My Every Breath

by Brittney Sahin

  He wraps a hand around the back of his neck, eyeing me.

  “Go.”

  “Fine.” He salutes me, just to be an ass, and leaves.

  Once the door is closed, I scroll through my contacts to the judge’s number but decide I need to make another call first.

  After a few rings, the line connects.

  “Everything okay?” Jessica answers, getting right to it.

  “Yeah. The company is fine.” She handles our cyber security, but she’s also my sister’s best friend. She’s not one of my greatest fans, but right now, that doesn’t matter. I need a favor.

  “So, why are you calling?”

  She’s never been one to fake pleasantries, which I like about her.

  “I need to hire you for a job. Probably need one or two guys. Whatever you think.”

  “Uh, okay.”

  “I need you to follow Mya Vanzetti. She’s a reporter.”

  “And why am I tracking a reporter?”

  “She’s the daughter of a friend, and it looks like she’s trying to break a story on the Irish mob. Look into a strip club called McCullens.” I listen to her tap keys, taking notes.

  That’s all I’m supposed to say. I want to look out for Mya because of my friendship with her father—and because it’s what a decent human being would do. And I’ve been trying to be a better person. Really, I have.

  But there’s part of me that wants to know more. More about Gia.

  “Anything else?”

  I hesitate, something I rarely do. I usually know what I want, and I do it without qualms. “There’s a woman,” I finally say. “Her name is Gia, and she’s somehow connected to the club. See what you can find out.”

  “She a dancer?”

  “No.”

  “Anything more to go on than that?”

  “About five-five, dark hair to her mid-back, and classy-looking. Skinny, but with curves, you know—”

  “Cade.”

  I look down at the desk and grip my temples with my thumb and finger. “She’s Brazilian and Irish,” I add.

  “Anything else? Like, is she a C or D cup?” A hint of a smile slides through the phone.

  “Funny,” I grumble . . . but probably a C. Maybe a D. Whatever she is, she’s fucking perfect. “Just call me as soon as you have something, okay?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “Is Luke available?” He’s her brother, a former Navy SEAL, and they run the business together. Aside from their “on the books” company, they run an underground PI firm, protecting and rescuing people. Basically, they’re exactly who I need right now.

  “No, he’s been on an assignment overseas for the last month.”

  “Well, make sure whoever you have on Mya is armed.” I end the call before Jessica can make any snide comments and piss me off.

  I settle behind my desk and stare at the computer screen. There’s a sudden itch to my fingers, a desire to go online and try to learn more while I wait.

  I try to convince myself again this is all to protect the daughter of a friend . . . that this has nothing to do with Gia.

  4

  Gia

  I can still taste the salt on my tongue. It’s as if the tide is roaring in and the sand is between my toes. The sun lights up the horizon as bursts of color explode in the sky, and the Christ the Redeemer statue looks over the city—protecting it.

  My home. Rio de Janeiro.

  The flame of the candle on the table sways as I stare at it as if I can see my life on the beach in that little dancing red and orange strip of color.

  I try to hang onto the good memories, so the bad ones won’t haunt me right now.

  I’m not sure if Brazil can ever be home for me again, after what happened there ten years ago. But I don’t see how New York can ever be home, either, not with Rory and my father here—not with their death-grip hold on me.

  I glance down at my phone, thinking about the man I met last Friday as I swipe my finger across the screen, unlocking it.

  I pull up my last Google search, making a mental note to delete my browser history before I get up from the dinner table.

  I zoom in on the image—Cade King.

  I’m not going to lie. He takes my breath away. He’s the first man to ever do that, so it means something.

  Brown hair with a slight wave to it, dark scruff, almost turquoise eyes, and don’t get me started on his body. Not overly bulky—just the right amount of muscle.

  But my attraction to him is only skin-deep. I know any profound connection with someone is impossible.

  “Who is that?”

  Layla is over my shoulder, arms crossed, looking right at my phone.

