My Every Breath

by Brittney Sahin

  “My guy at the bureau said someone gave them a goldmine of dirt on Richard. Too bad they didn’t manage to lock Rory up, too.”

  “You were at the Feds’ office?”

  She lifts a shoulder and flips her blonde ponytail to her back, batting her eyes for dramatic flair. “What can I say? I can charm myself into any place.”

  She probably can, too. She’s gorgeous and one of the smartest women I’ve met in my life. Right now, I’m thankful her business also handles cases like this one.

  “I take it we don’t know who snitched on Richard?”

  “I checked the witness list from the trial. Whatever the Feds got didn’t come from any of them. I’m sure they’d be at the bottom of the Hudson if it did, anyway.”

  “True.”

  “I thought you’d find this interesting, though.” Jessica brings up another image. “This is from last night.”

  I zoom in, trying to grasp what I’m seeing. “What the hell is Mya doing with Gia?”

  “Figured that was her based on your description.” Gia and Mya are standing side by side in front of what looks like art easels.

  “Where was it taken?”

  “Every Tuesday and Thursday, there are art classes at a school in Brooklyn. It looks like Mya and Gia are enrolled. Mya was a late add. Seven weeks ago.”

  “Yeah, that can’t be a coincidence.” I shake my head.

  “That’s about the same time Richard got locked up, too.”

  “I’d better talk to her father again. Mya’s definitely going to get caught in the crossfire, otherwise.” It’s hard for me to believe Gia would give information to Mya, though—or to let anyone help her if that’s what she’s doing.

  “You sure you want to do all of this for some woman you don’t even know?”

  “And are you really asking me that? Isn’t this what you do—save people?”

  “I do, but you . . . well, this is kind of unexpected.”

  “I’ve made up my mind.”

  She lifts her shoulders. “Okay, then.”

  Knowing Jessica, she won’t press for more, which is something else I like about her. “I talked to Noah, by the way. He’s taking Grace and Lily out of the city.”

  “Good. If anything happens to them—”

  “You’ll kill me. I know.”

  She nods. “So, you ready for tonight?”

  I stand and rub my palms down my face. Memories of my past are clawing to the surface. “She’s going to say no again. She’ll probably shoot me herself, but I’m going to try. We have a narrow window before Rory is back.”

  “Okay. My team will be in place if you need an assist.”

  I’d like to toss Gia over my shoulder and make her leave with me, but I’m hoping it won’t come to that. “Anything on her father yet? Or a last name on her?”

  “Not yet. The name she used to register for the art class was fake.”

  “Yeah, okay. I figured.”

  Five minutes after she leaves, the doorbell rings.

  I check the peephole.

  This isn’t the best timing, but Lydia’s on the cleared security list, so I’m not surprised she managed to get up here without my being notified.

  I open the door and lean against the interior of the frame.

  Her lips twist into a seductive smile as her green eyes land on mine. “I thought I’d surprise you.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a pair of fuzzy leopard handcuffs.

  A week ago, my balls would have instantly tightened, my cock stiffening . . .

  But not today.

  “You going to let me in?” She dangles the cuffs. “I’m cold. I don’t have anything on under this jacket,” she says in a soft voice.

  This is typical of Lydia. Showing up like this. I think she watches too many chick flicks; otherwise, where does she get these cliché ideas?

  I haven’t had sex in a week. A week isn’t long to most people, but I don’t usually go more than a few days.

  This can’t happen, though.

  “I’m sorry. Not a good time.”

  “Oh.” She swallows, her cheeks turning rosy, and she shoves the cuffs into her coat pocket. “Is someone here?” She takes a step back. “I’m so sorry. I should have called first.”

  And this is why I like her. She isn’t going to go batshit crazy on me. She won’t act jealous. She won’t question me.

  “Sorry,” I say again, allowing her to hang onto her foregone conclusions.

  She takes a step forward and presses up on her toes to kiss my lips.

