Marauder (Gangsters of New York Book 2)

by Bella Di Corte

  At night when Scott went home, badge and gun on his side table, I knew he still thought about me. Just like his uncle in Louisiana still thought about Luca Fausti, the man who became his worst nightmare.

  I never killed one of his, yet my blood stained his soul at night. For what fucking reason? Maybe because his father could never catch mine? Not like he wanted to. Other than that, who fucking knows why one person becomes a personal devil to another?

  Yeah, I should’ve done my research years ago on the Stones, but I never realized what a dick Scott was until he started coming after me not long before my old man was killed right in front of him. He’d caught my scent back then, and it refused to leave his mind.

  So it became personal. He didn’t want me in a cage for ten years. He wanted me in a cage for the rest of my life.

  As for me?

  He owed me a heart, a life, and I’d hunt until no one in his life felt safe. I’d steal and steal until the one I knew would cost him the most was mine. And when he saw me with her, that look, the one I saw on his face when my father was killed, would be on mine.

  Two imposing wars led me to War III: Keely Shea Ryan.

  I had no doubt after seeing her in the cemetery—and several times after, though she didn’t see me—that out of all the wars I’d be facing, Keely Ryan would be the bloodiest for me.

  Call it a fucking hunch, but she was a strong girl with a sharp tongue, and she didn’t seem to know the meaning of the phrase “back down.” Even though I was taller than her, and much wider, she still told me she wanted to punch me in the face. If she’d had that bow and arrow of hers? I knew she was capable of bodily harm. She didn’t seem to have a filter, nor did she know how to control her temper.

  In the months after meeting her at the cemetery, I followed her and Stone, just to make sure that their relationship was moving in the right direction. He was putting the fucking charms on her, and if she wasn’t eating them up, I’d allow Stone to call me a bastard for the fun of it. She had convinced herself that she was falling for him. She even agreed to visit his family in Louisiana after the New Year.

  She fed her family some bullshit story about going on tour with the archery place where she worked so she wouldn’t have to tell them that she was going to meet Stone’s family—a collective bunch of cops, except for one cousin who was a firefighter. They called him the oddball of the family. (Ha ha—so fucking cliché.)

  It was a lover’s quarrel after the trip came and went and the fiery Keely didn’t ask Stone to meet her family in return. She gave him some bullshit excuse about needing time. His patience was getting thin, and I knew before long, he was going to take matters into his own hands and “accidentally” run into one of her two brothers who lived in New York. The other two lived with her parents in Scotland.

  Scott didn’t like when he didn’t get what he wanted, when he wanted.

  We had that in common. Maybe that was why he loathed me. We were too much alike, but on two separate sides of the law. Heroes sometimes walked the line of villain to do what was right, though Stone didn’t see it that way.

  It was much easier to connect the dots once I hired her brother, Harrison (or as I preferred to call him, Harry Boy), as my personal attorney. He was a smart fella, a good head on his shoulders, but with one major downfall—he had fallen in love with his sister’s best friend, a poor girl named Mari. I mean that literally: The girl was dirt poor, and she refused every offer of help Harry Boy offered. He couldn’t get his head out of her clouds, so when I started to question him about certain aspects of his life, it was easy to paint a clear picture.

  He knew who he was working for, yet he did it anyway, thinking he could convince Mari that he was the man for her. I could’ve told him he was squandering his time. She looked at him like a brother, but men in the throes of love can’t see through the rosy-colored glasses they wear.

  It worked out for me, though. All of my chips were falling into place. Every village I’d decided to pillage was mine for the taking. But I was a superstitious son of a bitch, and I believed two things: nothing is ever free, and nothing that looks or feels easy is ever that fucking easy.

  One of these wars was going to kill me.

  If I were to wager, the fatal blow would come from the fiery redhead, the archer. Her arrow coming straight for my heart would be the last thing I saw before hell came to collect me. But before she claimed my heart, I was going to claim hers, if it was the last thing I ever fucking did. And then I was going to smile at Stone as the life drained from my face.

  I had no true quarrel with Harry Boy or his sister, but when it came to Keely Ryan’s feelings or my own, she’d have to contend with what life was about to hand her.

  Me.

  Not that it mattered, but I wanted to know what I’d be getting in this one-sided deal, and that was the reason for our meeting at the cemetery. From the moments I spent with her, I was sure of two things: She wouldn’t become a blubbering mess, and she wouldn’t become so frail that I’d fear breaking her.

  Breaking something smaller than me was not in my nature, nor was it my intention. But I knew she was going to be as mad as hell, and there was no doubt I was going to have a vicious fight on my hands.

  The thing about hands, though? Just like feet, they can be tied up, rendered useless. The man about to walk into my office might as well been named “Thread.” He called Mari, the girl he was after, Strings, so it was fitting.

  Right on time, a knock came at my office door.

  “Come in,” I said, sitting back in my chair.

  No one entered into my personal space unless invited. I had trusted two people in this world completely, my father and my brother. My father was gone, and my brother might as well have been. Therefore, I trusted no one. Which led me to touch the gun I kept close. It was strapped underneath the desk, ready if I needed it.

