Made: A Bad Boy Romance (Bad Boy Games)
Page 13
I take the chair next to Ferrara. “Been a busy twenty-four hours.”
Ferrara regards me for a few moments. “You’ve done well. Better than we expected. If this had been a genuine game, you might have won.”
“You could have mentioned you’d already talked to him,” I say to Cesare, indicating Ferrara. “Would have made things a whole lot simpler if you’d simply told me the truth that you were both trying to take out Tucker Voss but couldn’t agree on how to do it.” There’s a hard, aggressive tone in my voice I know De Luca won’t appreciate. I’m beyond caring.
“You got the job done and in a more creative way than I’d have credited you with previously.”
I stare at Ferrara. “What are you talking about?”
“You haven’t heard?” Ferrara throws back his head and laughs. Then he extends a hand toward Cesare. “Can you believe it? He hasn’t heard.”
“A busy man doesn’t stop to count his victories.”
“Stop this right now,” I practically shout. “What the fuck happened?”
Marco De Luca jerks his head at a waitress in the corner. “Turn on the TV, Alicia.”
When the screen blooms to life, she flips through the channels until landing on the local news. The announcers are talking about political re-districting and upcoming elections. I ignore that shit and read the crawl at the bottom of the screen.
Responding to a tip, New Jersey police officers discover the scene of a gruesome murder. Details at six.
My insides clench and a tiny part of me worries about Brooke. I can’t stop feeling guilty for leaving her upstate. Since I can’t let Ferrara or Cesare know what I’m feeling, I throw it back at them. “So what? Like a murder in Jersey is supposed to be special?”
Marco’s expression turns grim. “Wait, there’s more.”
“Spare me the drama queen act, all right?”
He falters under my glare. “Whatever. They found the body at the offices of Harley & Sweet. We’ve got a guy on the inside with the Jersey cops. Word is it’s Tucker Voss.”
A silence fills the room save for the chatter of the news channel.
I cut a sharp look at Cesare. The old man remains mild and appears relaxed. “It wasn’t me. I didn’t touch Tucker Voss.”
Finally, Cesare speaks. “I know.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“You’re like a surgeon with your work, Nathan. Always precise.” He waves a hand at the television. “This kill was messy. Not your style.”
“Messy is a bit of an understatement,” Ferrara adds with a sardonic grin. “They might have to identify him by dental records. Something about his face being obliterated.”
I should feel elated. Worry nags at me. “Did they catch the killer?”
“They’ve got a line on his identity. Our guy on the inside says they should have him buttoned up before nightfall.” A line of tension unwinds. I won’t feel truly calm until Brooke is safe in my arms once more.
Cesare stands. “You’ve done everything that I asked, Nathan.”
“Where’s my mother?”
He glances at his Rolex. “She should be nearly to her new nursing home right about now. It’s about an hour outside the city, easy trip by train if you want. I’ll have Marco give you the information.”
Relief and something suspiciously like gratitude floods through my body. It finally hits me that I don’t have to worry about Tucker Voss ever again.
I’m free.
Someone grabs the remote from the waitress and click off the set. Out in the alley behind the restaurant, a cat yowls.
“Well,” Marco asks. “Don’t you want to know when the ceremony will be?”
“Ceremony?” I hate feeling out of the loop.
Cesare opens his palm to me. “You’ve served our family with honor, Nathan. It’s time for you to become a made man.”
I don’t know why I’m surprised. Cesare’s right, he did promise. The hell of it is that five years ago, I would have given anything—anything at all—to hear those words come out of Cesare De Luca’s mouth. Today it’s the last thing on my mind.
“Thank you for the offer. I don’t want it.”
A look passes between Ferrara and Marco De Luca that tells me they had a bet on how this was going to go. The way I’m reading the situation, Marco lost, which is fine by me.
The extent to which I don’t care about Cesare De Luca’s seal of approval makes new space inside my head.
“Think carefully, son.” Cesare watches me. “I won’t extend my hand to you again.”
“Look, I’m honored and everything. Truly. But if I’ve learned anything in the past few years, it’s this: I don’t want to live in the shadows anymore, even if that means I’m no longer one of you. I’ll take your secrets to my grave—”
“We’ll make sure of that,” Marco growls.
“—but I want to live the rest of my life in the sunshine.”
One of Cesare’s soldiers turns to the other. “He’s like a fucking commercial.”
“How can I know you will honor my trust and never sell or reveal what you know?” Cesare’s question is posed in a mild manner that carries no animosity. Doesn’t mean there isn’t a threat hidden behind the words, either.
