Run This Town: Complete Series

by Sadie Black

  Thoughts like that were dangerous —she’d allowed ambition to blind her before, and it almost cost her true happiness. For now, she had to adjust to the idea that she would be New York’s first lady. Such an influential position would open a world of possibilities up to her, and Ciara knew she could do good.

  “You’ve arrived, Luka. I won’t officially arrive until October seventh, and that’s almost a year away.”

  “We’ll push the wedding up if you want it. Personally, I’d take you to the court house right now and sign the papers. As far as I’m concerned, you’re my First Lady, you’re just not allowed to live here until we’re official. Taxpayers don’t want to think they’re funding the mayor’s scandalous, unwed affairs.” He rolled his eyes dramatically at the outdated rule.

  A shotgun wedding; now that would be a real scandal. Ciara looked from the house and to Luka, shaking her head.

  “We’ve got to give the public something to look forward to,” she said. “Besides, your poor mother, I don’t know what she’d do if we called off the ceremony and eloped. She texts me every day with new ideas for the flowers, or venue, or decor. I can wait. We’re still living together anyway, so I can wait to make it official.”

  The sky darkened, it looked like snow was on the way. The first Monday of January would be Luka’s official start. It would be a cold one if the late December weather meant anything. The Manhattan condo they shared seemed to leech heat. Until they got it fixed up, the place would be chilly, luckily they were good at warming each other up.

  “Exactly. Everything will be okay. I do my work here and come home to you in the evenings.”

  His right hand squeezed her left thigh in reassurance, and Ciara managed a smile. This was a time of celebration, a chance to get a fresh start and embrace a new life. Being engaged to the new mayor of New York was a big deal and being in a relationship meant compromise. Her time would come — right now Luka needed her to be there for him. She wasn’t about to ruin his big moment by poisoning it with her own insecurities.

  “Let me show you the house,” Luka said. “You’re going to love it.”

  Two decades ago, Luka had lived in this sprawling mansion while his father served his terms in office. Most of the population considered Marcello the greatest mayor New York had ever known. His son, Luka had large shoes to fill. Only time would tell if he would fit them.

  Ciara stepped out into the chilly December afternoon. Her boots clacked as they climbed the gray stairs to the veranda. “Just like old times,” he murmured to himself as the door opened, hinges creaking. A blast of warm air rushed out to meet them, and Ciara gladly followed Luka into the entry hall.

  Grand wasn’t the word for it. From the gorgeous checkerboard marble floor, to the detailed crown molding, no expense was spared to make this place beautiful. Did Luka really grow up here?

  Ciara’s own childhood was spent bouncing from apartment to apartment, sleeping on floors when things got bad. She’d long ago left her dysfunctional family behind, choosing to live with friends at the age of sixteen. It was jarring to know that this would be her life now. From working tirelessly for scholarships and grants, to becoming the leading lady of New York. Overwhelmed, didn’t seem to be a big enough word.

  “There’s staff that takes care of maintenance,” Luka explained as he led her through the hall. “The domestic part of the house is separate from the business side of the house, except for a secret doorway in the pantry.”

  “How do you know about it?” Ciara asked. They had turned to the left and into a library. Thousands of books occupied bookshelves, stretching from the floor to the ceiling. A chandelier, like the one in Marcello’s home on fifth avenue, lit the room. In fact, now that Ciara noticed the similarity, she spotted several others between the two homes. It was clear that the senior Belmonte’s heart still lay in Gracie Mansion. No wonder he was so proud of Luka’s victory.

  “When we lived here, I was an eight-year-old boy with a mansion to explore,” Luka replied with a shrug. “I don’t think there is a crawlspace or concealed trap door I don’t know about. The door in the pantry is nothing compared to some of the secrets this house has.”

  Secrets. An established history. As Ciara walked through the house that was to be hers in the future, she also walked through Luka’s past.

  “Well, now you’re twenty years older, and this house is old news. What kind of fun are you going to get up to now?”

  The sultry twist in her tone left little question about her meaning. All at once Luka turned, catching both of her arms and holding her still as he looked down upon her. Gentle brown eyes had narrowed, but the glint in them spoke of lust rather than anger. The smirk on his face was one he gave to her, and her alone.

