Dirty (Raw Family #2)

by Belle Aurora

  Ling looks down at her drink a long moment. “If you caught your father raping your sister, what would you have done?”

  Oh, God.

  My heart stutters then races, and the blood drains from my face.

  He didn’t kill just anyone. He murdered his father.

  An image crosses my mind. A younger, clean-faced Julius, sitting alone in a prison cell and taking his punishment graciously, knowing that his beloved sister is safe in the world.

  It suddenly makes sense, his close relationship with Tonya. He saved her. He was her hero.

  Hot tears spring behind my closed lids.

  How I had wished for my own Julius in my days of despair.

  I realize my emotional response is somewhat unusual, but I cannot stop the intense warmth flowing throughout my torso, slowly spreading to each and every one of my limbs. Soon, I’m just about glowing.

  Suddenly, Ling stands, and she does this quickly. Her eyes fastened on a man across the room, she mumbles, “Stay here.”

  “Hey.” I reach out to grasp her arm, but she turns on me, eyes flashing, and then we’re nose to nose, as she hisses through gritted teeth, “Don’t fucking move from this spot, Alejandra. Do you hear me?” Something cold and metallic is pressed into my knee hard. “I will shoot you. I will shoot you right in the kneecap. Don’t move.”

  She is not fucking around.

  My eyes wide, I swallow hard and nod, because I’m not in the mood for a gunshot wound.

  She moves across the room in no time at all, fluid and graceful, before standing by the booth, in profile, and speaking to a person I can’t see. No matter how far left or right I move, I can’t see shit.

  Ling starts off smiling. After a moment, her face changes and I spot the way her hand remains clenched by her side. Soon, a tall man stands, but I can’t make out his face. He leans over Ling, speaking directly into her ear. He does this for a long while. Minutes pass, and Ling wears a stricken expression before pulling herself together and removing all emotion from her face. She responds to the man, and he grips her shoulders, as if to try and keep her there. But all this does is infuriate her. Her light expression now dark, she speaks harsher, the veins in her neck bulging with every barked word.

  The man pulls away from her, and I can finally see his face.

  He’s handsome. He’s also Asian.

  The conversation has taken a turn. Soon the man gets down into Ling’s face and shouts at her, his gorgeous face contorted in rage. He grips her upper arms and shakes her like a ragdoll.

  Oh no.

  I watch Ling closely.

  I’ve seen that shuttered look on her before. It’s the same look I received after I broke her nose.

  He shouldn’t have done that.

  She jerks his hands off her, and before the man knows what’s hit him, Ling reaches under her skirt, flips open the butterfly switchblade, rears back and stabs him, pinning him to the wall by a knife through his palm. His roar echoes over the top of the music, or maybe I’ve just imagined it.

  Mouth parted in shock, I move to stand, but she’s already walking away, and by the time she reaches me, I’m up and following her without prompting. She only pauses for a moment to tip back her glass and finish her drink in one swallow.

  We exit the club and enter the car. As we pull out onto the street, Ling utters clinically, “Wasn’t that fun?”

  I don’t answer. In truth, it doesn’t sound much like a question, let alone a question one should answer.

  Blinking into the street, she mutters a quiet, “Yeah. That was fun.”

  Surrounded by laughing men letting loose with their drinks, I lean back in my chair and cradle my icy tumbler of straight up ouzo.

  Half-naked women hang off members of the many firms. To the side of the room, one of the guys graciously accepts a blow job that one of the broads has offered. Another bout of laughter takes over the men, and it irritates me to no end. Men in my world don’t laugh often. We meet once quarterly to talk a whole hour of business then dedicate the rest of the evening to shooting the shit.

  I don’t want to be here tonight.

  I’m agitated, unable to concentrate, because my main focus is currently sleeping in my bedroom, curled up in my bed. The fact is that I’m away from Alejandra, and that makes me uneasy.

  I wonder if she’s all right.

  My lip curls at a thought.

  If Ling fucks with her, goddamn it, I’ll make her sorry.