  “Good night.”

  “Call me when you’re free.” She smiles and leaves, and I wonder if I’m making a mistake.

  Being with Lydia is easy. It’s safe for my walls. Working my ass off at the office and screwing women with zero emotion is what I know how to do best.

  Why complicate shit?

  But it doesn’t look like I have a choice. I want a woman who’s probably as untouchable as Rory McCullen. And even though I can’t have her, I’ll do my best to make damn sure he can’t, either.

  7

  Gia

  “How’d you know I live here?” I reach for Cade’s arm and try to yank him closer and out of the hall.

  I maintain my grip and look up at him. He’s a lot taller than me. Six-foot-two, probably.

  It takes me a second to remember what the hell I’m doing, because I can’t seem to remove my hand from what feels like steel beneath my palm.

  “You do want me to come in, right?” A slight smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as his brows rise. “Maybe we should shut the door?”

  “Yeah.” I stumble back and retract my arm. Once we’re both in, I lock up and secure the chain in place. It’s my only protection, flimsy as it is, from Rory and his men.

  I turn around to find Cade moving farther into my apartment.

  He’s in light-colored, fitted jeans. His ass looks . . . well, it’s distracting.

  I tuck my hair behind my ears and try to rein in my sudden hormones that are equivalent to the one time I bumped into Derek Jeter when I was eighteen.

  My dad’s a diehard Yankees fan, and it’s one of the only things we’ve ever really found common ground on.

  What is wrong with me? I need to focus. Rory’s out of town, but that doesn’t mean his guys aren’t watching me.

  “Why are you here?” I move to stand in front of him, my heart pounding.

  “Nice place.”

  “Not as nice as yours,” I can’t help but say as my arms cross.

  “So, you know where I live too, huh?”

  “Looks like we’ve been Googling each other,” I joke, surprised by my ability to tease, given the situation.

  Another smile stretches across his face, and it does something funny to my chest: a weird sensation grips that organ of mine known as the heart. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt emotions there, besides pain and sadness.

  When I notice his gaze dropping to my sketchpad on the couch, I try to get to it before him, bumping into the side table as I do so, but he’s too fast. “Give it to me.” I hold my hand out like an impatient five-year-old.

  He starts to flip through the pages as he holds it above his head, too high for me to reach.

  Who’s the child now?

  “Are you a fashion designer? These sketches of women are great. They look sad, but . . .”

  I push up on the balls of my bare feet and try once again to snatch it from him, but his eyes cut to mine, narrowing. My breath gets stuck in my throat.

  It’s already the second wave of desire that’s hit me since he showed up tonight. I stand flat again and my thighs squeeze.

  He finally hands it back to me, and I stare down at the veins on the top of his hand.

  “I have friends in the industry. I could show them your work.”

  I pull myself out of my daze and shake my head.

  I tuck the notepad beneath the cushion on the couch as if that will deter him. I don’t let anyone see my dr
awings. My art classes are different—they’re for a purpose—but these sketches are part of me, of my past.

  I head over to the wet bar on the other side of the room to pour myself whiskey. I don’t normally drink something so strong, but I need to shut down the little vibrations that are rocking through my veins and making my heart pump so much faster.

  When I turn around, I nearly spill the amber liquid all over his shirt, not expecting him to be so close.

  “When did you move to the States?”

  “Ten years ago,” I say softly.

  “And you’ve been under Rory’s control since you came?” His eyes narrow as if he’s processing it all.

  “Something like that.”

  I hand him the drink, realizing it’d be rude not to offer him something.

  He nods his thanks, and I face the bar again.

  At the touch of his hand on my hip, I brace the black marble counter with both palms.

  My eyes close at the feel of his hand there, but it doesn’t feel wrong.

  It feels safe.

  I know that’s weird. There’s a guy I barely know in my place, and he has his hand on me, and yet, I want to press my back to his chest and let him put his hands wherever the hell he wants to.