“You don’t.”
Sorrow fills Cesare’s expression. “I didn’t want things to work out this way, my son. Alexander said you would turn me down. I refused to believe him.”
In another decade, we would have been teetering on the edge of a gunfight in this small banquet room. Cesare doesn’t want me to leave here alive until I’m under his thumb. Ferrara might have resolved his issues with Cesare, but he’s still working angles of his own. There will be De Luca men stationed in the alley out back, and more along the street fronting the restaurant.
Good thing I didn’t walk in here unarmed.
I turn to Marco. “You guy on the inside over in Jersey—he tell you if the Harley & Sweet offices had been ransacked?”
“Yeah, they were. How did you know?”
“A funny thing happened on the way doing Cesare De Luca a favor. While I was trying to figure out how much Tucker Voss had on the old fox, a friend of mine figured out how to access Voss’ files.” I let that news sink in. Voss might be dead, but the data he mined from his clientele was still worth millions, possibly billions.
“I have the key to Tucker’s files. All of his files. If anything happens to me or anyone I love, certain key pieces of information will find their way into the hands of the FBI.”
Marco pulls his piece on me. “Hand it over. Now. That data doesn’t belong to you. It’s the property of Harley & Sweet, which is wholly owned by the syndicate.”
I spread my hands wide in a show of cooperation. “I’d give it to you if I could, honest, but I don’t have it on me because it’s all over the place. That data is stored in a hundred different places. If you look really hard, you might find a few, but you’ll never find them all. In the meantime, I’ll be living my life. Doing what I want and you will leave me and those I love alone. Understand?”
In the end, they let me walk out alive. They have no choice. They can’t risk letting the FBI get their hands on the keys to at least seven global crime syndicates. For my part, I’ve managed to convince them I’m much more palatable alternative to Tucker Voss. I have no megalomaniac dreams of power. My dreams are more simple.
And they revolve around one woman.
The world is new again.
Tucker Voss is dead. Harley is serving consecutive sentences for multiple murders that were linked to him after the feds found DNA matches in their files. He won’t be getting out for a long time. If and when the state springs him, I’ll be waiting.
Cesare De Luca calls from time to time, but he sounds older and more fragile with every passing month.
Alexander Ferrara disappeared again three weeks after the meeting at Caravello’s restaurant. Some billionaires crave fame and notoriety; Ferrara buys his privacy. Even though I coul
d track him down, I haven’t. Mostly as a favor to Samantha.
I don’t know what when down between Ferrara and Samantha while was under his protection. She won’t talk about it, even to Brooke. When I’ve pushed Brooke to sit her down and make her talk, Brooke says to wait. Woman’s intuition or some shit like that. Samantha will talk when, and if, she’s ready.
Across the kitchen, Brooke sits at the island, perched on a stool with her laptop open, poring over cruise line websites. I stand in the arch between the kitchen and the great room of our house, a coffee cup in one hand, the other propped against the wall. I’d feel a whole lot better if the weight of my nine millimeter was tucked into the small of my back. But what the fuck—we live in the ‘burbs with a two-car garage and neighbors named Bonnie and Chuck. Seriously.
I stand here watching her because I’m still pissed at what she did. So what if it worked? She took a hell of a risk without any way of knowing if it would work. If her stupid stunt had backfired, Harley could have broken her neck without half trying. Then none of us would have been safe.
Especially not Samantha.
The Jersey troopers who caught Harley found him because they received another tip that he would be following me. I get so mad I want to wring Brooke’s neck myself because she was right. After Harley took out Tucker, he glommed onto my tail. If not for Jersey’s finest, he would have found her.
The way it went down, it was a close call. I should have been there, but I had something else that was more important.
I drove back upstate like a madman behind the wheel only to find Brooke tucked in a blanket and sitting on the front porch of Etienne de Hainault’s mansion. When I wrapped her in my arms, her body remained stiff and rigid for about a minute before she dissolved into tears. Even then I wanted to scream at her, but for once in my life, I shut the fuck up and just held her while she cried.
That was six months ago.
She’s better now. Her wounds have healed—the emotional ones as well as the physical ones. She says I’m part of the reason. Who knew? It’s a kick in the pants to realize an asshole like me could save someone, help her heal, and maybe begin to dream about having a life together. One that doesn’t involve carrying a gun or looking over my shoulder every time I walk down the street.