  How I wish I could just up and leave these cocky fucks to their own little party. But you don’t just leave one of these gatherings. That would be disrespectful, and I have seen men killed for less. You disrespect one of these men, and you leave in a body bag.

  For years, we have met on the first of every January, April, July and October to discuss what has been happening in our respective worlds. Around the time these firms of dangerous men united, many of the gangs were at war with each other. Times have changed. War was not productive. The men decided a treaty was necessary, and as long as no purposely directed offense was given—otherwise known as “throwing shade”—then all was well in the underground.

  Men who threw shade around here never lasted long. It only took a few months between the introduction of someone new, thinking they were hot as hell, believing they knew better than the rest of us, and wanting us to grovel at their feet. Then, suddenly, they were gone.

  Never to be seen again.

  Cocky assholes were okay as long as they kept it on a leash, but you never dishonored your brethren, which, in some unlikely way, we all were.

  While Marcos Demitriou gets his dick sucked, the conversation turns subdued.

  Aslan Sadik, a Turk of The Lost Boys, puts the lit cigar to his lips and puffs lightly, exhaling the thick smoke around him. “You all hear about what happened to Baris?”

  Silence ensues. Even Marcos stills, gently pushing away the kneeling woman who is all tits and fat lips. She pouts and he tucks himself into his pants before gently caressing her cheek, moving to rejoin the men.

  All eyes are on Aslan and, so fucking typical of the Turk, he loves the attention. He inhales deeply, speaking through his exhale. “Fucking cops got him. Knew where his safe house was. Found it all. Most of his men are dead. Those who aren’t are just waiting for the moment to hang themselves.” He looks around the room. “Heard one of his men already did, with the sheet from his hospital bed.” He mimes a noose being pulled around his neck. “It’s all over. There’s no recovering from that. He has lost everything.”

  The heavy accent of Titus Okoye, Liberian arms dealer, sounds into the silence. “How?” he asks, his dark face quizzical. “How did they find him?”

  Aslan doesn’t respond, simply looks around the room at the people around him with clear interest.

  Polar opposite of Titus, Lars Odegard of the Norwegian Pelt, looks his slender, pale face down at Aslan, his light blue eyes skeptical. “If I’m hearing correct, there is a note of accusation in your tone, Aslan.” At the clear statement, Aslan shrugs, his brows raised in mock innocence, and Lars runs a hand through his white-blond hair, looking as though he would love to throw his tumbler right in the center of Aslan’s forehead, leaving him a bloody mess.

  Lars in not appeased by Aslan’s silence on the matter. “Tell me, Turk, who of us would gain from Egon being knocked out of the game?”

  I’m not in the mood for this mindless debate, but Aslan is fucking with some serious men here tonight. Tensions are rising, and I need to restore the calm. With a light snuffle, I roll my eyes. “None of us have gained directly from Egon Baris being taken out, but in saying that, we are businessmen.” I grin around the table, easing the strain. “The question is not who would gain from that Albanian psychopath losing his place in our world.” A few of the men chuckle, while others smile in agreement. “The question is who of us would be stupid enough to not want to replace the services he no longer provides?”

  The men break out into enthusiastic laughter, clapping
and nodding in agreement at the words I have said that all the others were thinking. And Aslan’s solemn spell is over.

  I look Aslan in the eye, my own holding a warning, as I admit, “Because I would be all over that.” I lift my tumbler to my lips and throw it back, downing the contents in one smooth gulp, slamming my glass onto the table with a solid clink. “In a fucking heartbeat.”

  Elias Munoz, American-Argentinian boss of Los Gatos Negros, the guys you go to for all your party drug needs, raises his glass to me. “Well said, Julius. Insightful, as always.”

  I incline my head to him in silent thanks as a topless waitress comes over with a fresh tumbler of ouzo. Discreetly, I check my wristwatch and sigh at the display.

  10:07 p.m.

  Fuck me.

  I fight the urge to run a hand over my eyes and sigh tiredly. This get-together will last well into the night, and I’m stuck in a room full of horny men, when I could be in my bed, sleeping beside a walking wet dream.

  Figures that time would move slower than ever tonight.

