Dark Savior: A Dark Bad Boy Romance

by Stella Noir

  I step back in fear when he approaches me, but much to my surprise, Joseph is stepping between us.

  “Leave him alone!” he barks at Frank, and both him and Victor flinch as if they have just been hit.

  “Are you for real, man?” Frank addresses his boss in the most inappropriate fashion. “This kid is fucking trouble! He just shot the guy without warning!”

  “He was threatening us!” I try to defend myself.

  Now, both Victor and Frank are laughing.

  “Us?” Frank asks, still laughing. “Who are you calling us, you little shit?!”

  “Leave the boy alone!” Joseph interferes, his voice as deep and calm as always. He is still standing between me and his enraged henchmen, providing me with a sense of security that I have never experienced anywhere else.

  “But boss,” Victor objects. “The boy just barged in on our affairs. He has no business even being here!”

  “Damn right,” Frank agrees. “Fucking little shit is nothing but a fucked up dealer, a street kid. Why is he even here?”

  “Because I brought him here,” Joseph explains calmly.

  I look at him, unsure what to think. The gun is still in my hand and I am surprised no one has taken it from me yet. Frank and Victor are asking the exact same questions I have asked myself when Joseph brought me down here.

  I have only been here once before. It’s just like they say: I don’t belong here. I work outside, selling for Joseph and his people. It’s the most useful I have ever felt since my dad ran off and my mother started abandoning me for her ever changing lovers. In her eyes I was old enough to take of myself at the age of 14, and I wanted to prove her right. If you know the right people—and I do—it’s pretty damn easy to get by even at my age. Hell, I’m probably making more money than she ever has in her life!

  Joseph took me under his wing after I got in a fight with one of his boys. What he offered me was better than anything else out there. Money, respect, a place where I was part of something. Something dark and exciting. He forced me to continue school, so that’s what I do. But as soon as classes end, I find myself back at work. I am a good seller, mostly because I don’t take bullshit from anyone. I’m not scared, and if someone tries to fuck with me, I don’t let him. And if someone fucks with him, with Joseph, I will make damn sure that this person does not go unpunished.

  The only man I am truly scared of is Joseph. If I upset him, I know I am in deep trouble.

  Then, why did I just do this? Why did I interrupt their argument with this shit head by shooting him? I had no business to do that, there was no order for me to do this. I am not even supposed to hold this gun in my hand.

  Joseph brought me down here to show me something, and Victor and Frank were in the middle of arguing with this guy I have never seen before. Things became loud and more aggressive, and when the guy started to threaten Joseph I saw red. I grabbed the gun from a table next to me. They are everywhere down here, in every corner. For self protection.

  No one expected me to do this, especially not the drunk idiot who now lies dead between us.

  Why was I so sure that I was doing the right thing? Why did I think Joseph would approve?

  Something just told me that he would, and the way he is protecting me against his henchmen right now may prove me right.

  “He only did what had to be done,” Joseph continues.

  Victor and Frank stare at him with disbelief, and so do I.

  “In fact, we should praise him for his great aim and perfect timing,” Joseph adds, now turning around to me. “That was quite impressive, Joe.”

  Mars, I want to correct him. I hate it when people call me by my first name. It’s my father’s name, so unimaginative and proof of my parents’ lack of interest in me. But I cannot correct Joseph, not him. Especially now, when he is defending in me in what could be a crucial moment of my life.

  “Thank you,” I say instead, trying to sound calm and confident.

  “Put that gun away now,” Joseph says.

  I nod and do as I am told, placing the gun back on the table next to me where I found it. Victor and Frank stare at us, watching the scene in silence as Joseph approaches me.

  He puts his hand on my shoulder, a fatherly gesture unknown to me until that moment.

  “Look at me,” he orders.

  I hesitate, still fearing his fury, a punishment so bad that I cannot even imagine what it would look like. With him, one could never know for sure. Maybe he has just been waiting until I was unarmed.

  But when I dare to lift my eyes up to his, I don’t see anger or rage.

  I see adoration.

  Joseph looks at me with a face so warm and loving that it’s almost frightening in its own way.

  He nods at me.

  “You have quite a talent there,” he says. “Great aim, good timing, no hesitation. No mercy when none is needed. Those are rare qualities, aren’t they?”

  He directs his question at Victor and Frank, who both nod reluctantly.

  “It might be a waste to have you out on the street selling shit for us,” Joseph continues. “How about we put that talent to better use?”

  I look up at him, incapable of comprehending what’s going on. I have never heard such praise before. A talent. Something I am good at, useful. Special.

  That first shot and the unexpected praise that came with it—that’s how it all started.

  ***

  The memories still haunt me. Every dead body I ever had to lay eyes on since that day. My choice of weapon was no coincidence. A sniper rifle minimizes the contact I have with the victims. They remain far away from me, even in death. No close-up images come haunting me if I manage to keep this valuable distance between me and my hits.

  I made money with my talent and I never thought about it twice—until Joseph was killed and they all came after me. Not the mobsters, but the people I had killed. It felt like a cruel kind of redemption, but probably one that a man like me deserves.

