Married to the Bad Boy

by Vanessa Waltz

  “Any coffee, miss?” The train conductor tries to stifle a gasp at the look of my face. “Ma’am, are you all right?”

  Not really.

  Her face crinkles with sympathy as I just stare at her. “I fell down.” I’ve no energy to summon a less lame excuse. “Ice would be great.”

  “Of course, yes.”

  Stares from the other passengers just make me want to throw a hood over my face.

  Montreal. I wonder what it’ll be like. I know French is the official language there, and I’m a bit worried about getting by. I place my hand against the windowpane, the cold stinging my skin. I’m probably not dressed for the harsh Canadian weather. I just grabbed whatever I had—a single wool coat, some shirts and jeans, panties, etc. No matter. With the money I have, I’ll be able to buy everything I need.

  “Elena, honey. I’ve got something to show you.”

  That gleam in Dad’s eyes sent a thrill of excitement through my chest. He always treated me differently than the other guys’ daughters. I was a bit rougher around the edges than Maria, a bit more tomboyish. Once, he brought me to the woods to shoot the new assault rifle he got as a gift. He taught me how to use it. Mom hated it. “She’s not a boy,” she’d say over and over.

  I expected it would be something like that as I followed him outside. It was a crisp spring day. He placed both hands on my shoulders and squeezed them.

  “I’m going to show you something that you need to keep secret. Don’t tell anyone, even your mother.”

  I nodded my head rapidly, eyes wide. Whatever it was, it sounded important. He wrapped his arm around me and led me down the property. We passed the dying pomegranate bushes and stood over the red mulch, hidden by two evergreen trees.

  “Underneath this mulch, between these two trees, I’ve got about a hundred grand buried. I want you to dig it up in case anything happens to me—”

  My biggest fear slammed into my chest as if I’d been tackled. Without him, I was nothing. I knew that.

  “Dad, what are you saying? Did something happen?”

  He held up a hand, smiling. “No—I’m just telling you in case, you know, I get sent to the can. Or God forbid, I get killed—”

  “Don’t say that!”

  “This money is for you, Elena. You and your mom. Promise me, you’ll take it if something happens.”

  Speechless, I watched his eyes crease as he squeezed my shoulders again.

  “Promise!”

  “Okay, Daddy.”

  The whole time, he knew he was going away. He was already in talks with the FBI—they were going to relocate us, and then he was dead. Overnight I went from Mafia princess to Daughter of Miserable, Cock-sucking FBI Informant.

  Dad filled me with so much hot air growing up that I never believed he could die. He was a boss. New York City fit into the palm of his hand. I went to many charity dinners with him, and even met the mayor and the chief of police. In the end, all of his connections weren’t enough to save him.

  You’re fleeing to Montreal. Then what? Kill him, and you can never return to New York.

  I can’t think of the future. All I can think of is right now, and the man lusting for my blood.

  Eight hours into the ride, I turn the phone back on because I can’t take it anymore. There’s a stream of violent, expletive-laden texts. Only one makes my breath catch in my throat.

  I know where you went, and I’m coming to get you. I’m going to fuck that cunt of yours until you bleed, and then I’ll kill you.

  * * *

  It’s a bluff. It has to be a bluff. I told no one where I was going, and used a fake name to book the hotel. Paid everything with cash. There’s no way he knows.

  I walk the icy, crumbling Montreal streets, horribly underdressed in the freezing weather. It doesn’t matter. I block everything out. Cold? Who the fuck cares about cold? I have a psychopath hot for my blood, a spurned ex-lover who wants me dead. God, what if he found me with another man?

  He doesn’t contact me for a week, and I spend the time hiding out in a hotel, nursing my injuries and working up the courage to meet the Montreal boss.

  So much is riding on this meeting with Johnny that I instantly crush the doubts that keep floating to the surface. He has to do this for me. He will.

  My life depends on it.

  I open the door to Le Zinc. It’s a wonderful, posh place and I instantly feel uncomfortable and underdressed. The hostess immediately takes my ragged coat, but stops at the sight of my face.