  My fingers tap against the solid marble of the table, and I stare at the wall, thinking about what Alejandra would possibly tell me tomorrow. Nothing much shocks me anymore. All I can hope for is something I can use to help her, to set her free.

  Free.

  I frown at the word.

  In my opinion, freedom is overrated.

  The man tells us we have freedom of speech, but cuts us down when we say something that doesn’t meet his ideals. We have freedom to go where we please but are told to follow the path laid out for us. We’re told to speak our minds, but constantly have our mouths sewn shut, ordered to listen to those who apparently know better.

  No.

  Freedom is definitely overrated.

  Besides, it’s not like Alejandra will ever truly be free. She will be allowed a taste of it through me. The cost of her freedom comes at a high price, and when the time is right, I’ll lay it on her, and something tells me she’s going to be pissed as hell when it all comes to light.

  It doesn’t sit right with me, keeping it from her, but I know in my gut that after the smoke clears, she’ll take my gesture for what it is. The ultimate act of protection.

  The minutes pass slowly, and I don’t bother initiating conversation with anyone. I’m not much of a talker on the best of days. My attention is elsewhere, when a woman dressed in a black suit enters the room and bends at the waist to speak into the ear of Luka Pavlovic, nicknamed the Croatian Sensation by women everywhere, owner of the establishment we sit in right at this very moment, and because I don’t have my eyes on him, I miss the way he scowls at me.

  “Julius, brother.” From across the table, he all but growls, “You have a caller.”

  Silence, clear enough to hear a pin drop.

  All eyes on me.

  Well, fuck.

  This is not good. A cardinal rule broken. You never reveal the location of a meet and, lord knows, I didn’t. So who did?

  I can’t hide my bewilderment. “Excuse me?”

  The woman stands by Luka and relays the message. “A gentleman has asked to see you, Mr. Carter. He’s waiting in conference room two.”

  My eyes settle on Luka, and I respond calmly, sincerely, “I swear I don’t know what this is about. I didn’t tell a goddamned soul where I was going to be tonight.”

  The expression on my face must reveal my honesty, because, after a long moment of staring me down, Luka’s posture eases. He lifts his glass, sipping at it before placing it back on the table. “Then by all means”—he waves an arm towards the door—“see to your unexpected guest.”

  I stand, straighten my jacket and exit the room. Walking down the hall, I pause when I come to stand in front of the door with the bold number two on it. In the back of my mind, I wonder if this is a set-up. I wonder if the man is Gio. Unconsciously, I reach into the breast of my jacket and grip the handle of my .45-caliber gun, taking it out of its holster and holding it by my side just in case.

  Without further delay, I open the door, ready to meet whatever fate lies behind it.

  A man stands tall by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking down onto the street below, with his back to me. He utters a gravelly, “Close it behind you.”

  So I do, not yet willing to relinquish my weapon.

  I walk deeper into the room, taking in the tall gentleman. Dressed in a nicely fitted gunmetal gray suit, his salt-and-pepper hair styled just as it should be. When finally, he turns to face me, I frown. His hooded brown eyes, the shape of his brow, his face is somewhat familiar to me, but I can’t place it. But I don’t believe I’ve met this man before. He has to be pushing sixty.

  “Can I help you?”

  To my surprise, the old man looks down at the gun in my hand and tuts. “Put that away, boy. You’ll take somebody’s eye out.”

  With a puzzled glance, I do as I’m told, feeling much like a little boy being reprimanded by an uncle.

  He watches me closely, and when my weapon is out of sight, his face softens, the wrinkles around his eyes creasing with his easy smile. Holding out a sheet of paper, he reveals, “Got my boys to clean up and we took a lot of these down, but I’m bound to have missed some.”

  On the paper were two photographs, one of myself, one of Alejandra, both taken candidly. Above the photos, in bold black letters, is written ‘Have you seen these people?’ followed by a cock-and-bull story about stealing a motorized wheelchair from a single mother and her disabled daughter.

  Motherfucking Gio.

  The asshole isn’t as stupid as I originally thought.

  “Where did you get this?”