  “I’m thinking of doing a different kind of exploring,” he whispered in her ear. The atmosphere thickened between them, and Ciara shuddered. Heat pooled in her loins like tea steeping through hot water. “There’s one passage in particular I’m interesting in getting familiar with.”

  “Maybe I can help you with that,” she whispered back.

  “Oh, I’m counting on it,” Luka said. A brief nip to her earlobe weakened Ciara’s knees. If he wasn’t holding her, she might have fallen to the floor. No matter how much sex they had, being with Luka always felt fresh and exciting. Ciara prayed the feeling would never die.

  “Then why don’t you—”

  A chorus of bells interrupted her thought, and the moment broke. Luka released her and fished the phone out of his coat pocket to look at the caller ID.

  “It’s my mom,” he announced. “I’ve gotta take it. Sorry, Ciara.”

  Standing as close as she was, Ciara couldn’t hear the details of the conversation, but she could hear the pitch of Camilla Belmonte’s words. Both frantic and fast paced, this was no ordinary call — something was wrong. And as Luka’s face blanched, Ciara knew that whatever it was, it was serious.

  “Okay mom, I’m on my way. Be strong for me. I love you.” The call ended abruptly, and Luka took her by the hand and led her at a brisk pace back toward the front door. The tour was over.

  “What happened?” Ciara asked, almost jogging to keep his pace. Luka’s eyes were set dead ahead, mirth stolen from him.

  “Dad was in an accident. It’s bad.”

  Nothing more needed to be said. Luka and Marcello may have butted heads, but Luka’s family was the most important thing in his life. No matter what happened, Ciara would be there for him. For now, all she could do was hope that Marcello would be okay.

  * * *

  Luka

  Pavement flew beneath the tires of Luka Belmonte’s Corvette, the yellow lines reduced to electric blurs. The gas pedal couldn’t sink low enough, and the cars ahead couldn’t move slower. Frustration grew, and Luka gripped the leather steering wheel until his knuckles popped. Ciara slipped a hand onto his thigh in solidarity, but not even her presence soothed him now. Toxic thoughts spat from the dark recesses of his mind.

  Luka’s palm slapped the radio’s on button, and classic rock flooded the car to drown out his thoughts. Ciara’s hand tightened, then pulled away. Luka reached down, bringing her hand back. He refused to take any of this out on her. She was just an innocent caught in the battlefield of his emotions. Luka knew full well he was already on thin ice, and that it was a miracle a woman like Ciara would put up with his shit.

  “Try to call her again,” Luka said, his voice ice. His phone sat in Ciara’s lap. Since the call with his mother, he’d been trying to call her back to get details.

  From the corner of his eye he saw Ciara dial and lift the phone to her ear, but after a handful of seconds, he knew it was useless. Why wasn’t his mother picking up the phone? He regretted that he hung up from shock back at Gracie Mansion.

  “She still isn’t answering.”

  “Keep calling. If you get a hold of her, tell her we’ll be there in five minutes, less if these fuckwads would learn how to fucking drive.”

  Ciara’s full
lips twitched into a concerned frown, but she didn’t object. Later he’d thank her for her thoughtfulness and understanding; but now his focus was on his father.

  Luka, there’s been a terrible accident. On the phone his mother had already started to cry. Your father... He... Luka, he’s in the hospital. We’re in the hospital. I need you here. Please. Please come quickly.

  Over and over, the hitched, frightened nuances in her voice haunted him. Camilla Belmonte was a gentle soul, and it wasn’t the first time he’d heard his mother cry, but she’d never been this distraught. Not even when she had sat him down to tell him about her cancer diagnosis. Something was wrong. Catastrophically wrong. Luka could only hope he’d get there in time.

  The hospital parking lot was crowded. Luka double parked in front of a car piled high with snow and sprang from the vehicle. Ciara followed as he plunked through the snowy ground to the hospital. The distant, plowed path that wound leisurely to the front door was too far away to be an option.

