by Zara Cox
When I’m certain I’ve gotten myself under enough control, I move up her body, still making sure not to touch her. “Look at me.”
She turns reluctantly, mutiny once again plastered on her face.
“You hate yourself for this, don’t you?”
“Yes.” It’s a tight admission, her panting breathing nowhere near under control.
“Good,” I whisper, then lean down to speak directly into her ear. “Let that remind you to stay away. Because the next time I see you, this goes one step further. Understood?”
She doesn’t respond, but I know she’s gotten the message. I wait to catch another tremor before I get off the bed. I force myself not to take one last look as I leave the room. I’m halfway down the hall when I hear the distinct lock of her door behind me. I allow myself a grim smile.
My feet don’t stop moving until I’m back in the kitchen. The dogs rise in unison and trot to my heels. We make our way back around the side of the house and across the lawn to the wall.
A tingle in my nape drags my attention over my shoulder. Her room light is on and she’s standing at the window. The fact that she can’t resist watching thrills me.
Whatever twisted roles fate may have chosen to star us in, the savage power of our mutual feelings for each other will never diminish.
I watch her until another light comes on, its oblong shape reflected on the ground. It’s out of my direct view but I know it’s my father’s room.
My gaze returns to Cleo’s window, to the body framed there. Even as the guards tear out of the carriage house, my attention remains on her. She doesn’t move. Neither do I.
Not until the dogs begin to bark. I let myself out, my stride lighter as I retrace my steps back to my car.
My beloved McLaren Spider responds sultrily to my touch, and I accelerate away, my cock still hard, my heart kicking harder. Feeling alive.
After years of skirmishes in the shadows, I’ve launched the first major salvo in the war with my father.
And the flavor of battle has never tasted so sweet.
Chapter Five
SABER-RATTLING
Finnan’s next attempt at saber-rattling comes one night later, via Bolton this time. Of all my brothers, he’s the only one I can tolerate for more than five seconds. There was a time when he leaned toward being a pacifist and therefore seemed more human than the rest of my family. Of course, that didn’t last long. Finnan soon belted that perceived weakness out of him. But perhaps Bolton didn’t lose it all. I wonder if this is why he’s chosen to make the call.
“What the fuck were you thinking, breaking into the house?”
I focus on my brother’s voice. At thirty-one with no clear job title, his role in the mob hierarchy is as an aimless lackey, his inability to stick to one job due to his suspected ADHD a constant source of ridicule from Ronan and Troy. There was a time when I felt almost sorry for him. That time is long gone.
I drift my fingers through the dozens of shirts hanging in my dressing room before settling on the gray silk. Saturday nights are the busiest of the week in any nightclub business, and with the rejuvenated buzz firing up my blood, I’m eager to get to work, perhaps even find a willing female to pound my restless energy into.
Despite returning home and jerking off one more time to the image of Cleo, my libido is nowhere near calm. I intend to find pussy tonight to help alleviate my need where the Punishment Club failed me this past week. There are a few attractive regulars at XYNYC who will more than meet the kind of action I’m looking for.
“Are you going to fucking answer me?”
Right, Bolton the Peacemaker was a figment of my imagination. “Sorry, I thought the answer was obvious,” I respond lazily knowing it will needle him.
“Fuck you, asshole,” comes the predictable answer.
I place the phone on speaker and set it down on the center island in my dressing room before I continue perusing my wardrobe. “Okay. You called to insult me. Consider me thoroughly insulted. If that’s all…”
“You better not be thinking of hanging up on me.”
“Insults and threats. Why don’t we continue this conversation when you have some new material to offer?”
“Are you out of your mind leaving that little present for Pa?”
“It wasn’t well received, I take it?”
“Do the Ferris wheels on Coney Island go round and round?”
“Sorry, you lost me.” I inject as much disinterest in my voice as possible.
Pathetically, he rises to the bait. “You’re trying to get yourself killed, is that it? FYI, the last guy who tried something like that lost both kneecaps.”
“He must be more popular than I thought if people are breaking in on a regular basis.”
“Dammit, Axel, you know how lucky you were to get away with pulling a stunt like that without getting seriously hurt?”
Fury spikes like the purest coke through my blood. “Do you know how lucky you all are that I showed restraint? That I’ve shown restraint for eight fucking years? Do you have any idea what I could’ve done to any of you last night? Be thankful you don’t have a fucking clue, brother.”
“You really think you’re special shit, don’t you, just because you were in the army?”
I stop myself from giving him a single example that will make his blood curdle. “I don’t just think it, brother. Ask yourself this—if I wasn’t ‘special shit’, as you so eloquently put it, would the old man be so fucking off his head for me? Fuck, don’t answer that. Just tell me if there’s a particular reason for your call. I have ninety-nine things I could be doing other than talking to you.”
He swears a blue streak, exasperation in every expelled breath. My lips twitch with the unfamiliar urge to smirk as I button up my shirt.
“What’s wrong with you? All the old man wants is to have a sit down with you,” he finally says.
