Saints and Savages (A Mafia Series Book 2)

by A. C. Bextor

  He still believes there’s a chance we’ll get back together.

  I know there’s no chance in hell.

  “Shit,” I curse, watching Ed close in at Chase’s side.

  Ignoring Ed’s intense and scrutinizing glare, Chase clips, “Need some cash, Wrennie.”

  The area around him reeks. His clothes are filthy, his hair is greasy, and he’s darting his eyes crazily around the patrons.

  Chase is high.

  “You need to leave,” I whisper, leaning over the counter toward him.

  “I just said I need some money. There’s another game. I’ll pay it back.”

  Chase is a drinker, a drug user, a cheat, and a gambler. He’s a counterproductive mix of heartache and trouble—which he’s always been to me.

  As his latest endeavor to get his life in order, Chase landed a “high-paying job,” as he calls it, inside the Saint’s Justice motorcycle club. He runs their product, collects their debt, and does whatever other menial jobs they see fit to give him. He’ll never be a member—they’ve made that point brutally clear—and Chase envies the life they have together. But they changed the man I once loved, belittling him into nothing, making him unrecognizable.

  But Saint’s wasn’t the start of our problems, exactly.

  Two years ago, Chase got involved with an entirely different band of criminals. These men weren’t professional bullies; they were more of a quiet, creative, and sophisticated variety.

  They soon learned that Chase couldn’t pay back what he cheated from them, let alone the outrageous interest added daily to his debt. When he failed to make his first payment, the punishment resulted in them branding their family letter onto his skin.

  The cruelly renowned Zalesky family first beat him to a bloody pulp; his face was mangled, four of his fingers were broken, and his left ankle completely shattered.

  Only then, after the hours of torture Chased endured, did they take a scorching-hot branding iron to the dirty tee shirt he’d been wearing. Not only was the burn severe, but his dirty clothes melted against his stomach. The infection that festered while it was trying to heal was the worst of it.

  Now the brand is merely a scar, the jagged Z a constant reminder of what he had done. Obviously, it’s a reminder he’s chosen to disregard.

  I shouldn’t have let him stay with me after that. I didn’t want to, though I understood that loneliness can take a toll, and I couldn’t force him out until he had the chance to fully healed.

  I was a different person then, to tolerate so much. Loneliness and fear can leave a person empty. Looking back, I tolerated Chase because I was at a time in my life when I didn’t know love, real love, the kind that wants to protect your heart from hurt, not use its goodness against you.

  “You heard Wren,” Ed growls, scowling down at my ex as if trying to move him away with only his eyes.

  Chase turns to his right, looks up at Ed, and scoffs. “Fuck you, old man. Stay outta this.”

  “Chase, really,” I call out, trying to soothe the situation. “I don’t have any money. My shift just started and—”

  “Out!” Ed bellows.

  Very determined and incredibly stupid, Chase doesn’t allow Ed to deter his motivation.

  “Wrennie,” he whines.

  My irritation escalates. “First, don’t call me Wrennie. Second, I told you I have no money. Third, you need to leave.”

  “Wren, sweetheart, is there a problem here?” Liam interrupts, coming to stand behind Chase, his tall and broad form towering over Chase’s short and gaunt one. Chase turns in place and has the audacity to laugh in Liam’s face before turning back to me.

  “‘Wren, sweetheart’?” Chase sneers. “Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ with this shit?”

  “Chase, please,” I beg.

  I don’t fear Liam being hurt at all, as I can tell his composure is barely restrained. If given permission, I suspect he’d would tear Chase apart, bit by bit, until all that’s left is tiny bits of blistered bone.

  Ignoring Liam, Chase asks, “You get us a junkyard watchdog, Wren?”

  At the word “dog,” Liam acts quickly and in a way I’ve never seen. Chase’s body jerks in place, his body growing slack as his feet come off the floor. Liam has a tight hold of Chase’s dingy jacket, and without another word he begins to haul my sniveling ex out of the diner.

  “I’ve always liked him.” Georgia wraps her arm around my shoulder before leaning her head onto it. “Knew he was good people before, but now I know he’s really good people.”

  As Chase and Liam stand toe-to-toe outside on the sidewalk, all patrons still in the diner watch with bated breath through the large windows to see what will happen next.

