by Bethany-Kris
“You didn’t actually ask that, Cross. You simply said it.”
“Don’t you remember what I told you years ago?”
“You said a lot of things,” Catherine muttered.
Broke her damn heart with his words, too.
“I told you that where you and I were concerned, I would tell you what I wanted, and you would either agree or not. That’s all there is to it. No games. That still stands, Catty. I’m telling you what I want.”
She let out a slow, long stream of air. She despised how a part of her was absolutely ready to agree, and meet up with Cross. If nothing else than to catch up, and see if things still felt the same when he was close. Problem was, she knew it would feel the same. How could it not, when this was the only man she had ever loved?
Catherine wasn’t ready to let something silly like old feelings and dusty memories rip her heart out again. She was not falling, crashing, and burning with Cross Donati one more time.
“Catty?” he asked.
“You know, you’re the only person I don’t mind calling me Catty.”
“I started that nickname.”
“No one knows why.”
She swore she could feel Cross’s smirk in his words when he murmured, “No one needs to.”
Catherine forced herself to get out of the dirty thoughts and memories filling up her mind. She didn’t need a daydream to remind her how and why she earned that nickname from Cross.
“It’s been years, Cross,” Catherine said quietly. “Years. So, what? You see me by chance in a restaurant and suddenly decide to insert yourself into my life again? Not once in nearly seven years have you approached me, and I was liking it just fine that way.”
“It has been years,” he agreed.
“Exactly.”
“But I bet it feels like yesterday, doesn’t it, babe?”
Catherine bit her lower lip to keep from agreeing.
Because he was right.
She didn’t know if she liked it or not.
“Let me take you out,” Cross said when she stayed quiet. “It doesn’t even have to be this weekend. I’ll let you call me next time. You’ve got my number now.”
“Cross—”
“Does it feel like yesterday, Catty?”
“That doesn’t mean I want it to, Cross.”
“You’re still a liar, I see.”
“I’ll let you know,” Catherine said quickly, wanting to get him away from the topic of her lies. “About going out somewhere, or meeting up. Okay?”
“I’ll hold you to it.”
She didn’t doubt him.
Catherine hung up the phone without a goodbye.
Cross stood on the edge of the dock as crates were unloaded from a fishing boat. He breathed through his mouth, determined not to smell rotting fish when he left the port.
“Couldn’t get those into port on something other than that piece of shit?” Cross asked.
Andino Marcello stuffed his hands into his pockets as he came to stand beside Cross. “Work with what you have sometimes, man.”
“I hate fishing boats for guns. It makes the metal smell like fish. You’re lucky if you managed to get a whole run through without at least one crate getting wet. If it does get wet, you run the risk of ruined weapons. Then, you’ve got yourself a pissed off buyer.”
“I’m aware.”
Cross eyed the third crate pulled from the ship. The workers loaded it onto a dolly, and pushed it down the dock past the watching men. “How many guns on this boat?”
“All AR-15’s. There should be one hundred. Another load coming in next week. And then the next. We’ll get the final shipment a couple of weeks before the drop deadline.”
“There’s no way a hundred ARs fit in those three small crates unless they’re dissembled.”
“Should be,” Andino said.
Great.
“Then the crates need unpacked. All of them. The guns need to be assembled, checked, and disassembled again before being packed back up.”
Andino glanced over at him. “Why the fuck would you do that? That’s a lot of work and time to spend on guns that are already ready to ship. All we need to do is move them from the warehouse to a boat again, Cross.”
“That might be how you do it,” he replied with a shrug. “That’s not how I do it. My name is attached to this run just like yours is. Actually, maybe more than yours is, Andino. Look at it like this—you simply sold the guns. I’m the one who needs to get them all there in one piece, and in working order. If the drop ends with a few missing weapons or a couple of ruined guns, you’re simply going to pay the buyer back or work it out somehow. Me, though? My name is fucked.”
Cross waved a hand at the men still pushing the crates to a waiting truck. “So yeah, every single one of those crates and any more that come in need to be opened, the guns assembled, checked, and then disassembled and packed back up. I’m not running fucked up guns to someone like Rhys Crain. Trust that.”
“I’m starting to regret asking you to run these guns already.”
Cross laughed dryly, and turned to head off the dock. “Yet, here we are.”
“Lucky me.”
“Make sure someone is checking those guns. Get a team of guys to do it. I don’t care.”
Andino nodded once as they stepped off the dock. “Fine, whatever. If it’ll make you shut up, I’ll do it.”
“Nothing makes me shut up,” Cross said, “but that’s not why you want me running your guns, right?”
“I should have stayed in Atlantic City for another week,” Andino muttered.
“What were you doing over in New Jersey?”
“Taking a little break from life.”
Cross side-eyed the Marcello Capo, considering the man’s words. “Life too fast for you, or what?”
“It is when someone decides my life needs to be upended without my input,” Andino replied, and not offering more. “The two week break was good for me, though. Back to work, now.”