  “Boss,” Harry Boy said, entering. “Raff said you wanted to see me.”

  I looked him over from head to toe before inviting him to sit. The money he was making from working for me was working for him. He’d ditched the flannels and jeans—that attire didn’t go over with me, even if my business was unconventional—and had started getting his suits custom-made. I knew a guy who knew a guy. Harry Boy was clean-shaven and smelled of a fine cologne instead of something bought at a drug store. He had respect for the job, for his purpose, which I encouraged in all of my men.

  “Sit,” I said, motioning to one of two open seats in front of my desk.

  He fixed his suit before he took the seat. He looked at me and I looked at him.

  “Did you meet with Rocco Fausti?” I said.

  “Today. All looks good with your investments.”

  Rocco Fausti was the son of Luca Fausti, one of the most dangerous men of the Fausti family. Rocco and his brothers were just as dangerous if you crossed them or anyone they considered theirs. However, if you wanted someone to triple your money—or even more—Rocco had a brilliant mind for it. My father was fond of saying that he could turn a penny into a million dollars.

  There was a reason why I sent Harry Boy to the meeting with Rocco. Even though the Fausti family mostly stayed out of business matters that didn’t concern them, if wars were erupting between families, or new leaders were trying to make a name, that sort of thing, they kept tabs on the situation.

  I was sending Rocco a message: No need to check on me again. I have things under control. I even have a lawyer who’s dealing with my legal shit.

  There were multiple wars going on (or was it just one?), and no one knew who was starting them. All of the five families were blaming each other. At the end of it all? A dead end. So everyone assumed the one they’d originally accused had done the crime against them.

  My gut told me that someone was starting shit between them on purpose. Whoever did me a “favor” by killing Cormick was going to come looking for payment in the form of a favor sooner or later. And whoever killed Cormick had done it for a simple reason: Favo
rs were highly valued in this life. It was good to keep them close to the vest, ready to pull out when that golden “get out of jail” ticket was needed.

  Whoever killed Cormick was above average, though. He’d made it look like me. Which also meant that he was starting shit with me, too. A man must kill when he must, and I never took a life that didn’t deserve it, but whoever had killed Cormick Grady had set my war on his terms.

  Harry Boy cleared his throat, and I realized I’d been staring at him. I sat forward a little, setting my hands on the desk. “I’m pleased with the job you’ve been doing.”

  “I do my best.” He smiled.

  “That you do.” I nodded. “But here’s the thing, Harry Boy. My old man always felt the need to meet the families of his workers. I’m keeping that tradition. It makes things more personal. You understand.”

  “I do.” He nodded. “But my family—”

  “Your Mam and Da live in Scotland now. Your two brothers are there with them. We’ll get to them later.” I waved a dismissive hand. “You have a brother here.”

  “And a sister,” he said, nodding before I could even finish.

  “And a sister.” I grinned. “I’d like you to set up a meeting. We can do dinner.”

  His eyes narrowed before they lifted. “My brother—”

  “He’s out of town,” I said.

  Harry Boy became quiet for a moment, before he nodded. “My sister—” he paused. “She’s working at a fair this weekend. You might even enjoy it. It’s a medieval Scottish fair being held in upstate New York. Keely—that’s my sister—she’s savage with a bow and arrow. She’s going to demonstrate how shooting an arrow should really look.”

  “Is she now?” My words rolled out slow. “That’s interesting.”

  Harry Boy brightened. “Yeah, she’s…it’s hard to explain how accurate she is. She’s really good, and she enjoys it, but she’s really out to land a part in a Broadway play.”

  “Grand.”

  “We could meet at the fair.”

  I handed him a piece of paper and a pen. “Write down the information. Date and time.”

  He took the pen and paper, getting to work, jotting down the information I already had.

  “It’s never too early to meet the family,” I said. “It creates a tighter bond. And this business? It’s family-oriented.”

  He looked up at me and smiled, then pushed the paper closer to me. “For sure.”

  Good boy.

  “While I have you.” I opened the drawer to my desk, digging around. When I found what I was looking for, I threw them at Harry Boy.

  He caught the keys with one hand.

  “Like I said, I appreciate your work ethic. Think of the car as a bonus. It purrs real pretty for its age. ’69 Dodge Charger. Completely restored.”

  He went to hand me back the keys, but I held a hand up. “One thing about me, Harry Boy—once I make a decision, it’s done. You hand me back those keys, you insult me. Then we have a problem. You don’t want a problem with me, do you?”

  “No.” He cleared his throat. He held the keys up. “I appreciate it, Boss.”

  “You earned it. Now get back to work.” I dismissed him with a hand. “I’ll see you and your sister at the fair.”

  5

  Cash

  Raff announced that I had company before I left for the fair.

  Rocco Fausti stood from his seat in the waiting room, straightening his expensive suit.

  He nodded at me. “Cashel.”

  No one called me Cashel but my family, since my mother supposedly picked the name, but out of respect for Rocco and his family, I never corrected him.

  I held my hand out and we shook. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  He looked me over from head to toe. “I caught you on your way out.”