  “Little bird,” Pete calls, and I turn my head in his direction. His face is gentle as always when he assures, “There’s no more reason to worry.”

  There’s every reason to worry. Chase will be back. He always comes back.

  I hadn’t realized I was shaking until I look down and study my hands.

  “If I can offer you some advice?” Pete questions, his eyebrows raised and his lips growing tight.

  “Tell her, Pete,” Georgia urges. “Maybe you can talk some sense into our Wren.”

  Pete ignores her, clearing his throat before grabbing my hand now resting on the counter and saying, “Find a way to get that good-for-nothing out of your life. It’ll open the door for a much better man to find his way in.”

  My eyes swell with tears, the vision of Pete’s gentle face blurring. The few customers left in the diner clap as Liam opens the front door without a mark on him. He walks back inside with hurried steps and nods to the hallway near the bathroom, signaling me to follow.

  “I’ll cover your tables, honey. Go talk to him. Tell him you’re okay,” Marki pleads.

  Laying my apron on the bar, I look up to Pete and whisper a quick “Thank you.” He nods in return and heads back toward his table.

  As soon as I round the entrance of the hall, I find Liam standing in wait. Without giving me another glance, he grabs my hand and walks us to the emergency exit door.

  “What the fuck?” he hisses, his anger not at me directly but still coming in my direction. “What the fuck?” he asks again, resting his hands on his hips as he turns in place.

  Interrupting his frustration, I offer, “Liam, I’m sorry.”

  His eyes pierce mine, his brow furrowing in confusion. “For what? What the hell are you sorry for?”

  “I’m sorry you had to deal with him.”

  “Tesoro, I’m not sure what to do with that.”

  “Do with what?”

  Hiding an angry smile, Liam grabs my hand, holding it and running his thumb over the back. He looks down at the connection and pauses before saying, “You have no idea how much you are.”

  As odd a statement as that is, I sense it’s meant as a compliment, and I blush.

  When I look up, he steps in close, and I crane my neck to get a better look at him. Here, alone, in only the company of us, for the first time I’m not as nervous in his presence.

  “He’ll be back, Wren,” Liam promises. “At least the idiot is smart enough to know what he had. He also knows he fucked it up. Now the son of a bitch is determined to get it back.”

  “I don’t want him back.”

  “Good girl.”

  My heart quickens in my chest hearing his dominant return, as if I’ve pleased him and those words are my reward. My insides flutter with excitement.

  What Marki pointed out earlier wasn’t exactly a lie. Liam has asked me out several times. The suggestion that someone like him, so perfect and successful, would be at all entertained by someone carrying so many burdens, even while only sharing an evening meal, is crazy. I’ve always politely declined his invitations.

  But I’ve always secretly wanted to accept.

  Liam and I know each other. We started out as friends, talking about topics that friends talk about.

  I know he doesn’t watch much televis
ion. He knows my favorite show is I Love Lucy.

  He understands that I came from a good, happy childhood home that I still miss. I know he came from a family of servants and guards.

  I know he loves being a doctor, serving others and helping them heal. He knows deep down that I really do like working as a waitress, even though I claim I want so much more.

  Even with all we’ve shared about our lives, there’s more between us than jovial and friendly banter. And we both know it.

  “You’re good?” Liam questions, grabbing my shoulders and scanning my face.

  “I’m good. Chase is just—”

  “A fucking idiot,” he finishes tersely.

  What else can I say?

  He’s right, so I nod. “An idiot.”

  After pulling out a small white card from his suit pocket, Liam grabs my hand again, this time tilting my palm up. He wraps my fingers around the paper and squeezes.

  “If you ever need anything, you have my number.”

  “Thank you. But Chase’s outbursts don’t bother me.”

  “You two are no longer together,” he gathers, “so he shouldn’t bother you at all.”

  “He thinks we’re going to get back together.”

  “And you allow him to ‘think’ this?” Liam carefully counters.

  I don’t allow Chase to do anything. Time and time again, though, he’s proven he doesn’t care what I think—or want, for that matter.

  “I can handle him.”

  With my small reply, Liam utters, “The heart of a lioness.”

  My stomach flutters once more at how gently he explains my nickname.

  When he steps in close again, I take one back until I’m pinned against the wall.