  “Hello? Camilla? It’s Ciara.” Behind him, Ciara had finally gotten through to his mother. Luka trudged forward, cutting through the snow bank, until he reached the paved drive before the hospital doors. Ciara coached his mother through the call. “Take a deep breath and tell me what floor you’re on. We’re at the hospital. We’re coming up.”

  Even at a distance, Luka could hear his mother’s warbling wails from the phone’s speaker. Her agony twisted his heart, but he kept his face stony and inexpressive. Right now his mother needed a rock, and with his father injured, he had to fill that role.

  “Third? Okay. We’re on our way. Stay strong, okay? We’ll see you in a few seconds.”

  The elevator doors were already open, with Ciara beside him, Luka jammed his thumb down on the close button. When the elevator began to rise, he paced back and forth as he waited, unable to keep still. It felt like if he stood in one place, his thoughts would catch up with him.

  A small tremor signaled the end of their ascent, and the elevator doors opened onto the third floor. Seated on a plastic chair was his mother, who rose like a newborn fawn to her feet and lurched across the hallway to him. Paired with her hairless, cancer ridden body, she looked like a walking corpse. Luka ran forward and caught her in his arms, holding her close. From head to foot she trembled, and her thin frame seemed so much more brittle than it had just the day before. Grief had ruined her.

  “Luka,” she croaked through her tears, “he’s dead.”

  Dead.

  For a moment, there were only sights and sounds as Luka’s mind ceased to understand the world around him. Sweaty, sallow skin, stretched across his mothers bones. Cancer had atrophied her muscles, leaving her little more than a skeleton. Each of her sobs drowned out the gentle, vapid pop music that played quietly in the background. A hand met the small of his back in support, and Ciara rested her head against his shoulder. Luka’s body felt the small comfort, his nose smelled her sweet white tea perfume, but he couldn’t register any of it. He was hollow.

  “Luka,” his mother wailed. Her thin hands clenched against the front of his shirt, using him for support. If Luka’s arms weren’t around her, she would have sunk to the floor, unable to support herself. Luka knew that her knees had given out.

  Over the anguished sobs, he could hear a love song. Could hear the lyrics and the saccharine cooing of the female lead. The jarring divide stirred him from his stupor, stirring his anger. Not even the back and forth of Ciara’s hand on his back could sooth the beast, but Luka held back. First, his mother. She needed to rest. If she continued on like this, her health would deteriorate.

  “Ciara, take my mother to sit down while I handle this.”

  “Luka, you should—”

  “Do as I say.” Luka pulled his mother from his chest and saw her into the safety of Ciara’s arms. It wasn’t exactly disrespectful, but he knew he would regret how he treated her later. For the moment, there was only so much he could do while still keeping himself in check. He would make it up to her.

  Camilla, desperate to latch on to a familiar body, hooked her arms around Ciara’s neck. With genuine care, Ciara wrapped her arms around the woman in a loose hug, whispering soothing words. Luka couldn’t pick the sounds apart, but for a moment his mother stopped sobbing. Ciara directed her back to the plastic chairs against the wall. Luka turned in a slow circle searching for someone, anyone, to find out what happened.

  A young man in a lab coat and pale green scrubs exited a nearby room and closed the door softly behind him. Luka’s eyes zoned in on him, and he strode across the small lobby toward the doctor. As he approached, the man looked up, and his expression tightened.

  “Doctor,” Luka said, tense. There was no way the man didn’t recognize him, unless he’d been living under a rock. But no signs of recognition lit his features. “Luka Belmonte. I was told my father was brought here. Marcello Belmonte. What happened?”

  “Marcello Belmonte,” the man murmured as if the name didn’t ring a bell. Luka’s anger swelled. New York knew Marcello Belmonte. New York knew Luka Belmonte now just as well. What was the doctor doing? Playing a sick game?

  “The Marcello Belmonte,” Luka snarled. “The man my mother came to see about.” He jerked a hand back in a sweeping gesture to where his mother wept against Ciara’s shoulder. She had begun to howl again, the wretched sounds of a woman whose heart had been torn in half.