  “Miss, you need a hospital?” she asks in a thick French accent.

  “No,” I say in a hurried voice, ignoring the looks thrown my way as I search the white tablecloths for Johnny. “I’m looking for Mr. Cravotta.”

  He’s a young guy, and handsome, if I recall correctly. He should be here. My father always talked about meeting him at this place. Then I spot him surrounded by two other men, and I take a determined step forward.

  “Miss, you need an appointment with Mr. Cravotta.”

  “It’s urgent,” I bark at her.

  “You need an—what the fuck?”

  I shove her skinny ass aside and barrel toward the table. Two guys I didn’t even see suddenly take my arms and shove me back before I’m even five feet from the table.

  “Mr. Cravotta, please! I need to speak with you!”

  Johnny looks elegant in his pinstripe suit. Every aspect of his appearance is immaculate. His hair is slicked back into rolling waves, without a wayward strand. There’s not a single piece of lint on his suit, or a wrinkle, or anything that would mar his image of perfection. He stares at me with daggerlike eyes. It was hard meeting his gaze, even though he always treated me with respect.

  But I don’t find it hard to look at him now. He can’t say anything that makes me feel worse than I already do.

  “Mademoiselle, you need an appointment.”

  The hostess appears at his side. “Excusez moi, Monsieur Cravotta. Elle a—”

  “I saw the whole thing. Relax.” He gives her a flick of his hand, and the extremely harassed hostess returns back to the front, giving me a dirty look.

  “Please, sir, it can’t wait.”

  The men surrounding him laugh as they look at my face, and amusement flashes over it briefly before a faint note of recognition finally glimmers in his eyes.

  “You’re Jack’s kid.”

  “Yes!”

  He gives the others a meaningful look. “Tabarnak de câlisse.”

  I have no idea what it means, but judging from the look on his face, it sounds like a swearword.

  “Sit down. Guys, take a walk.”

  They rise to their feet obediently and the brutes holding my arms finally let go. I nearly crumple to his feet, but I manage to sit across from the table. He eyes me with a burning curiosity.

  “What are you doing all the way here?”

  I open my mouth, but stop immediately when the waiter fills the glass in front of me with water. He moves away like a ghost.

  “Running.”

  “I can see that.”

  His eyes linger on the ghastly green bruise on the side of my face, the one I had before I met with Vincent. I’m sure that my eye is still purple, too. Good lord.

  “I need your help.” My voice squeaks out, and I take a long draw of water to quell my nerves.

  Johnny seems to pull away suddenly, his lips curling unpleasantly. “Look, I don’t know what you expected from me, but you’re mistaken if you think I’m going to help—”

  “I have fifty grand in cash, and I need you to put a hit on a man.”

  Suddenly his demeanor completely shifts. He leans forward, smiling, clasping his hands together. “If you have business to discuss, that’s a different story. His name?”

  This is the part I’m worried about.

  “Rafael Costa.”

  Please don’t say no.

  He takes a small notepad and pen from his jacket, writes down the name, and frowns at it. He recognizes it.r />
  Please, please don’t say no.

  My hands grip the edge of the table. “Please, Mr. Cravotta. I’m desperate.”

  “He’s a made man. Part of Nicky’s crew in New York.” He taps the pen against the notepad restlessly as he looks at me. “He’s your boyfriend?”

  The frown on his face deepens and I clench my teeth as he shakes his head. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but the answer is no. You belong to him, and he’s a made guy. If you were related to someone in the family, we could arrange something, but…”

  But my dad is a traitor.

  “Seventy-five grand,” I whisper harshly. No, he can’t just do this to me. I’ll give it all, for fuck’s sake. Anything to save my life.

  Pity. It’s all over his face. “I’m sorry, ma cherie, but I’m not going to start a war with New York because of some Yank.”

  “I—I don’t understand! Why can’t you? I have the money!”

  “I just told you that it’s not about the money. It’s politics.” He watches me seethe, his face blank. “Maybe you should call the police.”

