Dirty Debt: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance

by Teagan Kade

  Morgan smiles. He’s not adverse to a donut or three himself. “Okay, boys. I’ll give this Agent Anderson a call and see what he can do. And there are more strings that I can pull. I might have to shell out some season passes, but fuck it. If it keeps Sam safe and you guys happy, I’m all for it.”

  “Thank you, Morgan,” I say, and I sure as fuck mean it.

  David nods in solidarity and we both head outside, David softly closing the door to Morgan’s office. “You think he’ll do it?”

  “He’ll do it.”

  “And if he can’t get the Feds on board?”

  My fist tightens by my side. “We take matters into our own hands.”

  But our little vigilante mission is not to be. Morgan does come through. A meeting is arranged downtown the very next day.

  Sam’s nervous sitting beside me in the Hummer.

  I take her hand. “This Hummer used to belong to 50 Cent, you know.” I tap the window. “Bulletproof glass, and fuck, think of how many people wanted him dead.”

  It’s a poor choice of words, but Sam still smiles. “This is far too much to ask of Morgan, and you.”

  “We’re happy to do it. Whatever it takes to keep you safe.”

  “What if you can’t?”

  I sense the defeat in her voice. I take her by the shoulders, hold her tight. “Don’t say that.”

  She looks away, but I draw her face back with a finger under her chin, gaze deep into her eyes. “You’re with me. You are safe.”

  She nods, another smile, but it’s a show.

  We arrive at one of the Bureau satellite offices, a non-descript concrete block that doesn’t get any cheerier the deeper we go into it.

  It’s the three of us—Sam, Morgan and I.

  Sam tells them everything, right from the top. We ran over it before we came, made sure we got details right and left nothing out, especially the pressing nature of the threat. These guys have to know it’s serious.

  Agent Anderson didn’t turn out to be a great deal of help, but he does return with another agent, both of them entering the interrogation room we’re in.

  Anderson pulls the chair out and allows the other agent to sit down. “This is Agent Roderick. He’s head of the Organized Crime Division. If anyone knows what’s going on here, it’s him.”

  Roderick, a hard-cut middle-aged man, takes a seat and slides an enlargement of the photo I took of the two men onto the table. It looks a lot sharper and clearer than I remember. “Given what we can make out, your buddies here are Michael and Eizo DiLucca, brothers and hitters for the Vegas Mob.”

  I run a hand through my hair. “Fucking hell.”

  Sam doesn’t say a word.

  Morgan jumps in. “Can she go into protective custody?”

  Roderick and Anderson exchange a look.

  “What?” I ask. “You are going to put her into protective custody, aren’t you? Her fucking life is in danger.” I jab the picture. “This is proof.”

  Roderick leans towards us, hands together. “I’m afraid it would be premature.”

  That’s it. I fucking explode, leaping up, the chair I was in crashes to the ground. “Prema-fucking-ture? Jesus Christ! Are you even listening?”

  Morgan tries to calm me down, but I shrug him off. “No!” I point to the agents. “What the fuck are you going to do about this?”

  “That’s just it,” continues Roderick, “until they make a move, we can’t do anything.”

  “You motherfuc—”

  I’m halfway across the table to him when Morgan manages to pull me off, pushing me towards the door as I shout and curse. He might be bloating out a little in the stomach area, but the fucker’s strong as ever.

  When he’s got me outside, he closes the door and tells me again to calm down. “For fuck’s sake, son. Get a grip. So they’re not going to put her into protective custody. Do you think your little meltdown is going to help matters? What we are getting here is information—valuable information we wouldn’t otherwise have access to and which, using our own resources, we can put to good use.”

  “You’re going to take on the Mob? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “If we have to.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know, Morgan. This is going to shit.”

  “Think about it like a game, son. It’s the fourth quarter and you’ve got a defensive line facing you that’s the modern day equivalent of the Roman Army. What are you going to do? Are you going to give up or are you going to fight like you’ve proved you can time and time again?” He pokes me in the chest. “The Chance Adams I know is not defeated so easily.”

