be particular. To say the least.
While he didn’t mind giving Liliana the weekend to rest and relax in preparation for the coming weeks of grueling practice, and long hours of training, his mind was like a switch.
He could flip his decision back in a snap.
Just like that.
Finding nothing waiting on her phone to say Gordo had suddenly up and changed his mind about Liliana’s weekend, she counted her lucky stars, and considered it a win. Shoving the phone back in her pocket, she headed out of the bathroom, and damn near crashed into what felt like a fucking brick wall the second she left the room.
Liliana couldn’t have caught herself from falling even if she tried. For all her balance, strength, and grace … none of it helped very much when she ran headfirst into something as unexpected as—
“Careful there,” came a dark, rich voice.
Like a bass rumbled with his words.
Like a melody colored up his chuckles.
A strong arm had caught her easily—just one, it seemed he didn’t need two—and righted Liliana to her feet probably before she even realized what had happened. Pushing her wild waves of dark blonde hair back out of her face, she blinked.
And came face to face with him.
The mysterious man from earlier in the driveway.
He was not quite the same as he had been earlier, though. Getting a closer—really up close and personal, considering how she was balancing herself by putting her palms to his chest, and was close enough to feel his warm mint-scented breath wash over her face—look at him was bad for her insides.
Bad, because he was gorgeous. More so than she realized. Bad, because her stomach clenched, and her palms felt sweaty already. For a second, she tried to make her voice work, but nothing came.
The dark lines of the man’s face were shadowed by the hall, but it only added to the appeal of his square-cut jaw, strong cheekbones, and inviting grin. He was taller than her five foot eleven by at least six inches or more. She had to wonder if he played football, or rugby, because under her fingertips, his chiseled-from-stone muscles jumped from her touch.
Jesus.
“You okay?” he asked.