  I flinch, exit the webpage, and flip the phone over as if I’d been caught looking at porn. “No one.”

  “Sure doesn’t look like ‘no one’ to me. He’s hot.” Layla comes around in front of my table and slides into a chair opposite me. Her long, red nails tap on the wood, and I know she’s waiting for more from me. But what can I say to her? She’s Rory’s cousin. I might consider her a friend, but blood is thicker. I can’t take the risk.

  “Busy night?” I ask and nervously glance around the restaurant, hoping for a distraction.

  She shrugs. “The norm for a Monday night.” Layla manages the family restaurant, which serves Italian food instead of Irish. She wasn’t born in Dublin like Rory, and she seems to have less of an obsession with all things Irish. I wish she’d break free from the family, but I highly doubt she would, even if Rory let her.

  “How’s Johnny?” He’s her latest boy toy. She goes for men at least ten years younger.

  Instead of answering, she starts to reach for my cell.

  I chuckle and rest my hand on my phone before she can get it. “You bored of him already?”

  Her brows dart inward. “What’s up with you? You’re extra jumpy. Got your period?”

  I think about saying yes because I can’t exactly say, Well, your cousin might kill a man I just met.

  “Oh, fuck. Hang onto that thought. Rory just walked in.” Layla is on her feet before I have time to process her words.

  I quickly open my phone and delete my last web search.

  “You should have told me you were having dinner here tonight. I would have joined you.” Rory’s words sail through the air from behind and slam into me like a metal two-by-two to the spine.

  I don’t bother to face him. I can’t stomach the eye contact.

  When his hand wraps over my shoulder, a not-so-gentle squeeze, I shut my eyes and pray to God to burn this man alive where he’s standing.

  Unfortunately, there’s no smell of sizzling flesh.

  “Wait here. We’ll have dessert after my meeting.” A puff of air hits my neck.

  I finally glance over at him as he heads to a booth on the other side of the restaurant and settles across from Van and Creed—two of his main guys.

  I’ve been doing my best to keep an eye on Rory since Friday to see if he’ll make a move on Cade, because I know that once he has his sights set on someone it’s game over.

  Cade’s in danger for trying to be a good guy.

  I take a sip of my soda and remain discrete as I observe them.

  Van, the younger of the two, slides a tablet across the table to Rory. He’s pointing to something on the screen, and Rory is nodding. He likes what he’s hearing.

  “So.” Layla is back at the table, positioning herself in her previous seat. “Is Rory still trying to get in your pants?”

  My shoulders sag, and a major unease burrows its way into my stomach.

  “Too bad my uncle isn’t around anymore to keep you safe from him.”

  I never thought there’d be a day when I wished Richard McCullen was running the mob again.

  As soon as Rory took over the family business, I lost one of my two protectors. Rory’s dad had a soft spot for me, and he kept all the assholes at bay. And my dad, well, he still thinks of me as the fifteen-year-old he brought to New York fro
m Brazil.

  “Did you visit Richard last weekend?” I change the subject because any conversation involving Rory will only get me in trouble.

  “No, I couldn’t. He was in the hole.”

  “What’d he do to get thrown in solitude?”

  “Who knows.” She motions for one of the servers to come to the table. “Vodka and cranberry.”

  The young kid, probably only sixteen, nods and hurries off. Layla might be a saint compared to Rory, but she’s still intimidating as hell to most people.

  Her green eyes pin mine, and her red-painted lips spread into a deep grin. “He’s serving three life sentences, so I guess he doesn’t give a damn.”

  Fifty-seven days since Richard McCullen was sentenced to life.

  Fifty-seven days since I’ve had to dodge Rory’s increasingly aggressive advances.

  How much longer can my father keep him away from me? Rory runs this part of town like the newly crowned king of an empire, and he is one. The power he wields over the city scares the hell out of me.

  His father was controlled and even-tempered. He usually only hurt people who were involved in rival mobs. He wasn’t a saint by any means, but Rory is dark. He’s violent for the sake of violence.