  “But that’s just it,” I retort. “This isn’t a game. This is someone’s life, someone I care deeply for.”

  He locks eyes with me. “All the more reason, I’d say.”

  My fingers dance on Sam’s back. The air conditioning at the stadium is still down and Sam’s trailer is basically a giant pressure cooker. A stand-up fan I found at the back of the storage area blows lukewarm air over our prone bodies. I lift myself a little, the sheets sticking.

  Sam’s simply lying there looking sideways. She’s definitely been more distant since we got back. It was a bad idea. Knowing the FBI couldn’t help? That didn’t help matters.

  I roll her over, her breasts rosy and flushed, her nipples still hard and erect. “Sam, forget about the FBI.”

  “I can’t. What am I up against if even they can’t do anything? I’m doomed.”

  “You are not doomed.” I play with the soft hairs at her temple. “I promised to protect you and that is exactly what I’m going to do.”

  “Whatever it takes?”

  “Whatever it takes,” I repeat.

  And by god I fucking will, even if it means my life.

  As if she’s reading my thoughts, she says “I don’t want you get hurt, Chance. Not because of me.”

  “You let me worry about that.”

  “I’m serious, Chance.”

  “So am I.”

  I run my hand around her side, run my fingers lightly around a nipple. I use my other hand to shift into the hot space between her legs. “What can I do to help you forget about it?”

  She gasps, eyes closing. “But we just…”

  I work a finger inside her. “As they say, once is never enough.”

  With the AC on the fritz, I organize for Georgio to bring his food truck onto stadium grounds and set up right there in front of Sam’s trailer, table and everything just like our first date. I’m hoping it will help distract her a little.

  It seems to be working. She’s smiling, Georgio’s sitting with us and regaling her with endless stories of army life.

  She laughs again. “You really got peed on?”

  Georgio places his hand on his heart. “Swear to the Lord Almighty. We were bunkered down in that ditch hard when that Al Qaeda convoy came through, and the one place they decided to pull over for a piss? Well, you get the idea. I thought the sound of it pinging off my helmet would give us all away.”

  “I thought you had your mouth open?” I interject.

  Georgio kicks my chair. “I don’t know what kinky shit you get up to, pornstar, but golden showers aren’t my thing.”

  I smile harder. “No, but I do hear you’re a big fan of ladies under—”

  I don’t get to finish the sentence before Georgio is on me, the two of us rolling on the ground.

  One of the security guards comes rushing over, but I manage to get to my feet and hold my hand up. “It’s all good. Just having a friendly tumble.”

  The security guard looks to Sam, clearly not ready to believe us two bozos.

  She smiles back and shrugs her shoulders. “Boys being boys, I suppose.”

  Placated, the security guard heads back to his post by the stadium entrance.

  Georgio takes a seat. “Whoa, everyone’s a little edgy around here, aren’t they?”

  I cut him a look.

  “What?” he says.

  “How
about you shut that ugly mug of yours and dial us up some grub?”

  Georgio kicks my chair again. “You’re paying, Gunner.”

  “I always pay,” I reply.

  Georgio winks at me. “Which is why I always order the most expensive thing on the menu.”

  Georgio heads into the back of the truck laughing.

  I take another look around. It’s not Santa Monica beach, but hopefully it’s a nice change for Sam.

  I look up to the sky, the white disc of the sun beating down on the umbrella above us. “How long do you think this can possibly go on?”

  But Sam doesn’t reply. She probably can’t tell whether I’m talking about the heatwave or the fact she’s still a prisoner here.

  Chapter 15

  Eizo

  “How long are we going to sit out here staring up at this shithole?”