Cross now understood why it had taken Andino two weeks to get ahold of him with more information about the gun run. It had also been two weeks since Cross had heard from Catherine, but that had fuck all to do with Andino.
He chose to wait her out.
The girl always did overthink.
As the two men came to stand behind the trailer of the eighteen-wheeler, Andino put his pointer finger and thumb between his lips, and whistled. The piercing sound carried over the noisy docks. Not two seconds later, a rusty colored pit bull came crawling out from beneath Cross’s parked Range Rover. Cross hadn’t even seen the dog before that moment.
“Come here, Snaps,” Andino ordered, pointing a finger to the ground at his feet.
The dog did as he was told, but one black eye stayed on Cross. As Andino scratched the pit bull behind his ear, the stubby tail wiggled against the ground. Still, the dog kept watching Cross like he didn’t trust him.
“He looks like he’s considering biting me,” Cross said.
Andino grinned. “Not unless I tell him to.”
“Good to know.”
“Don’t take offense. He’s not fond of men in general.”
“Except you, it seems,” Cross noted.
“Yeah, well.” Andino offered nothing else.
Before the truck took off to store the guns away, Cross wanted to break open one of those crates, and do a cursory check of the assault rifles inside. He waited until the men that had loaded the crates with a forklift were out of the trailer before he climbed inside. Andino stayed behind with his dog.
Cross pulled off a crowbar hanging on a rack inside the trailer, and used it to crack open the side of the crate closest to the loading doors. Sticking his hand inside, he shifted the packing hay around until smooth metal met his fingertips. He repeated the process through different parts of the hay until he was satisfied.
He jumped out of the truck after replacing the crowbar.
Andino now held a manila folder that he handed over
to Cross. “I have a final date on the drop, and the location Rhys wants to exchange the guns.”
Cross opened the folder and looked the new details over. November sixteenth was the deadline, only three months from then. A drop in the Gulf of Mexico, it seemed, preferably with an exchange between boats.
“I can manage all of this,” Cross said. “Do you have a boat for me to use, or do you want me to work that out on my own?”
“Would a trip on a beautiful luxury yacht suit your tastes?”
Cross smirked. “Now you’re talking.”
“I’ll have a port cleared by the drop time. We’ll get no issues there with a little bribe.”
“I have a contact with the coast guard that I can work.”
“Sounds like it’s all coming together just fine.”
“Don’t get cocky,” Cross said, chuckling. “It never does any good.”
“You’re one to talk.”
“I’m arrogant. There’s a difference.”
“Sure.” Andino nodded to the inside of the trailer. “So, is that all good, or what?”
“The one crate is dry. It was the last one off the boat, so the closest to the sea water tank. If it’s dry, I suspect the others are, too.”
Andino nodded. “You satisfied?”
“Try to get the rest here on anything but a damn fishing vessel, man.”
“No promises.”
Yeah, there never was in this life.
“You missed tribute last Monday,” Calisto said.
“Was I needed?”
“You know that’s not the point, son.”
Cross took a seat on the leather couch in his father’s office. Usually, the space was a comforting place for him. It held fond memories from his younger years, and especially good memories of Calisto.
Right then, however, it felt cold. That was a lot of Cross’s mixed emotions causing his unease, of course, but it didn’t make it any less real.
“Other than to count the cash when Wolf doesn’t feel like doing it,” Cross said, “I don’t really need to go to tribute. It’s not like I owe you a tribute personally. I pay you my dues as I make my money.”
Cross wasn’t a Capo under his father, like a lot of the Donati men were. He was his father’s underboss—he helped to manage the men when needed, and their business. The money side of his business, on the other hand, was solely tied up in gunrunning for Chicago.
When he made money doing that, Cross paid dues to his boss.
That’s how it worked.
Sure, he had other businesses, too, but they weren’t tied to the Donati mafia. They didn’t need to have dues paid on them. He laundered his dirty money to clean it through businesses spread out in the city that he had investments in. Clubs, restaurants, used car dealerships, and more. Anything that was a mostly cash-only business, his money manager was on it like flies on shit. Investing and owning businesses like those also helped to earn him more cash while legitimizing his dirty money.
“True enough,” Calisto finally said, “but that still isn’t the point.”
“Then what it is the point, Cal?”
Calisto frowned. “Not Papa today, Cross?”
“Depends on my mood. It’s not very fucking good at the moment.”
“At least not where I’m concerned, hmm?”
Cross wasn’t doing this today.
At least, not with Calisto.
“Move on,” Cross said quietly.
Calisto sighed, and scrubbed a hand down his face. “You need to be at tribute regardless if you owe dues or not. It’s the respect of the matter. You don’t get to blow one off because you’re in a pissy mood with me. Just so we’re clear, Cross.”
“Fine.”
“Now, what did you want?” Calisto asked. “You were the one who asked for this meeting today. What did you need?”
For a long moment, Cross simply stared at his father. He could plainly see the similarities between them standing out far more than ever before. It was like looking into a slightly older mirror when he stared at Calisto’s features. He had always passed it off before as them being related, and the dominant Donati genes they shared.