  He’s the devil, and he’s trying to claim my soul, but I’ll die before I let that happen.

  I glance over at Rory’s table, and he’s still talking to Van and Creed. Rory’s lips are curved up at the edges, and his brows are darting inward, his jaw tight. He has “the look.” I’ve seen it more times than I wish to count—it happens when he’s excited . . . He looks like the Joker in Batman—a kind of screwed-up excited. He’s about to hurt someone, maybe even kill.

  Cade.

  My stomach twists.

  “I’m not feeling great. Gonna head home,” I sputter in a rush.

  “So, you do have your period? Thought you were off.” She smiles.

  “Uh, yeah.” I rise. “See you later.” I don’t even take two steps before I feel Rory’s gaze on me, and so I stop. “Sick,” I mouth and touch my stomach for dramatic effect.

  He narrows his eyes in suspicion, but then Layla blurts, “She’s got her period.” Yeah, she’s never been shy, even in front of customers at her own restaurant. Me, on the other hand . . . warmth travels up my neck and floods my face.

  But it works. Rory nods and returns his focus back to Van.

  My heartbeat nearly tramples my lungs as it pounds in my chest. I’m about to make a possibly dangerous move.

  A move that could impact the plans I have set in place to escape this life.

  But I can’t exactly let a man die because of me, can I?

  5

  Cade

  “Thanks for meeting me so late for drinks. I think I spend more time in my office, signing papers, than I do in court.” Tony Vanzetti raises his tumbler to his lips and takes a sip. His gray-blue eyes follow our waitress as she walks past the table, and his gaze slides up her long legs to the hem of her black skirt. “What’s it like to be young and single?”

  “What?” I grin, his question catching me off guard. “I thought things were good with you and Meryl.” Thirty years of marriage isn’t easy to come by these days. He usually brags about how good he has it at home during our poker games.

  “Things are perfect.” He sets his drink down on the little table.

  We’re about two blocks from my office, sitting in a lounge that has a retro feel to it. I’ve never been here, but apparently, the judge is a frequent guest. It’s a gentleman-only kind of place, but without strippers or cigars.

  “But . . .?” I wait and clasp my hands in my lap. I haven’t touched my drink yet, and I’m not really in the mood to. It might be late, but I need to swing back over to the office later for a call with a company in Dublin I’m trying to acquire. It’ll be morning for them soon.

  “Perfect can be boring,” he says, dragging his words out as he looks up at another waitress now standing at his side. She places a hand on his shoulder and bends forward, pressing a kiss on his cheek.

  “I don’t even know what boring feels like, but I’d like to give it a try one of these days.” Maybe on a beach in Bali.

  “It must be nice to have women drop their panties for you in the blink of an eye,” he says once the waitress is gone from his side.

  Tony is showing a side of himself I’ve never witnessed before, and I’m not sure I like it. I had this idea of him in my head, and it’s getting shattered right now. Honest, hard-working, faithful . . . you know, father-like . . . and maybe I hoped a few good ones existed since mine was shit. But now I’m wondering which server he’s screwing. I glance around the room. The blonde by the door? Maybe the redhead behind the bar?

  “So, about your daughter.”

  He rubs the stubble on his jaw and leans back in his seat. “So, which mob is Mya after now?”

  Now? “The Irish mob down in the Clinton neighborhood.”

  His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t look as surprised as I expected he’d be.

  “I get that she’s a reporter, but I’m worried she’s going to get herself in trouble,” I say.

  “Why couldn’t she have gone to law school like I wanted?” He shakes his head. “She had to ignore me and go to Syracuse and get that damn degree in communications. And now look at her—she’s working for one of the best papers in the country. But what’s the point, if she ends up killed?”

  “So you’ll talk to her?”

  “Yeah, but it probably won’t do much good. Maybe I can convince her to take a vacation, though.” He blinks a few times. “She’s stubborn. Always chasing down the next big article.”