  Michael turns towards me in the driver’s seat. He doesn’t like being disturbed when he’s listening to his classical composer bullshit, but I’m in serious need of action. We came here for a hit, not to spend twenty-four hours stuck in this excuse of an automobile sipping on lukewarm coffee you wouldn’t feed to your dog.

  Michael’s brown eyes focus on mine in the darkness. “Did you know Schubert was given the nickname ‘Little Mushroom’ because of his height?”

  I hate his endless trivia. “I think we covered the whole you’re-taller-than-me thing when we were kids, didn’t we?”

  We might be brothers, but in almost every aspect of our life we’re polar opposites. That is, except for the fact we’re DiLuccas, born from a long line of professional hitmen. This was supposed to be a simple gig. We could’ve had this broad when she was with the big footballer guy, but Michael didn’t want it like that. No, he likes things clean, all tied up nicely with a bow—no witnesses. “Enough with the history lesson. What are we doing?” I point out the window up at her apartment. “I ain’t seeing any signs of life up there. This is a lost cause.”

  Michael leans over the steering wheel and stares up at the apartment. The streetlight catches his face and I realize he’s really starting to grey out up top. The buzzcut doesn’t help We’re getting old, but we’re still the most reliable hitters in Vegas. Fuck it. Maybe the world.

  “If you’re so concerned about it,” says my ever-insightful brother, “why don’t you go up and have a look around?”

  He knows I can’t resist a challenge, so I shrug, “Sure thing, asshole.” I pop open the glovebox and take out the kit and a flashlight.

  It’s midnight as I step out, but the temperature doesn’t feel like it’s dropped since midday. I mean, we’re from a fucking desert and this is still fucking hot.

  I loosen my collar as I cross the road, scanning to make sure everything’s nice and quiet as I come up the stairs to her apartment.

  I take out the kit and look at her door number. Lucky number thirteen, hey.

  I make quick work of the lock, slowly pressing inside and taking out the flashlight. It soon becomes clear the broad’s gone. She’s gone and she left in a real fucking hurry.

  I come down the hall towards the master bedroom, the .22 holstered by my side is itchy, but as I step in I know she won’t be here magically asleep. That would be too easy—pop her in the head. She wouldn’t even know.

  I sort through the drawers and kitchen, but there’s nothing to go on. “Where are you, baby?” I question, light between my teeth as I hunt through a strewn pile of lingerie beside the bed.

  It’s a pity, really. This girl’s attractive, sort of understated. She’ll be wasted as a corpse. Hell, I could have had some fun with her before putting her to sleep, but that’s not Michael’s MO. He’s all about getting in, getting the job done and getting the fuck out. That’s how we’ve always done it. Michael wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Empty-handed, I slide back into the passenger seat. He continues to listen to his fucking medieval drivel.

  “Well,” I announce, “do you want to know what I found or not?”

  He stares ahead. “What did you find?”

  Wise guy. “Fucking nothing. She’s gone. We’ve been wasting our time.”

  Michael considers it. “No friends in the area, no cell since a week ago—This one’s going to be tough, brother.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  I sense Michael isn’t telling me everything. He’s the one who gets the jobs from the Don, and all the details. Unlike me, however, he doesn’t take everything as gospel. He can’t shut up that big brain of his sometimes. “Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts. You getting soft in your old age?”

  He licks his lips, perpetually dry. “I don’t know. You heard the spiel we got from the Feds. If I was a betting man like yourself, I’d say it was the customer she screwed over who put this whole thing into motion.”

  Our contact in the FBI managed to slip us the interview recording the broad gave. She says it was a client she refused who’s responsible, but I’m not buying it. I shake my head. “Who fucking cares whether she did this or didn’t do that. The Don wants her dead and he’s paying us very fucking handsomely, as always, to put her in the ground.”

  Michael nods to himself, but I can tell he isn’t convinced.

  His cell buzzes. He takes it out and scrolls through the message. His eyes become keener, his posture straightening.

  “Good news?”