  “Oh, yes,” the doctor said. “He was brought in half an hour ago. There was a traffic accident. When the ambulance picked him up he was in critical condition, but still breathing. By the time the vehicle arrived at the hospital, he had passed away. I’m sorry.”

  Was this how they did it? The words were blunt and detached. You’d think the doctor was talking about a stray dog, not a human life. Luka’s upper lip twitched, and he pulled it back in a feral snarl. How dare he treat his father like nothing? Marcello was more of a man than he’d ever be. He’d done greater things in his twilight years than most men did in their entire lives.

  “Where is he?” Luka demanded. If no one else would pay his father respect, he would make sure the man was looked after — even if he was a corpse. The reality had yet to fully sink in. His father couldn’t really be dead, could he? The doctors had missed something. The old man was far too stubborn to give in that easy, was far too healthy and vibrant to die. All this time Luka had prepared for his mother’s death, but as she was finishing her chemo, it was his father who left him.

  What kind of cruel joke was that?

  The doctor’s scrubs were smeared with blood, but his coat was clean. Luka’s eyes focused on the stains to distract himself from the man’s smug face. It was all he could do to keep from slugging the look off his face.

  “It was a bad accident,” the doctor said, continuing on as if it were nothing. As though he were a telemarketer reading from a script. Was this what insurance paid for these days? Luka’s disgust mingled with his anger and left him physically ill. “There was a lot of damage done, he’s not recognizable. We’re not advising family to view the corpse until some reconstructive work is done.”

  “I want to see him.”

  “Sir,” the young doctor said, hesitance in his voice. “I don’t think—”

  “LET ME SEE HIM.” It was the first time since his appearance on Late Nights With Ryan Breece that he’d raised his voice like that, and from the way the doctor shirked away, it seemed as though the world had forgotten about his short temper. Let him cower; no one refused Luka Belmonte, not when it came to matters as important as this. The cowardice of the cocky doctor felt satisfying, but Luka could not bring himself to smirk.

  “If you insist,” the doctor said, avoiding eye contact. “You’ve been warned.”

  “Cut the bullshit stalling,” Luka hissed, “and take me to him.”

  At last the quack began to move, and Luka tailed him closely. Why didn’t he walk faster? Why didn’t he give a shit? The sounds of his mother’s wails, muffled as they were by Ciara’s sho
ulder, was enough to drive him crazy. Like an animal in a cage too small, Luka was bound by his skin, bound to follow the doctor’s pace like a Ferrari behind a tractor, bound to the sounds of death. He wanted out.

  “He’s through here,” the doctor said at last, gesturing to a closed door. The young man had turned to approach it, but now that Luka knew where he was going, he wouldn’t wait any longer. Long, rapid strides helped him cut in front of the doctor, and he shouldered his way into the room on his own.

  “Sir!”

  But there was nothing anyone could say to stop Luka at that point.

  Not recognizable didn’t begin to describe it. Luka’s hand clenched down on the curtain he’d wrenched back as his knees grew weak. Marcello Belmonte was a proud man who always sat with a straight back and a level chin. He was the kind of man who wore a suit to a barbecue, just in case there were connections to be made. He was the kind of man who never cried — the one time Luka had seen him succumb to his emotions was when Luka’s mother had been diagnosed with cancer. That night Marcello had slipped away after dinner, and Luka had found him upstairs in his room, weeping. Now there were no more chances to shed tears; Marcello was little more than a raw slab of meat.

  The man’s skull had broken in multiple places, the pulp that was now his face sunken backwards into his cranial cavity. One of his arms was secured by a single ligament, the rest cleanly amputated at the shoulder. The front of his body was torn open, thighs scraped down to the bone, the skin of his chest stripped away.

  Luka’s stomach turned. Not recognizable? No. He’d never have guessed that this was his father’s body. The only tell was what remained of his dark hair, and the remnants of the suit he wore. The arm still attached to his body hung over the side of the stretcher, exposing the custom gold ‘B’ cuff link he always wore. Luka swallowed the saliva that built in his mouth and turned his head toward the young doctor who loitered in the doorway.

  “Not recognizable?” he choked. “This... This is...”