Certainly not that he was looking at his father.
Cross hadn’t sat down with Calisto, or his mother, in weeks. He ignored their calls, his mother’s messages about dinner and church, and even his sister calling to ask what the fuck was up with him lately. He assumed Emma had probably complained to Camilla about his lack of presence in their home the last time his sister called from Chicago.
This was the first time he actually sat down with Calisto, and spoke to him since that night he came over during his father’s episode. Even his mother hadn’t lingered too long when he first came into the house earlier.
“I need to fill you in on something I’m doing,” Cross said.
Calisto’s brow dipped. “Why?”
“Because it involves another New York family, and I’m technically a Donati man. Your made man. Shouldn’t I let my boss know when I’m involved in another family’s schemes?”
“Is that what it is, a scheme?”
Cross tipped his hand over as if to say, kind of.
“What is it, then?” Calisto asked.
“I owe Andino Marcello a favor from years back. He decided to cash it in now.”
“A favor because of what?”
Cross blanked his expression, unwilling to explain exactly what had gotten him into this position years ago. “For something—that’s not the point.”
“What does he have you doing, son?”
“Running some guns to a buyer down in the Gulf.”
Calisto’s gaze hardened, and his jaw tensed. Still, he stayed silent. Cross knew his father was instantly irritated by the news, either way.
“It should be a quick and clean run,” Cross assured, “and then I’m done with him. The debt is paid.”
“I suppose a warning from me regarding the Marcello family will do you no good.”
“If you need to, then by all means, go for it.”
Calisto rolled his eyes upward. “Dante Marcello has already made it very clear you’re to stay far away from his areas of New York, and his men. He does not want any of the Donati family, but especially you, touching his business. I’m extremely positive that running his guns falls into that category, Cross.”
“What Dante doesn’t know, won’t hurt him.”
“Jesus.” Calisto blew out a slow breath. “Wasn’t three years in Chicago enough for you to learn not to push that man?”
Cross smirked. “Not really.”
“Then maybe your shoulder or broken face was, Cross. I mean, you never confirmed to me that it was them, but …”
At the mention of the injury on his shoulder that had long ago healed on the outside, he felt a throbbing ache inside.
Cross refused to think about it.
“A man is only as good as his word,” he told his father, “and I gave Andino mine. Nonetheless, you needed to know what was going on, so I let you know. I would be grateful if you didn’t mention it outside of us, as no, it would not be good for Dante to learn I was running his guns before I can even do the drop.”
“Fine, but fucking hell, try not to get killed in the process.”
“Sure.”
Cross stood, done with the conversation and the meeting.
“You’re not staying?” Calisto asked. “Not even for dinner?”
His walk hesitated at the door, and his shoulders tensed. “No.”
“Cross, stay and talk a bit more.”
“You know why I need time to myself right now, Cal,” he murmured.
“I do, but if you just let me explain some of the things that happened back then, you might understand. Your mother and I, we love you, Cross. Please let me—”
“I need time,” he repeated.
With that, Cross left the office.
His mother lingered at the kitchen entryway as he came down the hallway. Her green eyes stayed loc
ked on the floor, and he hated the thought that he was causing her some kind of pain. No matter what, he adored his mother. He loved her to death.
Shitty choices be damned.
Cross stopped long enough to wrap an arm around his mother’s shoulders, and kiss her on the top of her head. “Love you, Ma.”
Emma patted his cheek gently. “I know, my boy.”
“Not a boy, huh?”
“Always mine,” she countered. “Always our wild child, even as a grown man.”
“Sure, Ma.”
“Don’t stay away for two weeks again.”
Cross let out a harsh breath, but didn’t deny her request. He would come back sooner. For his mother, anyway. He just wished he could shake that feeling of betrayal that lingered while he was there.
It was the fucking worst.
Cross locked the door of his Manhattan penthouse, and soaked in the silence and calm of the place. Despite living in Chicago for three years, he had greatly missed New York, and his place. For many reasons. Most, he didn’t like to think about too often.
Those reasons had to do with Catherine.
He shrugged his suit jacket off as he headed toward the back hallway to the master bedroom. Dropping the item onto the bed, he kicked off his shoes, and undid his pants. He emptied the pockets, setting a roll of cash, his wallet, and a cell phone on the nightstand.
His gun holster—and the Eagle inside—were set alongside the items before he pulled off his dress shirt. He discarded his pants to the bed, too, knowing the suit needed to go into the dry-cleaning bag. Once he was standing in nothing but boxer-briefs, he headed for the attached bath, needing hot water pounding down on his tired muscles.
It was a hell of a long day running from one side of New York to the other non-stop. Mostly, Cross liked what he did. Despite wavering between becoming a made man, or exclusively running guns when he was younger, he ended up with a happy medium. One he was fine with, and usually managed well. To an extent. It was still a lot of work; he was still exhausted a lot of the time.
It was also worth it.
He was good at both.
He figured that outweighed long days, short nights, and the stress that sometimes came along with it all.