  It has to stop.

  I have come so close. I won’t let her ruin it.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Nike

  “Hello beautiful,” he greets me, kissing my hand like a true gentleman. I blush at the gesture. This is new. He has always been weirdly flattering and charming from the beginning, but kissing my hand is something he has never done before.

  “Why so extra attentive today?” I ask, trying to adopt a confident tone even with my voice being as shaky as it is.

  “You think I need a reason to charm you?” he asks. There’s always a sizzling undertone of threat in his voice when he says these kinds of things. It adds a spice to him that I cannot file under anything I have experienced with other men before. As if he is hiding something under his perfect exterior. I’m sure he is, because we all have our little secrets—I, of all people should know. But with him it is as if these extra layers are within my grasp, yet so far away. Despite his sometimes mysterious behavior and the subtle hints, he has never opened up to me in any way and I still feel as if I know hardly anything about him.

  He takes my hand and leads me inside the restaurant that will be our dinner place for tonight. We have been here before. An Italian place that manages to serve traditional and simple recipes in a very elegant way. I could never afford it on my own and was hesitant the first time he took me here, but he insisted on inviting me, adding to his classy gentleman charm.

  He orders two glasses of champagne for us when the waiter takes our order. Something must be up with him tonight.

  “Champagne?” I ask, tilting my head to the side as I look at him quizzically. “That’s unusual. Seriously, what’s the occasion?”

  He casts me a mysterious smile. “I felt like it.”

  “Why all of a sudden?” I ask. “Usually, you don’t even have a glass of wine with dinner.”

  His eyes flicker. He looks at me as if I caught him doing something bad.

  “I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that,” I add. “
It’s just something I noticed.”

  “What did you notice?” he asks, sounding suspicious.

  “That you don’t drink much,” I say. “Or… ever. Now that I think about it.”

  It has never struck me as weird or conspicuous, but now that I think about it, he never had even the smallest drink in my company. It’s unusual for a man like him not to drink, ever. At least to me it is. There are very few people who would refrain from alcohol altogether.

  Reformed alcoholics, for example.

  Could that apply to him?

  Oh God, did I just poke at something unpleasant here? Is that why he looks as if he got caught with his hands in the cookie jar?

  “I’m sorry if I—”

  “No, no,” he says. “Nothing to worry about. I’m just surprised you noticed.”

  We exchange a look.

  “Does it strike you as odd that I don’t drink?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “No, I wouldn’t say odd. Just… rare.”

  He chuckles. It’s a deep sound that has a condescending note to it.

  “I guess you could say that,” he says. “But I can assure you that there is nothing wrong with me in that regard. I just happen to drink on very rare occasions. It’s not a habit of mine like it appears to be for you.”

  He winks at me to show that he is teasing me, but I still feel uncomfortable with his words.

  “I don’t know if habit is the right word,” I say. “If it is a habit, it’s certainly not a good one.”

  As if the universe likes to mock me even more, the waiter shows up with our champagne right at that moment, placing two stylish glasses on the table between us.

  Mars lifts his in an instant and beckons me to do the same.

  “To habits,” he says. “Good and bad.”

  We clink glasses and I take a careful sip, trying not to appear as thirsty as I really am. The champagne tastes divine, not as sweet as the sparkling wines I often drink but just as pleasant in its own way. I suddenly understand what people mean when they say that a drink is smooth.

  “To your liking?” he asks, noticing the pleased expression on my face.

  “A very good choice,” I reply, nodding eagerly. “I mean, not that you would know, with your little experience.”

  He furls his eyebrows, changing to that dark gaze I like so much. I enjoy teasing him just to see his face turn into that sullen and somewhat confused expression.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he growls.

  “Well, as you pointed out, with my habit of regular drinking, I must be quite the expert in this area, while you…,” I say, adding a pause for emphasize. “You can’t possibly know a thing about this, since you never drink. In fact, you might have to be careful as this one glass might get you a little too tipsy already.”

  “You little minx,” he says, still with that deep growl in his voice and the sexy frown on his face. “You better watch your tongue, young girl. Don’t challenge me to prove you wrong.”

  “Prove me wrong?”

  “I don’t need to follow your bad habits to tolerate alcohol better than a delicate little character like you can,” he explains.

  “Is that so?” I continue my ridiculous tease. I have no idea where I am going with this, but for some reason I find the thought of seeing this strong, tall men a little tipsy very exhilarating. It could be fun to be drunk together. Not too drunk, but lightheaded enough to tear down the walls he has put around himself. So that he would be silly enough to make him talk, to open up and to finally let me in on who this person is that has me so unraveled.

  “Why don’t we order another drink then,” I propose. “I’m sure they have a nice collection of wine and grappa here.”

  He looks at me, furling his eyebrows as he ponders my suggestion.

  “Scared?” I tease.

  “I have nothing to be scared of,” he says. “I was just contemplating the best choice of drink that would go with our meals respectively.”

  “Sure,” I say, winking at him.