  I guess he’s used to this, but if I had a daughter, I’d probably lose my mind with worry every day. This city can eat someone alive.

  I start for my drink, suddenly in the mood for the liquor now, but my hand falls back into my lap before I can lift the glass.

  I lean forward a little, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. “Uh, could you excuse me?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  I rush to my feet and exit the club.

  Did I hallucinate her? Because I thought I saw—

  My heart slams against my ribcage at the sight of Gia’s long dark hair whipping over her shoulder as she peers my way right before disappearing around a corner. “Wait!” I take after her and yell, “Gia, stop!”

  But she doesn’t.

  I pick up speed and continue to pursue her. And then she finally stops dead in her tracks, and I nearly knock her down.

  “We have to keep moving,” she sputters, out of breath.

  “What? Why?”

  She faces me, then looks over my shoulder and down the street. “They can’t see me here with you.”

  “Who?” But she grabs my hand, taking me by surprise, and I follow her, not sure what the hell to think or do right now. All I know is the woman I’ve been thinking about for the last few days is now with me—and clearly scared.

  “My office is up there. There’s a delivery entrance. No one will see us.” I point ahead, and she nods.

  I scramble in my pocket for the keycard and note the movement of her eyes, left to right.

  Once inside, she falls to her knees. She’s shaking. I crouch down and touch her cheek. “Jesus, you’re freezing.” Her lips are somewhat purple, and her face is like ice. “Let’s get you to my office and get you warm.”

  I help her to rise, and we head to the back elevators. I pull her against me as we ascend and wrap my arms around her, rubbing her back, trying to increase her body temperature. I’ve wanted my hands on her since we met—but I didn’t expect it to be like this. Soothing. Comforting.

  No, I had other images in mind—and all of them included my hands on her while she was naked. Maybe tied to the bed.

  But, shit—I need to forget those thoughts.

  Right the fuck now.

  “I-I’m s-sorry,” she says as her teeth chatter and her words vibrate against my chest.


  “Don’t talk right now.”

  When the doors part, I scoop her into my arms without thinking. Her eyes flutter shut as she slings her arms around me and nuzzles her face to my neck.

  I hurry to my office, and without letting go of her, I swipe my card by the door to unlock and open it.

  The lights automatically flick on, and I place her on the couch.

  I grab an extra blazer from the closet behind my desk and wrap it around her shoulders. “A thin leather jacket won’t cut it during the winter.”

  She forces a smile. “I wasn’t really thinking clearly. Thank you, though.”

  I drag a hand down my jaw as I assess the situation.

  I left the judge alone without an explanation, and I have a conference call starting soon . . . but shit, none of that matters right now. Because the woman that’s been running through my mind is now sitting before me.

  “I didn’t mean for you to see me. Not yet, at least,” she says after a minute, her voice calmer now, her lips turning pink again. “I wasn’t following you. I was tracking someone else.”

  “Tracking?” I sit next to her. “Care to explain?”

  Silence swallows the room, and yet, the gravity of the moment, of her being here, isn’t lost on me. Something is seriously fucking wrong.

  Her shoulders slope down as she fists the material of my jacket in front of her chest. “You kind of pissed off the wrong guy last Friday night.”

  “Yeah, Rory McCullen.” I haven’t heard back from Jessica, but it was only earlier today that we talked on the phone. I gave in and did my own research, matching Rory’s face to a name. Not exactly rocket science, since the club is called McCullens.

  “So . . . you know.” She lowers her head, staring down at her lap, at the buttons beneath her polished nails.

  I nod and reach down, tipping her chin up, needing eye contact.

  Her face is warmer now, her temperature normalizing. “But what I don’t know is what you’re doing involved with a man like him. Since you’re not a dancer at the club . . .” I wait for her to finish my sentence.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to go. If my bodyguard finds out I’m not at home, and that I’m here, it won’t be good. For either of us.” She removes the jacket and sets it next to her, but when she stands, I touch her wrist.