Royally Ruined (Bad Boy Royals Book 2)

by Nora Flite

  Voices started to break out at the table, people getting riled up by this push and pull. Maverick’s fist on the tabletop was far sharper than Fran’s hands had been. In the sudden quiet he said, “Enough. You ask us for proof, but maybe we should get down to the why of all this. You tried to use Darien’s blunder to instigate a war between our families. And if everything about Horace is true, you attempted the same ten years ago. Why?”

  Kurtis Valentine sat there with his fingers crossing in a perfectly even pattern. He bent close to his wife, letting her whisper in his ear for some time. It was such a long stretch that people shifted uneasily, unable to handle the restless tension.

  Finally Kurtis pulled away and looked over each of my family members one by one. When he got to me, I stiffened. “We’re not at war,” he said carefully. “Because if we were, none of you would be here. Not one.” He lifted his glass and gave it a swirl. “You’re all part of a grand family . . . a grander heritage. Though it’s funny you’d choose a name like the Badds.” He winked. “What was wrong with Fredricson?”

  I met my father’s eyes. Yes, there was no denying it; the Valentines knew exactly who we were. Maverick had used our mother’s family’s influence to create a false identity for himself. He’d told me once that it was designed to keep us safe from people from his home country who might want us dead.

  My heart stuttered. Suddenly I couldn’t look away from Kurtis’s cool smile. Had the Valentines been hired to kill us all? Romeo told me years ago that he wasn’t supposed to interact with me. But then he did . . . he made a power move. That had to be it. He’d seen an opportunity, and he and Horace had collaborated to try to erase me and my sister.

  And all for the Valentines.

  But . . . why? Why would we be a threat to a Mafia family we’d never tried to butt heads with?

  Larchmont waved his glass. “You heard my dad. Why pick such a weird name?”

  I shook my head, dismissing him. My focus was on Kurtis. “You know who we are.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Are you curious how?”

  Maverick spoke up. “No. I want to know who you all really are.”

  Silence stretched over the table. I had a sense I could reach up and tangle my fingers through the tension like it was a thick string of cobwebs. Kurtis was no longer watching us; he simply squinted into his drink.

  With a soft sigh, he said, “We’re a simple family that profits greatly from all of you remembering your place.” His hard eyes stabbed at my father, then me. They didn’t mesh with the dimples at the tops of his wide smile. “This peace was almost broken by one man’s simple mistake. In the future, there will be no more mistakes of such magnitude. If none of you chase the power your father abandoned . . . we’ll all live long, happy lives.”

  His meaning came out like a cannonball.

  The Valentines were allowing us peace—and in exchange we just had to sit on our hands and not dig into our father’s royal rights. They had chosen not to wipe us out, and clearly believed they had no reason to think they wouldn’t have managed it.

  Maverick and my mother were eyeballing each other. Something unsaid passed between them, even as my siblings muttered various sounds of confusion. I knew what they were all thinking: What connection did the Valentines have to our father’s crown?

  Could we really have peace by leaving it be?

  Across from me, Larchmont lifted his glass. His grin showed all his teeth. “Cheers,” he said, taking a swig.

  To my horror, my father copied him. Everyone else did the same, though some had uncertainty painted across their features. Thorne was scowling into his glass.

  In my pocket my phone buzzed. Scotch is calling me. It reminded me of why I was here . . . and where I wanted to be. If tenuous peace was all we could be sure of, then for now I’d take it.

  But I wouldn’t toast to it.

  Putting my glass down, I rose to my feet. “Costello,” my father said.

  Facing the gathering, I flexed my fingers by my hips. Fuck, my ache for a weapon was immense. Kurtis stared up at me, his voice sweet. “You didn’t like my toast?”

  “Of course not,” I answered. “I know exactly what kind of man you are. Who you and your whole family are.” For a second I sounded like Detective Stapler, and knowing that just made me want to stand beside Scotch even more. “But all I’ve ever wanted for this family was peace. Safety. And if you’re saying we have that, even for now . . . then what reason do I have to stay here and make pretend polite conversation?”

  Spinning, I strode from the room. My father didn’t stop me, and my mother? I spotted her hidden smile behind her hand.

  I made it out onto the front step before anyone reached me. “Wait, Costello!” Pulling up short, I saw Francesca was breathing hard, her hair tangling around her cheekbones. She slowed a foot away from me, closer than I could recall her ever getting to me in years.

  “What is it?” I asked, holding my phone possessively. “I have somewhere I need to be, and after being surrounded by men who want me dead, I don’t have a lot of patience for more attacks.”

  I wasn’t ready for the wetness that shone in her eyes. “I’m not here to attack you.”

  Thrown off by her emotions, I faced her fully. We were alone outside our sprawling estate. “Then what do you want from me?”