  Is he fucking crazy?

  Besides the fact that they wouldn’t do anything, Raf would kill me the moment I waved the restraining order in his face. And if he didn’t, Vincent might.

  “I knew your dad,” he says suddenly. “I liked him until he talked to the cops. He gave me a lot of problems.”

  “I’m not my father!”

  My voice rings out in the restaurant, momentarily cutting through the pleasant babble. Johnny’s face hardens.

  “I still find the idea of helping you repugnant.” He nods to the men standing behind me, who grip my shoulders and lift me up.

  “Please!” I scream to his rapidly disappearing face. “At least don’t tell him where I am!”

  Johnny gives me an apologetic smile as they drag me from the table, shoving the small of my back until I’m practically thrown outside.

  The cold engulfs me like fog, coming in at all sides, seeping into my skin and making my bones ache.

  Is this it, then? I can’t go over Johnny’s head. He was my only shot. Game over.

  No, I refuse to accept this. My dad didn’t raise a quitter, and I’ll be damned if I let some hopped-up jerk take my life because he can’t fucking handle that I don’t want to be with him anymore. I’ll buy a gun—I’ll buy an arsenal.

  I’ll look over my shoulder for the rest of my life.

  The unfairness of it all seethes in my guts. I whirl back around at the restaurant, half-wanting to sprint inside and slap Johnny to make him understand how badly I need his help. Oh, he understands, but the asshole just doesn’t give a shit about me.

  Who else is there? Think.

  I chew my thumb viciously as I walk down the street aimlessly, my eyes searching each storefront as though I’ll see something or recognize someone, and after a while my legs tire and I’m just so fucking cold. I had no idea how cold it was here. My fingertips are numb and sharp pains shoot through my toes. I can’t stand it anymore.

  The door to a nearby bar opens and I rush toward it, grabbing the handle and disappearing inside the dark interior. Warmth painfully unthaws my fingers and toes. It feels as though my blood splinters like ice. It’s a rustic bar—trendy, with battered wooden tables and clean, metal chairs. I pull one on the edge of the bar and sit down, cradling my head in my hands.

  There aren’t many people in here at this time—it probably just opened. Someone enters the bar from the backroom, and a distinct New York accent suddenly makes my head snap up and my blood pound.

  A hand curls around my shoulder, and I’m a second away from screaming. It’s Rafael. He caught up with me already.

  “If you came here looking for revenge, I suggest you get in line,” he growls in my ear.

  It’s not him, but I still recognize that voice.

  I turn my head and recognize Tommy’s playful hazel eyes. God, he used to come over all the time. Dad loved him. Talked about him all the time. I haven’t seen him in months—I thought he was dead. Then my mind flicks to what he just said. Revenge for my father’s death? Heat strikes my chest. He must have had something to do with it, but so what? Everyone did.

  “Do I look like I’m here for revenge?”

  He releases me as if I’ve burned him and he steps back, disgust all over his face. “Raf did that to you?”

  Tommy, of course, knew all about my relationship with Rafael. Hell, we had Christmas dinner together. We used to play cards. I always liked him, and he seemed to be devoted to my dad.

  “Yeah. I just managed to escape.”

  Pity shines all over Tommy’s face, and hope soars inside my chest like a balloon lifting to the sky.

  “I know what you want to ask me. Johnny already called ahead. The answer’s still no. I’m sorry.”

  He stands there, looking healthy and happy in his fucking two-piece suit, giving me a sad smile as though he wishes he could help me.

  Fuck you.

  “You owe me—”

  “I don’t owe you a damn thing.”

  I can’t believe how cold his voice is, how devoid of human emotion it is. Why is it that every one of my dad’s friends treats me as a parasitic extension of my father? Did I talk to the cops? No.

  It hurts more than it should.

  “I don’t understand why you would do this to me.” The pain breaks through my voice and emotion finally cracks through his hard gaze. “Fine, hate my dad, but don’t I deserve your help? We practically grew up together, and—you’re just going—you’re going to let him kill me?”