  We do end up ordering red wine for our meals, something that he has never done before, at least not for himself. He argues that I should go with white wine instead, because it would be a better fit for my pasta dish. But I insisted on drinking the exact same drinks and exact same amount as he does.

  “How else would we know who is better at handling this?” I asked, and he just shrugged, ordering a bottle of red wine for us.

  The food is amazing as always. I am starving and have to contain myself to not dig in like a pig from its trough. I am still amazed how it is possible for some people to make such a mundane thing as pasta taste this delicious. I am sure Amanda could tell me a few tricks, even though she is not a starred chef herself.

  We chat along with our meal as we always do, but the conversation continues to remain on the surface, just like it has on any other date. I didn’t expect him to open up after just a few sips of wine, but by the time we have finished the bottle, I do feel quite light headed, while he does not show any sign of the alcohol having an effect on him.

  Still, I am the one who urges him to order another bottle. I know that it is probably not a good idea and I will have to deal with a headache in the morning, and the smart move would be to just add a glass of water and admit my defeat.

  It’s just that I hate losing, and I hate being wrong. I may be ridiculously stubborn, but I have made up my mind that I am going to see this man lose at least a small part of his protective control tonight.

  The waiter clears our table and replaces the empty bottle with a new one. I know it must be rather expensive, but I have learned to keep my worries in that regard to myself. Mars would get annoyed and angry if I mentioned anything about it.

  We clink glasses again, and my hand is the only one that’s shaking.

  He observes me, his eyes never leave me for a second even when he bringing the glass up to his lips again.

  “You know I won’t let you drink any further if I notice that you’re not feeling well,” he says.

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “Is that so,” I say, trying to sound as if I didn’t know what he’s talking about. “Well, I’m perfectly fine thank you, there is no reason to worry.”

  “I don’t worry,” he argues. “You are safe as long as you are with me. I’m just wondering how often you do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “Drink more than you should,” he says.

  I exhale audibly.

  “Excuse me, you’re starting to sound like my father,” I complain. “I told you I’m a strong drinker, that doesn’t mean that I do it every day.”

  “Or every weekend?” he comments.

  “No, not even that,” I say indignantly. “You know that having an occasional drink is actually good for you? Especially this.”

  I raise my glass.

  “Red wine is good for your heart,” I explain.

  “In small quantities, I am sure,” he says.

  Our teasing and mocking goes on for a while, as the second bottle continues to become emptier. It does take a while, but just when I am smart enough to add a few glasses of water in between, I notice his handsome cheeks turning red. His speech starts to slur ever so slightly and when he moves around on his chair, it does by no means equal the almost stiff and controlled motions he usually displays. I know he is trying to hide it from me as much as I am trying to hide my intoxication from him.

  He is getting chattier, too. It is rare for him to smile or even laugh out loud, but now that the wine has taken a hold of him, he grows to be more relaxed around me than he ever was before.

  It’s refreshing to see him visibly enjoy himself when we are doing something other than fucking. He is always so serious, so much the business man he has to be all day. To see him a bit more playful like this is a compliment, because I feel that he is showing me a side of himself that not many people get to see.

  He encourages me to tell him more about myself as well, but not in the creepy a
nd nosy way he did before.

  “You said your job is to polish stories?” he asks at one point. “What kind of stories?”

  I smile, flattered by the fact that he remembers my phrasing from our first meeting.

  “Crime novels and thrillers mostly,” I say. “Very dark stuff sometimes.”

  His eyes flicker and he takes another sip from his wine.

  “I see,” he says. “Is that what you like?”

  “The novels you mean?”

  “Yes, obviously,” he says. “No one would like that kind of action in real life, right?”

  His voice and expression have become sullen. He almost looks as if he was in pain.

  “Right, I guess so,” I reply. “But yes, I enjoy them. I would like to write one of my own one day.”

  “I thought you were not a storyteller yourself?” he asks. “Labor division and all.”

  Damn, he got me there. I did not expect him to listen so well during our first conversation.

  “Well, I might have lied a little there,” I admit. “I would like to write and publish my own.”

  “What’s stopping you?” he wants to know.

  I shrug. “Maybe it’s just a lack of inspiration.”

  “Inspiration, huh?” he says, casting me an odd smile. There is a hint of sadness to it.

  “One would think you get a lot of inspiration from others,” he adds. “With the amount of books you have to read in that genre.”

  “Sure,” I agree. “But those pretty much just tell me what others have done before…”

  I hesitate. If real life inspiration is what I’m after, maybe I should consider making something of that horrible incident. A cold clamp closes around my heart, as I think about it.

  No. I don’t think this would work. At least not until I have found some kind of closure with this. If they catch the guy, maybe. If I knew who he is, and where he is.

  That would help so much.

  “Maybe you’ll get your inspiration some day,” Mars says, interrupting my thought. He winks at me. “I’m sure you’d do a great job.”

  I smile. “Who knows.”

  “I think it’s time to get out of here,” he announces. His face is glowing, not just from alcohol. His sullen expression is gone and he is casting me a warm smile.