  “I—nothing.” Fran knotted her hands together. She was having trouble looking at me, but it felt like she was trying her damnedest. “I don’t want anything from you. It’s me who needs to give you something.”

  My eyebrows furrowed. “And what’s that?”

  “An apology.” Her lips tightened, like just saying the words was foreign to her. It was definitely insane to hear them. I stared at her hard, waiting for her to turn this moment into some barbed insult. A cruel joke, a violent slap, just . . . anything but the hot tears slowly squeezing from the corners of her eyes.

  I lifted a hand, half extended it, and froze. “Francesca . . .”

  Not looking up from her white-knuckle grip, she asked, “Scotch, how is she? I mean, is she okay after what happened at the warehouse?” Her nose was bright red; it reminded me of Scotch’s in the cold wind. “I asked Daddy to tell you. I begged him to save her himself, said we had to. It wasn’t her job to die for us.”

  A balloon expanded in my chest. It floated upward and took me with it, my voice a high, hot whisper of disbelief. “Impossible.” She couldn’t have. Not her, but then—but why? In my hand, my phone kept buzzing. It filled the last gap and told me that what I suspected was true. “It was you,” I said. “You’re the number that told me where the exchange was happening.”

  “Costello!” she sobbed, folding her arms over her face, doing nothing to muffle her raw crying. “I’m so sorry! I always believed Dad, that it was your fault Lula was hurt, that she ran away, that it was you and it was always you and and and . . .” Hiccups shook Francesca where she stood, still unable to meet my eyes.

  I was digesting all her rambling. One phrase stuck out. I’m sorry.

  She was sorry.

  Fran shrank more, her voice a mess of watery noises. When I wrapped her in my arms, she jumped—and I almost let her go. Ten years had flown by in which I’d never hugged my little sister. I’d been denied every kindness from her. I’d endured it all, and I’d thought I could, but when I was confronted with the alternative . . . the pain of such a cold life finally settled on my shoulders.

  “Shh,” I said into the top of her hair. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

  “It’s not!” She leaned into me, wetness soaking through my shirt. “Costello, I was awful to you! And I can never take that back! Lula . . . Lula, she tried to tell me the truth, months ago when she’d come home. I wouldn’t listen. I couldn’t believe that Dad was to blame, and not you.” Something tugged at my wrists—her hands, trying to shake me off. “It was too hard for me. I’m a stupid, weak idiot. I just am, and you must hate me.”

  I let her pull away, but only so I could catch her
eyes with mine. There were deep red lines under her lids. “You aren’t weak. It takes a lot of strength to fight so hard for someone you love, especially when they aren’t around. You believed you were standing up for Lula all these years. I can’t hate you for that.”

  She stared at me, sniffling. “You really don’t?”

  Wiping at her cheeks, I said, “Not at all. But I need to know . . . What changed your mind about me?”

  Francesca loosened her hold on my shirt. “Scotch. She came here and told Daddy that she was going to hand herself over to the Valentines. Oh, Costello, she got so mad at him! She threw everything he’d let happen to you in his face, and . . .” Biting her lip, she swallowed. “He knew it was Lula who went to the cops for help, not you. He just let you take the blame.”

  Ice splintered through my heart, but only briefly. This news was just another blow to my beaten soul. “Of course he knew,” I chuckled bitterly. “He’s a smart man.” Acting like he believed my lie . . . well. That had been what I’d wanted. So why did it hurt to know he’d let me suffer?

  Fran hugged me again. “I wish I could take back everything.”

  “No.” Putting my forehead to hers, I smiled. “Don’t make wishes about the past. All you can do is move forward. All we can do is move forward.” I helped her stand tall, tapping her under her chin. “Regrets will leave you rotten inside. Believe me.”

  Scotch sat at her mother’s kitchen table, a manila folder in her hands. The corners were half squished, like she’d been worrying it with her fingers as she waited for me. When she saw me, she jumped to her feet, clutching me in a hug. “Costello!”

  “Finally,” her uncle grunted. “Still not sure why we had to wait for him to get here. Open it up, Heather.”

  He’d never adjusted to calling her Scotch. That was fine; it made me feel special, knowing she preferred the name that I’d clung to over any other.

  “I wanted him to be here,” she said. Her fingers wrapped around mine. “In case they didn’t accept me . . . or if they did. Dammit, I’m nervous either way.”

  “Open it,” I said.

  Nodding, she took a breath big enough to fill her lungs. Then Scotch peeled the top of the thick envelope open.

  Her mother and father crowded close. “What’s it say?” they asked together.

  “If you don’t get in,” Stapler grunted, “I’ll go down there and bang some skulls together. You’re a fine candidate, and with my letter, well, they should know better.” Scotch lifted her eyes, and when he saw how wide they were, his mustache bristled. “That’s it! Getting in my car right now!”