“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with me. And we know what he wants. What he’s always fucking wanted when it comes to me. He wants me to fall in line. He wants me to kiss the ring. And a sit down? Really? You’ve watched The Godfather one too many times.”
“You don’t think your own father deserves the respect of a face-to-face conversation?”
My whole body turns to ice, and my heartbeat slows to a dull, barely registering thud. “Respect? You dare speak to me about respect?”
Bolton hesitates. When he speaks again, his tone is less heated. “You don’t know the damage you’re causing by playing this game. Ever since you were a snotty kid, you thought you were above everybody else.”
My jaw locks for a moment before I pry it open to speak. “No. What I thought was that I didn’t deserve to be treated like an animal. Or used as a fucking punching bag when the old man had a less than stellar day. You think it was a brand of affection? That, every time he broke a bone or gave one of us a black eye, it was because he loved us? It was abuse, pure and simple. And you would know it if you pulled your head out of his ass long enough to think for yourself.”
“There you go again, treating me like I’m stupid. You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about—”
“I know he’s running scared because his fucking empire is crumbling. I know he wants to meet to warn me off the Armenians and the Albanians. I have no intention of doing either. His time is over. No more requests for a sit down or anything else. We haven’t had a single thing to talk about in ten years. Whatever shit he’s got himself into—and trust me, I know enough—it’s on him.”
“Jesus, what the hell did he do to you that was so bad you bear a grudge all these years later?”
The finger poised over the red end button freezes, shock ramping through me. The thought that Bolton would ask me that…
I wait for the rush of blood clouding my vision to clear before I snap, “Do you have fucking amnesia, Bolton? Or are you just high as usual?”
“Fuck you, I don’t do that shit anymore.”
Maybe not, but I can’t
I drag myself back from my darkest memories to Bolton’s continued censure, “I’m not like you. I don’t hang on to things like a woman hangs on to her goddamn purse. Have you tried letting things go?”
“You’re wasting your time and mine if all you called for is to preach hearts and flowers and forgiveness, Bolton. I’ve stated my terms. No more visits from anyone. No more fucking phone calls.”
“Or what?” he snaps.
My silence is loud enough as I turn away to select a pair of tailored pants from the hanger. He’s still there because I hear him taking deep breaths. Regrouping. Which is surprising. The brother I knew before would have hung up by now. For all his peacemaking tendencies, Bolton’s short attention span is usually shorter when he’s stressed.
The hairs on my nape sizzle to attention as I listen to him take another breath. “You may not want to know or care, but shit is heading south fast, brother. Putting yourself between him and the Armenians was the wrong move. Now the fucking Albanians too? Jesus, Axel, the moment the Bratva get wind of it, they’ll pull out too. Pa will go apeshit.”
I’m counting on it.
“Things are getting unpredictable around here,” Bolton continues. “For everyone. You think you’re a fucking island because you washed your hands off us years ago? Well, you’re not. Shit can blow back on you in a thousand different ways. When it does, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“We’re done here, Bolton. Goodbye.” This time I don’t hesitate to end the call.
* * *
Despite my need to forget, Bolton’s words ricochet around in my head as the petite, curvy redhead I picked up an hour ago performs a curious switch between grinding against and climbing my leg. When my hand slides around her waist, her face all but lights with joy as her gyrations intensify.
I drain the shot of Balvenie whisky in my glass and nod to my private bartender for a refill.
“Are you going to put the drink down and dance with me?” the redhead whispers sultrily in my ear, long false lashes promising any- and everything I desire.
My free hand slides into her over-teased hair. I tighten my grip hard enough to get her attention. She stops moving, a soft gasp leaving her lips.
“Are you enjoying my VIP lounge, doll? Do you want to stay up here all night long?” I ask, struggling to temper my tone.
She nods eagerly. “Oh yes, I do. You have no idea how many times I’ve been here, hoping you would invite me to—”
“Then don’t fucking talk.”
Her mouth drops open then she blinks. “I…what?”
“You really want me to repeat myself?”
Her mouth clamps shut, and she shakes her head. Wide, increasingly excited eyes slide from my face to my clenched jaw to the glass in my hand and back to my face. She’s a closet danger whore, one I didn’t spot before now. Before coming to XYNYC, I did a passing tour through my other three New York nightclubs.
Viper Red and Viper Black cater to the edgier clientele and I could’ve had easy pickings of women who welcome my darker proclivities. But for some reason, I wasn’t in the mood for that.
My Harlem club, Playhouse X, was equally lacking. I realized why when I spotted a blonde with a passing resemblance to Cleo, and my pulse kicked up a notch. Furious with myself, I went with the redhead. Jerking off to Cleo’s image is one thing; actively seeking her out in other women is unacceptable.
I stare down at the redhead, and I wonder if I picked her out of the many available women tonight because she managed to hide her true intentions until now. As I’m idly musing what I’m going to do about it, she sways closer, an eager smile curving her burgundy-colored lips. Her fingers tiptoe up my chest. After exploring for a short spell, she slides one hand over my nape, the other reaching for the glass of Dom Pérignon she’s knocking back with almost comical greed.