  The anguish of being abandoned by virtually everyone I know twists my heart, and I dig my nails into my flesh. He flinches at the word “kill” and uncrosses his arms, looking at a loss.

  Fine.

  “Elena, I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can fucking do.”

  Nothing?

  “That sounds like bullshit.”

  “If I touched a hair on his head, I’d be dead,” he says flatly. “Those are the rules.”

  I search his desperate eyes.

  “Give me a job here.”

  “What?”

  I said it without really thinking, but the idea grows in my head. It’s a connected bar. Someone’s bound to have a gun at all times here.

  “Please. I’ll feel safer if I’m surrounded by—guys like you.”

  “You don’t know the language, hon.”

  “Neither do you!”

  He gives me a wry smile. “You’re just delaying the inevitable.”

  “Tommy, please.”

  The plea in my voice gets through to him and he frowns, sighing. “Fine. I’ll get you set up, but I don’t want you to come in until you’ve healed. You look like hell. You’ll scare my customers.”

  “Thank you, Tommy. Thank you.”

  It’s not much, but it’s a start.

  “Tommy, I need to ask you something else.”

  He moans and rubs his face hard. “What?”

  “I have money that I need you to keep safe for me.”

  At once his face brightens. “How much are we talking about?”

  I lower my voice. “About a hundred grand.”

  “I’ll be happy to do that for a small fee. Ten percent.”

  Ten percent? That’s ten thousand dollars!

  Not like I have a choice.

  “Fine.”

  “I’ll send some guys to pick it up. What’s your address?” He frowns when I give it to him. “Raf will be able to find that, easily.”

  I don’t know what he expects me to do about it.

  * * *

  ELENA

  Even after all this shit with my ex, I can’t stop thinking about that man in the bar. Here I am, sitting in my new apartment in Montreal, fantasizing about another man.

  There are bigger fucking problems in my life, but I can’t stop thinking about his rugged face—so different from Rafael’s—and his five o’clock shadow, which gave him the perfect balance of dishev
eled and sexy. He’s the kind of guy who haunts your dreams after only one glance. Tall, dark, and handsome, but so gentle with his hands. He said things to me that I should hate for how fucking rude they were, but they gave me such a thrill from his honest voice. There’s something really sexy about a man who knows what he wants and doesn’t hesitate to go after it.

  Tony was a breath of fresh air right when I needed it. He told me I was beautiful, promised to make me come on his tongue, and I wanted to let him. It was like feeling a ray of sunshine after a really long winter. I wanted to feel desired by a guy like that. Who wouldn’t?

  But I panicked.

  I slapped the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen, and I can’t stop obsessing over it. It’s ridiculous. My ex-boyfriend wants me dead and this is what my brain chooses to obsess over.

  I fantasize about that sexy bastard while I get ready for work in the apartment Tommy hooked me up with, hoping that Tony will be there.

  No, stay the fuck away. Rafael was a nightmare, remember?

  A grim sort of satisfaction stretches my face when I look in the mirror. Maria would be so proud. Here I am, making the same mistakes over and over again. The last thing I want to do is start dating, but when I think about how it felt to have Tony’s hands squeeze my tits, all reason flies out the window.

  Maybe Rafael moved on. All week he’s been silent.

  I eye the dark phone sitting on the white sink. A thrill of apprehension runs through me when I pick it up and turn it on. He hasn’t left any messages for days, but then I see a new voice mail and it’s from my sister.

  I play it.

  “Elena, where the fuck are you? Your psycho boyfriend has been over here three times—he’s completely out of his mind. What the fuck were you thinking, just leaving like this? You can’t just—”

  I end the message, breathing hard as I stare at my whitened face in the mirror. My hands grip the edge of the sink and blood pounds in my ears. I never meant anything like this to happen. Why can’t he just leave me alone?

  My phone rings on the hard counter, and I watch it like a bomb. Even though I deleted his name from my contact list, the numbers don’t lie. It’s him.