  The man walks over to the closest table, taking his time pulling out a chair and sitting slowly, as though he has all the time in the world.

  He does not answer.

  And it fuels my irritation. I snap, “Yo, Pops, I asked you a question.”

  The man returns, “And they’re the wrong questions to ask, Julius Carter.”

  My body tightens with pent-up frustration. “Who are you?”

  “Ah.” The man smiles deeply, crossing his ankle over his knee, and his dimples flash. “Now you’re getting there.” He watches me a long moment before he spreads his arms out by his sides and answers me. “My name is Antonio Falco.”

  I blink at this motherfucker a whole minute before I tip back my head and let laughter consume me. I laugh for minutes, hours, and the man simply watches me, a knowing smile on his face. I can’t contain my amusement, wiping away tears of mirth. “Listen here, old man. I knew Antonio Falco. He was my partner, my best friend, my brother. And you ain’t him.” Suddenly, my amusement fades as quickly as it began and I take a menacing step forward. “Shut your fucking mouth. You don’t say his name. You don’t even think it.”

  But the man’s smile deepens affectionately. “I know who you are, Julius. I know who you were to him, to Twitch. I know much about you that I’m sure you don’t even know about yourself.” His face turns stern. “But should you talk to me with such blatant disrespect in the future, I’ll pop you in the mouth myself, son.”

  Someone needs to call a nursing home, because Pops is clearly fucking crazy. Yet something about the way he looks at me, the way he speaks, has me calming my tone.

  I try once more, softer this time. “Who are you?”

  His eyes smile, as he relays, “I already told you that, Julius. I am Antonio Falco.”

  I huff out a breath of annoyance. I don’t have time for this shit.

  My feet move fast. I spin on my heel to get the fuck away from the mental patient when he utters the words that have me pausing in my tracks.

  “Antonio Falco,” the old man repeats, as I reach the closed door. Just as I move to open the door and call security to clear him out, he adds, “Senior.”

  And although my mind is doubtful, images of this man flash through my mind, and the familiarity in his face suddenly clicks.

  This man is an older version of Twitch.

 
The ride home was uneventful. Ling drove us back to the house in eerie, uncomfortable silence.

  I didn’t like it, but I also knew that asking about what happened at the club was asking for trouble. Yes, she had revealed a little about herself to me, and I no longer felt completely frightened of this woman, but tonight proved she was exactly as I imagined her to be.

  Brutal. Violent. Ruthless.

  My mind told me that knowing someone like Ling was good and she would make a useful ally. If I could only get her to tolerate me, we’d be in business. She didn’t need to know I planned on taking her place in this life. I would befriend her, but I would have to start slow.

  Baby steps.

  She pressed the button on the remote attached to the visor above her head, and the gates began to open. We drove into the compound that acted as Julius’s home, and when she parked out front and turned off the car, I jumped out and waited for her to do the same, walking with her to the front door.

  The door now unlocked, she opened it, let me through and then locked it behind us.

  I took a deep breath and made the decision to be kinder to Ling, starting now. “Hey,” I said, and when she turned to me, I smiled softly. “Thanks for taking me out tonight. I’ve never been out like that, not for a girls’ night, you know.”

  Fuck.

  In that one statement, I had already pushed too far, and from the way her brows narrowed at me, she knew something was up.

  So, of course, I kept going. Swallowing hard, I tried again with, “What I meant is that I don’t know what’s happening with me and Julius, but regardless of whatever goes down, together or not, I’m glad to have a woman around the house to talk to about girl things.”

  Oh shit. That was so condescending. I was making it worse.

  She took a step closer to me, and my cheeks flushed pink. I didn’t know what else to say, so I just blurted it out. “I hope we can be friends.”

  Ling’s face softened, and as my heart pounded in my ears, I breathed a discreet sigh of relief. She put her hand out to me, and with a smile, I moved to place mine in hers, to shake on it. I was so hopeful that I forgot to feel weary. Just as my fingers brushed hers, she pulled her hand back, away, and I didn’t see the action, but I most definitely felt the hard slap against my cheek.