She grinds against my thigh hard enough for me to feel her pelvic bone. Beneath her burnt-orange cocktail dress, her nipples pucker to hard, visible points.
I take a beat to collate her attributes.
Lush breasts. Perky ass. Fuckable mouth, if painted in too garish a color. I bend my head and inhale her scent. The smell of wet arousal hits my nostrils.
Ready, warm, willing pussy.
I wait for all of the above to pleasantly coalesce and work its way to the cock that was semi-hard a couple of hours ago. Nothing. Zero interest.
I haven’t fucked in…hell, almost three weeks. It isn’t an unthinkable record for me, but it is a disturbing one given that I didn’t make abstinence a clear choice and fucking is a great and regular stress releaser for me.
Almost three weeks…
Ever since Cleo’s first visit.
“Fuck.” The curse is loud and vicious enough to earn a worried glance from the redhead, even though she’s exploring more of my body than I’ve given her permission to.
Public groping doesn’t make me uncomfortable, not when I’ve indulged in an orgy or three in less salubrious days. But she’s stroking my limp cock, her eager little hand busy at my fly. I should be getting aroused. Except I’m not.
Her gaze flickers up at me, one side of her lip caught between her teeth. The titivation is a little too forced.
Or my cock has resigned its commission without bothering to let me know. “Hands off the junk until you get a green light, doll,” I growl with enough venom to make her shiver.
Yes. Definite danger whore.
Despite her clear predilection, she heeds my warning and goes back to exploring my upper body.
I sigh inwardly. Time for her to leave. I’m looking around for one of my bouncers just in case she decides to become a handful, when she gasps.
“Oh, you poor baby. What happened to you?”
She’s holding my right hand and examining my wrist with a mixture of curiosity and morbid excitement. A second later, she attempts to lift it toward her puckered lips. I jerk away before her mouth can make contact with my chafed wrist. The skin is still angry, and the wound crusted over, but like the rest of my body, that part of me feels lifeless. I experience a vivid urge to rip the scabs off just to feel some pain, just to remind myself why I shouldn’t heed a single thing Bolton said tonight.
“It’s time for you to go.”
Acute disappointment drowns her features. “It’s okay. I won’t talk if you don’t want me to. I can be obedient.” One dark-nailed finger approaches my collarbone. “I’m very accommodating. Whatever you want, just say the word, and it’s yours.”
There’s a rapidly building fire in her eyes, and again I’m alarmed by my extreme lack of stimulation. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
I temper my tone because, as unreasonable as I’m feeling, this isn’t her fault. The bouncer leads her away despite her protests, and I turn toward my private bar. Getting hammered as quickly and as severely as possible feels like a capital idea right now.
Except, no amount of whisky can disguise the fact that I’m still tracking the monitors way more than I should, that every woman in the club with a passing resemblance to Cleo snags my attention. Which in turn gets me more notice from women than I want. A problem I counter with more booze.
I finally accept that Cleo’s heeded my warning not to return around two a.m. I also accept, as I jerk off hours later in my shower, that her obedience this time around has pissed me off more than I thought possible.
Chapter Six
RULES OF ENGAGEMENT
Now that I know exactly what Finnan wants, the battlefield becomes clearer.
Now that I know what I want, I don’t hesitate in pulling my substantial resources into achieving my aims.
I thought I was done with her. That what she did to me would irreparably taint my desire for her. I’ve been proved wrong multiple times now. Turns out hate doesn’t overrule every single decision of my life.
She placed herself in my orbit. She’s staying until I decide otherwise.
Five days have passed since I last saw her. Four nights that I’ve jacked off to the memory of her sweet pussy then locked myself in the Punishment Club afterward.
I’m going to take her, but before I do, I’m going to remove one more Rutherford cornerstone.
I eye the man sitting in front me. “Do we have an agreement?”
The young Bratva lieutenant shakes his head. “We Bratva take loyalty very seriously. What you’re doing…it’s very disloyal to your father, no?” he asks in a thick Russian accent.
“I thought the Bratva didn’t recognize blood ties, only brotherhood?”
He seems marginally impressed. “Da; nevertheless, what you’re doing, it has potential to be messy, and Bratva—”
I hold up my hand. “Please don’t tell me the Bratva doesn’t do messy. We both know that’s a joke.”
His face tightens with affront. Shit. I swallow and regroup, choosing not to feel annoyed that my request to deal with the head of the Russian mob was answered with a meeting with a low-level lackey.
The lieutenant looks around my office then stares at a couple of monitors showing a packed club. “You run lots of nightclubs, successfully by the look of it. What do you want with guns, anyway?”
I choose my words carefully. “I have a lot of assets to protect. You help me protect them, and I’ll make sure none of the mess lands on your doorstep.”
He watches me for a moment before his gaze swings back to the monitors. I follow his gaze and see my three brothers stroll into XYNYC.
Fuck.
The lieutenant nods at them. “We talked about your father. What about your brothers? That one, Ronan, has quite the temperament. If Bratva decides to do business with you, how do you plan to keep him in line?”
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