  He smiles. “It’s Bobby’s friend from back home, the one who works for that AC company here. It seems he might have a little lead on where our friend is hiding.”

  I can’t help but smile back. “A-fucking-men.”

  SAM

  “Temperatures are expected to soar again today as the third week of this record-breaking heatwave continues to grip the city. Blackouts continue to spread, from Santa Monica to—”

  Chance reaches over and takes the remote, switching off the TV. “Tell us something we don’t know.”

  We’ve got three fans in the trailer now given the lack of air conditioning. Morgan’s had three techs come to look at it so far this week. I can’t say I appreciated having strangers hanging around the trailer, but then again, another week of this and it’ll be the heat that kills me.

  I’m almost disappointed Chance has woken up so early. I love watching him sleep, the tempest calmed, the child caught within that slight smile he always has when he’s dreaming. He said my name last night, softly whispering “Sam” as he slept.

  “You’ve got training in an hour,” I remind him.

  He rolls over and pulls one of my legs over him, his cock hard and ready. “An hour, you say?”

  For a moment we do nothing but watch each other. I study the jade cosmos in his eyes, the light stubble around his chin.

  “You still having trouble sleeping?” he asks.

  I nod. I barely sleep these days. I can’t stop the stream of thoughts cluttering up the highway of my head. Every time I close my eyes I picture those two men following us, the gun, a bullet cutting through me, through Chance.

  He leans in and I’m absolutely powerless. “I can help, you know.”

  “By sexing me senseless?”

  “If you like.”

  Why not? It helps me forget, being with him, helps me to step outside of myself if only for a moment.

  We kiss. It starts slowly, like two lovers coming together for the first time, before giving in to our passion.

  His lips fall upon my own. They meld together, his hand moving to my leg.

  I lean into the kiss, wanting to consume him, to take everything in.

  I hold his neck, pulling him deeper into the kiss.

  My breathing increases and I’m suddenly, hotly aware of my heart beating, my pulse rising swiftly.

  I run my fingers up the back of his head, slowly raking them through his hair as our tongues meet and roll between us. They tumble and move together in the heated ocean of our mouths. All the while his hand continues to climb up my thigh, moving into the hot darkness beyond.

&
nbsp; My legs part under the blanket. There’s a distinct pull of excitement at my core, gathering and building. I’m wet as his fingers fall into the crevice of my sex and seek my center. The kiss remains unbroken, but quiet, above, each of us trying to keep noise to a minimum even against the constant hum of the fans.

  I’m burning up. It’s suffocating in here, my body building up a steady sweat under the sheets, my arousal rising between us in a tsunami. I want him so badly it hurts, an actual aching.

  My pussy pulses, beating in time with my temples.

  I pull away just enough to catch my breath. My lips are on fire, my mouth suddenly dry.

  My hand runs over his hard abdominals heading south fast.

  His lips move up the side of my neck, leaving a moist trail cooling as the tip of his tongue finds the seashell of my ear.

  “You’re so fucking wet,” he whispers, breath hot on my ear, his finger probing into my pussy. It slips in to the second knuckle. I give a small gasp.

  A second and third finger follow, folding together and stretching me out, rolling and twisting in the slickened sauna my slit has become.

  He whispers into my ear while he fucks me with his fingers. He tells me every microscopic detail of his touch. I follow the clip of the syllables, head lolling against the pillow.

  I spread my legs wider as his joined fingers continue to slide in and out of my body. He curls them inside me, adding the pad of his thumb to my clit and moving it in soft circles until I can barely keep my ass on the seat I’m wriggling so much.

  A thrum builds inside me, my hand caught against his chest. I close my eyes, losing myself in the sensation. He holds my neck, supporting me while my climax nears.

  I’m unbelievably wet below, the folds of my sex open and pressing moisture against the sides of my thighs. My clit throbs under his thumb. I lift my hips slightly to meet it, trying to hold back a steady need that threatens to overwhelm me at any moment.