  “Your English is damn near perfect,” he says into my ear, his breath like a hot whisper across my skin, making me flushed and warm.

  “Why only near perfect?” When I face him, his hand drops, my body cooling from the loss of his touch.

  “I like your accent, you know that,” he answers, avoiding my question. He takes a sip, and I focus on his lips. Full lips that have me wondering how they’d feel against my own.

  I forget my drink and go over to the window to close the blinds. “I was raised trilingual. My mother spoke Portuguese, Spanish, and English, and so she made sure I did, too.”

  “Smart woman. And where’s your mother now?”

  I lower my forehead to my palm when the last memory I have of her floods my mind. My body trembles and my skin pebbles.

  “Gia, are you okay?”

  I have no idea how long I’ve been quiet, but when I look up, he’s standing before me, observing me with concern in his eyes. And it looks genuine.

  “Can we just get back to why you’re here?” I swallow the pain. I stuff it down inside to where I bottle everything up—everything that matters—so Rory and his people can never touch it, never get to the real me.

  “I’m here to help you. And don’t worry, no one saw me come up.” He squints as if the sun is in his eyes, even though it’s dark out and the blinds are shut, closing the silver moon from our view.

  He sets the drink down by the couch, and his fingers rest on his jacket zipper. He looks at me as if waiting for permission to remove it.

  I nod and go past him before rooting myself into the oversized suede couch. I hate this couch. Rory bought it. Well, Rory bought everything here. Everything except me. When his father was officially sentenced, Rory convinced my dad I needed to move closer to the club for safety reasons. He never explained more than that to me, and I wasn’t given much of a chance to protest the move.

  Cade sets his jacket on the leather chair near the window, and my gaze skirts up his exposed forearms. He’s in a black tee, even though it’s too cold out to be wearing short sleeves. “I didn’t expect a man like you to have ink.” There’s a tattoo of a lion on its hind legs with fire encircling it. The ink expands from his wrist up to the inside of his elbow.

  Without realizing it, I brush my fingers over my own tattoo.

  The muscles in his jaw clench as he glances down at his arm. He releases a breath and sits down next to me. “So, I’m not allowed to have tattoos?” His hands settle on his thighs, and the veins on his forearms have me tucking my bottom lip between my teeth. Maybe I should have let him take on Rory. Rory usually has his men do the heavy hitting, and I don’t doubt for a moment that Cade could knock Rory down.

  Of course, that would have put an even larger target on Cade’s head.

  “No,” I finally say, “not when you’re a millionaire businessman.”

  “Mm. Maybe I have layers, like you.”

  I’m sure he does. And if we weren’t living in two different worlds, maybe I’d like to get to know what’s beneath the surface. “You really shouldn’t be here.” I pull my attention up to his face, and my heart palpitates.

  One look from him, one touch—it does something to me. It’s not just that I’m not allowed to be around him . . . it’s something else that’s throwing me off, that’s shattering my normal composure. I’ve learned over the years to deal with a lot of men. Powerful, brash, arrogant, strong, successful . . . all kinds. But I’ve never had a reaction to someone like this before.

  “I know I shouldn’t, which is exactly why I am.”

  “Your cryptic talk isn’t helping.”

  He smiles. And for some stupid reason, I smile again, too.

  But then the moment is gone, and my hand curls into a fist in my lap as I try to grind out the words I need to say without allowing too many emotions to rush to the surface too fast. He needs to understand what he’s doing—how dangerous this really is for him.

  “The first time I ran away from this life, I was only sixteen.” My eyes flutter shut as my skin tightens on my forehead, giving me a headache. “I barely knew how to drive, but I stole a car that belonged to a friend of my father, and I headed for Poughkeepsie. I was on the Taconic Parkway when I hit black ice. The car spun in a circle, and I bounced off the guard rails. I thought I was going to die.”