  But I knew why she was so quiet.

  Taking her hand, I smiled. “Tell them.”

  Scotch stared at me, her lips curling slowly. “You can read my mind. I knew it.” Turning, she slid the paper free. “I . . . I got in. I’m in!”

  “Never doubted it for a second!” Stapler roared.

  “Oh, honey bun!” her mother sobbed, clapping rapidly.

  Scotch’s dad was holding steady, eyes watering bit by bit. When his wife linked her hands with his and began to dance, he openly cried and cheered.

  While everyone rejoiced, Scotch grabbed me by my wrist and tugged me away from the madness. I let her lead us out into the backyard and under the midday sun. Winter was fading, but the brisk chill remained.

  We tumbled into a tight embrace, like we hadn’t touched in years. It had only been a few hours. Even that was too long for my comfort. I’d grown used to having her by my side every waking minute when we’d been hunted.

  “Congratulations, Officer Scotch,” I chuckled.

  She turned rose pink. “Oh, shut up.” Kissing me sweetly, she slowed down until her whole body was wooden.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, studying her face. There were slight bags under her eyes, left over from the weeks nervously waiting for news from the police academy. But that was over with. She should have been ecstatic. Why wasn’t she?

  “The meeting today,” she said. “Are you . . . Is your family going to be all right? Did I do enough by getting Darien arrested, or did I make it worse?”

  Running a hand down her spine, I took a deep breath. The feel of her chest expanding along with mine brought comfort. “The Valentines have their own agenda. When I looked their leader in the eye, I became sure of it.” Picturing Kurtis and his saccharine smile knotted my neck up. “They were using you like a tool. Just like they tried to use me and Lulabelle years ago. But for now, it sounds like they want peace. Fragile peace on their terms . . . but that’ll work. For now, there’ll be no war.”

  I didn’t doubt that my father was already digging into the Valentines to figure out their motives. I had every intention of doing the same.

  Scotch looked at her mother’s house thoughtfully. “A cop and a Mafia prince . . . is it really okay?”

  I grazed her mouth with mine, then kissed her and counted every heartbeat. It took one hundred before we broke apart. It’d take millions more before our love would ever end.

  “Don’t you dare ask me if what we’re doing is okay,” I said, tipping her chin up. “What we have is something I’ll never let the world pry away from me. If you become a perfect saint of a cop, and I have to corrupt you so we can stay together . . . then I’ll do it.”

  Scotch’s eyes were the color of simmering hot cocoa. She was hot inside, and steam escaped her in the cool air. “All right,” she said, then, more firmly, “Okay. I’ll never ask again. I love you, Costello.” Her arms snaked around my neck, her voice rumbling where she pressed her lips on my jugular. I felt her grin. “But you couldn’t corrupt me if you tried.”

  Swirling her around, I pushed her against the cool wood of the oak tree. My shadow fell over her soft features, darkening the brand-new nose stud I’d bought her recently. It was purple, like the bunny I’d lost in the river.

  The tip of my nose brushed hers; she trembled. “You shouldn’t test me,” I whispered thickly. “I’ve always loved a challenge.”

  She didn’t need to stand on tiptoe to kiss me. That was something I appreciated about her. “And I’ll always love you.”

  With my heart thrumming, I boxed her against the tree with my arms and kissed her until both our mouths were surely bruised. This woman, this amazing, talented, impossibly perfect person, was all mine. No matter if she was a cop or I was a royal prince of the mob, or if our actual lives were systematically opposed . . . she was mine. She always would be.

  Once upon a time, I would have been a king.

  But that was never my fate. So I buried myself in the skin of a man who wasn’t allowed love or light or anything good. I built stone walls and I no longer dreamed, because dreams can be shattered—and I wouldn’t survive such pain.

  There was a castle around my soul. I’d built the walls solid.

  Then she came along and knocked them all down.

  Scotch made me realize I was more than a man with scars. More than a false king.

  More than a monster.

  With her at my side I’ve become what I thought I could never be:

  A hero. Her hero.

  And that’s better than any dream.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2016 Kristen Carter

  USA Today bestselling author Nora Flite firmly believes that the very best heroes are passionate, filthy, and slightly obsessive—which is why she features them in all her romances. Nora’s always been a writer, which means that you’ll have to pry her keyboard, pen, or some kind of magical future writing device out of her cold, dead fingers before she’ll ever stop writing.

  Nora lives in Southern California, where the weather is warm and she doesn’t have to shovel snow—something she never loved in her tiny home state of Rhode Island. Nora loves to hear from her fans, so e-mail her at noraflite@gmail.com and visit her online at www.NoraFlite.com.

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