It’s because of Brooke that we’re free. She found the encryption keys to the data on Etienne de Hainault’s computer and made a copy we’ve got tucked away in a safe place. If any threat to us emerges, someone we trust has been instructed to put pressure on people who should know better.
“If you don’t stop lurking in the doorway like some kind of a stalker, I might have to call the police.” She doesn’t look up from the laptop, but points to the image of a ship sailing past a snow covered mountain in the distance. “What about this one?”
I cross to her and slide an arm around her shoulders. “Alaska? I hear it’s cold.”
“Well, that’s what makes it Alaska.”
“They have bears and shit.”
“You want to shoot one?”
“No. I just don’t want a bear to get between you and me.”
She half turns and reaches up, her palm warming the side of my face. “They’re not killer bears. They’re just regular bears, you know?”
“I’m from New York. I don’t know bears from Bubbas unless you’re talking Chicago Bears, which would be a whole other story.”
She smiles, and the joy on her face is all I need. It warms the cold places in my soul and leads me home on nights when nightmares jerk me awake and leave me shivering at three o’clock in the morning.
Her mouth takes mine. I slide my hand around the back of her head and pull her closer. I can never get enough of this woman. Her kiss sparks a fire in me that reaches out to her. My cock throbs with need.
I shove the lap top out of the way and lift her onto the island. She grabs the hem of her little white t-shirt and drags it over her head, offering me her gorgeous tits. I bury my face between them, breathing deeply her amazing scent.
I fucking love this woman.
The shorts are gone in a New York minute. I hear a brief sigh escape her lips. “What?” I ask while I lick my way from the valley between her breasts up the side of her neck.
“That’s the third pair of shorts you’ve ruined this week.”
“Fuck the shorts. I’ll buy you more.”
“If that’s the way you want it. . .” Before I realize what’s about to happen, she rips the front slit in my flannel pajama pants all the way up to the waistband. They slither over my hips and fall to the floor.
“I never liked them, anyway.”
She wraps those long legs around me, opening her pussy to me. I sheathe myself inside her in one thrust. She sucks in a gasp of air like she’s surprised. Then her pussy grabs on to my girth as her inner muscles pulse and take me deeper until I’m fucking her core.
Her head goes back as she offers her tits to my mouth. I suckle her, teasing and stroking and biting her gently. She always wants more, wants me to forget about taking care of her and fuck her fast and hard.
I can’t do that yet.
I can’t forget what she did for me, for Samantha.
But that’s all right because we’ve got plenty of time.
Brooke Lopez is mine. Forever.
She takes my face in her hands and lifts my head up until our mouths meet, and it’s a kiss that sends me into orbit. I don’t know what planet I’m circling, but it’s fucking heaven.
I pound her harder, faster, until she cries out and her body explodes against mine. I empty all I have into the depths of her body. Her pussy sucks every drop until we collapse in each other’s arms on the kitchen floor.
I am made new again.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
DANIELLE SLATER
Danielle Slater writes romance stories involving the men we hate to love, and love to hate: the bad boys. She has always been drawn to them, whether she wanted to or not, and loves to tell stories on different relationships that have a multitude of consequences for both the hero and heroine. She hopes to become a full-time writer, and currently resides in San Francisco as a secretary for a small law firm. Her goal is to entertain and move readers through her writing, and hopes you enjoy each and every story along the way.
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ALLEGRA RYAN
Allegra Ryan loves stories served up steamy, twisty, and suspenseful, with an extra helping of very bad boys. For story fodder, she’s waited tables, driven a bus, interviewed politicians, and traveled the world. She now lives with her family on the West Coast of the United States. You can connect with her by shooting her an email at allie@allegraryan.com.
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ALSO BY ALLEGRA RYAN
The Bad Boy Games aren’t over.
COMING SOON!
Read Caylee and Hunter’s story.
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Made: A Bad Boy Romance (Bad Boy Games)
Copyright © 2016 Allegra Ryan
Kindle Electronic Edition, February 2016
Cover art stock images © fxquadro; Apostrophe
Cover © Allegra Ryan
All rights reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental. The characters are all products of the authors’ imagination.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the written permission of the author. For more information, please contact allie@allegraryan.com.
Please note that this work is intended only for adults over the age of 18 and all characters are represented as 18 or over.
Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
MADE: A Bad Boy Romance
NATHAN
BROOKE
NATHAN
BROOKE
NATHAN
BROOKE
NATHAN
BROOKE
NATHAN
BROOKE
BROOKE
NATHAN
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
ALSO BY ALLEGRA RYAN