  He could say that. I was dressed in plain clothes, not a suit, and whenever our circle met, we always wore clothes that showed respect to the job, and to us as men. It symbolized that we knew our worth in a world we fought hard to live in.

  Instead of addressing my clothes, though, I invited him inside my office. If the Faustis were anything on the outside, it was professional, but whenever one of them was around, I always felt the sensitive spot on my neck—the one that can take even a dangerous animal’s life in a second—tingle with warning.

  This couldn’t be stressed enough:

  They. Were. Not. To. Be. Fucked. With.

  Period.

  Many had tried, and those many were never to be heard from again.

  “You first.” Rocco motioned toward my office door.

  They never walked ahead, always behind. Not because they didn’t consider themselves the top of the food chain either. It was because men like them, like me, knew the feeling of that eerie tingle.

  He accepted a glass of fine whiskey and then got comfortable in his seat across from me. “Tell me about your graduation.”

  I grinned at him. “Grand. Just grand. Best education life can afford.” I knocked hard on the desk once with a knuckle. “I’m officially a graduate of the school of hard knocks.”

  He lifted his glass to me and took a sip. After the fine burn of it went down, he set the glass on my desk. “I will not keep you long. You were too polite to tell me you were on your way out, so I will keep this short.”

  “Don’t rush on my account. I have time.”

  He nodded. “There hasn’t been much noise from this end.”

  “No,” I said. “It seemed to fall right back into my palm. However.” I lifted a finger and then took a sip from my own glass of whiskey. “I know what’s coming.”

  “A wise man would know his odds before going into battle.”

  “Ten to one.” I grinned.

  “Ah,” he said, reaching for the glass again. “I’ll give you better odds than that. My grandfather and father were fond of your father. If you follow in his footsteps, I can assure you the same fondness will be passed down to you, as well. You will succeed where your father couldn’t.”

  I lifted my glass. “That means a great deal to me.”

  We clanked glasses and then drained the rest of the liquid.

  I set my empty glass down on the desk. “I have every intention of following in my father’s footsteps. This area was his heart. His legacy will live on.”

  “Spoken like a true poet and a good son.” Rocco grinned. Then he reached into his pocket and handed me a gold card with black scribble on it.

  You owe me.

  Mac

  The card naturally slid between my pointer and middle finger, and I lifted them up so the card was facing him. I said one word. “Cormick.”

  He nodded. “It is always wise to have an ally in times of war.”

  Breaking eye contact, I stared at the card for a moment longer. “One I owe a favor.” Then I met his stare again.

  He shrugged. “Business is business. We do what we must to close the deal.”

  “To secure it,” I said.

  “Neither here nor there. Rest assured. His intentions run parallel with yours, as long as your intentions stay true to course.”

  It wasn’t always what was said in this business that made the difference—it was how it was said. The Faustis could be blunt if they wanted to, but the art of subtlety ran through their blood like a unique DNA.

  Rocco’s words translated: As long as you don’t fuck us over, and whoever this Mac is, he’ll play nice with you. We’ll play nice with you.

  Mac was offering me an easier way in, which meant that the Faustis, along with whoever this Mac was, wanted me where I was. But the question still stood: why? I knew better than to ask a dumb question that would go without an answer anyway.

  Yeah, kids, there is such a thing as a stupid fucking question.

  Rocco slid another card toward me. “You’ve earned your degree, Kelly. It’s been a while since you’ve seen the city. Dinner is on me.”

  Macchiavello’s. I’d heard it was the new “it” restaurant i
n town. High-powered business suits and dresses dined there. So did numerous men who had numerous ranks in numerous connected families. Word on the street was that the steak was worth your first-born.

  I lifted the card. “I’ll try the steak.”

  “Excellent choice. They also make the best Old Fashioned in the city.”

  I nodded. “Duly noted.” I lifted the card again. “I appreciate this.”

  Rocco stood, fixing his suit as he did. I stood right after and held my hand out. We shook again, and it was as good as him leaning over the desk and kissing each of my cheeks. Then he gestured toward the door, inviting me to leave my office first.

  Once we were outside and he was about to slide into the driver’s seat of his $500,000 car, I stopped him.

  “Mac,” I said. “Any distinguishing marks I should know of?”

  Rocco grinned at me, sliding his sunglasses over his eyes. “If I tell you, it will take the fun out if it.”

  “I’m a boring man,” I said. “I’m allergic to fun. It sends me into anaphylactic shock.”

  He laughed, his teeth bright white, as he got in the car and left.

  “Cash,” Raff said, looking around. “Where the feck are we? Is this some kind of joke?”

  “You know what’s a joke?” I slapped him on the back of his head. “Whenever you curse, you suddenly have an Irish accent.”

  “That’s because I am Irish!”

  “Part-time Irish. The rest of the time you’re a New Yorker with a New Yorker’s accent.”

  “It’s not my fault my parents immigrated here before I was born. And it’s not my fault that the only time my Irish comes out is when I swear.”

  He looked around again, nodding to a family dressed in old Scottish attire. “Haven’t these people got the fucking memo? Medieval is out. Twentieth century is in. We prefer modern-day medicine and boxed mac and cheese. Tell me they have beer. Or do we have to drink cider?”