  The feel of Cade’s warm hand over my closed one has me stilling for a moment.

  “Somehow, I only came out with a broken arm and a few scratches.” I finally look up, and he’s staring back at me. “But the next time I ran away my broken arm wasn’t from an accident.”

  His thumb slowly moves over the top of my hand, and the gentle stroke does something to soothe me. “My father sent someone to find me, and the guy was more brutal than that car accident.”

  “Jesus, Gia. Your father was okay with that?” His voice is deep, almost silky, and it glides over my skin, cascading like a rush of water pouring over me, and then right through to my very core.

  “No. Dad killed him when he saw what he did to me.” I’ll never forget the moment when I was dragged through my dad’s door. The guy was an idiot for having the balls to hurt the daughter of one of the most notorious and feared hitmen on the East Coast.

  But when I entered my dad’s home—I wasn’t in tears because of the pain. No, I was crying because I was back. Back to the darkness. The dark, inky oil of my life.

  One bullet to the forehead, and he was gone in the blink of an eye. “He shouldn’t have died because of me. Shamus wasn’t a good man, but still, his blood is on my hands. If I hadn’t run away . . .”

  “Don’t say that.” Cade scoots closer and pulls me against him as if I’m someone special, as if I’m someone important to him. And for some reason, I let him. I let him wrap an arm around me, and I press my cheek to his chest, hearing his heartbeat.

  I haven’t had anyone care about me since I lived in Brazil. My father is good at keeping me safe—more like imprisoned—but he’s never shown real emotions. I’m not even sure if a killer like him is capable.

  So, the affection from Cade, a stranger, is confusing. But I hang onto the moment for as long as possible, because moments of safety are so rare. “The third time I ran away, Rory came for me.” I’m not sure if I can keep talking, if I can expose my past, my secrets, my life.

  “What’d he do?” There’s a hint of anger that vibrates through his words and chills me.

  “Well, he, uh, brought me back to the city and put me in some room at their underground casino. I thought I was going to die, but it was even worse.” I secure a deep breath and let it out. “My best friend, Chinara, was chained to a chair in the room and blindfolded. She was my only real friend. And Rory nearly killed her, while forcing me to watc
h. His guys held me back while I struggled, trying to get to her. I was powerless to stop it.”

  “Fuck.” Cade slowly pulls away and finds my eyes.

  I didn’t realize I was crying.

  If I froze every tear that’s fallen over the years, I could make my own icy pond. Maybe even a lake.

  “I never talked to Chinara again after that. I can’t care about people; if I do, they’ll get hurt.” I gaze deep into his eyes, to make sure he truly understands what I’m saying.

  “And when I run again, I have to make sure I’m not leaving any bodies behind, including yours, which is why you shouldn’t even be here right now.”

  He looks up at the ceiling for a moment in thought before his eyes cut back to mine. “I want to help you.”

  I almost laugh at the absurdity of his words as I stand. “Did you not hear anything I said?” I heave out a deep breath. He’s not making this easy. “Do your family and friends know you have a superhero complex?”

  My knees are weak as I head to the kitchen. I take a sip of water then spin around.

  He’s casually leaning inside the doorframe of the kitchen entrance, watching me.

  “Do you fasten on a cape at night and go crusading around, saving young women?”

  His long legs swallow the distance between us, and he stops shy of me by a foot or so. “I wouldn’t look good in tights.”

  I don’t know about that.

  His head angles, his eyes hold mine, and I’m done. I’m lost in that sea of blue.

  “You, um . . .” Shit, my heart is beating so damn fast I can’t even talk. Not in English, at least. “You should really go.” I manage to string the words together, even though my pulse is climbing and I feel a squeeze of pressure, a tingling between my legs.

  “Tell me something,” he says and steps even closer. Too close. All I can smell is him now.

  “What?” I ask, almost breathless, as my nipples harden.

  “If I could give you a way out, where no one gets hurt, would you take it?”