  “I hate this, but I need to go,” he explains, regret in his tone. “Pete has his last treatment today. He’ll refuse to go if I make us late.”

  “Okay. Thank you again for the help.”

  Liam’s eyes brighten, ideas churning inside their depths. “You can thank me by having dinner with me.”

  Not surprised by the offer, I don’t think before asking, “You’re asking me to dinner after you just chased off my ex?”

  “I am. Now tell me you accept.” I pause, unsure going to dinner with Liam Dawson is a good idea—ever. “Wren, tell me you’ll have dinner with me.”

  “Okay.”

  “Tomorrow night, Wren,” he pushes. “I’ll pick you up at your place.”

  Hesitant about Liam witnessing my living conditions, I shake my head and counter, “You can pick me up here.”

  “At seven,” he agrees, bending to kiss my cheek. “Take care of yourself, leonessa.”

  Then he turns to walk away.

  “You look like fucking hell,” my friend observes, moving one seat over at the bar to give me room. At my indignant glare, he hands me a beer and corrects himself by saying, “You look tired. Is that better?”

  Mike Marconi, my best friend since sixth grade, is married to our mutual friend Mary. The two ended up going to college together, where they fell in love, and were married shortly after graduation. Mary is a good woman, and I appreciate her efforts in keeping my quick-tempered friend on the straight and narrow.

  The two have a young son, Myles, who just turned ten. He and his father are the mirror image of one another.

  “Yes, better. But this round is on you.”

  Jay’s Bar is a small, run-down hole-in-the-wall just outside the city. More times than not, the same customers can be seen as you enter.

  “Mary wants to set you up on a blind date with Melanie Carrington,” he tells me before I’ve had a chance to get comfortable. “I’m supposed to convince you to take her out. Mary said if you don’t at least think about it, you’re cut out from any of our family dinners for a year.”

  Despising Mary’s determination to set me up, I manage to bite my tongue as I take a seat next to him. Mary Marconi is a good woman, but she’s also a pesky snoop.

  “It’s a date, Liam,” Mike states before encouraging, “Just go and don’t complain. You may enjoy the company.”

  “I can’t make this one, Mike.”

  “Mary says she’s hot. She’s also smart. She’s a civil lawyer.”

  “Buddy, I can’t,” I deny again.

  “No? Why not?”

  “Not your business,” I pass off, then mumble, “At least not yet.”

  Slapping my shoulder, Mike jabs, “My friend, is that a look of infatuation on your face?”

  Infatuation? Probably not. Exhaustion? Maybe.

  The truth is, Wren Adler has made quick work of getting under my skin. Our friendship so far has been casual, but not of my choosing. I’ve asked her about her life, have inquired about her hobbies, and have wondered what she does with her free time. However, the woman is a closed book. After the confrontation with her ex this morning, I’m coming to understand why. Chase Avery is a dirty mark on her life, one that continues to bring her down.

  “You’re seeing things.” Grabbing my beer, I take a heavy pull.

  “Don’t lie to me,” he prods. “You found someone who’s caught your attention.”

  I don’t see my friend as often as I should. Because of this, he doesn’t know anything about Wren. I could tell him about her now, but after sitting with Pete during his treatment, then helping admit him due to a failing kidney, I’m too exhausted.

  Rather than get into it tonight, I advise, “Let it go.”

  Mike smiles and then changes the subject of conversation with feigned curiousness; however, the underlying accusation is, as always, ever-present. “How’s the family?”

  Mike is a Chicago police detective, serving on the force for over ten years. His duties have varied since he started, but he’s good at what he does.

  Knowing which “family” he’s speaking of, I answer, “I just talked to Ciro again this morning. He seemed all right. Why do you ask?”

  Mike sighs and picks at the label of his beer. “Ciro is all right?”

  Concerned, I question, “Mike, do you know something I don’t?”

  Shifting his napkin under his bottle and continuing to avoid my stare, Mike contemplates before finally answering. “Word around town is your dear old Uncle Ciro is plotting to piss off the Russians again. If that happens, I suggest you lie low.”

  At times, Mike’s occupation wears on us both. He hears things through his informing grapevine and then brings whatever information he deems as evidentiary to me for examination. As if I care to know what happens within my uncle’s mansion and the business he conducts to keep it thriving. It’s these same conversations that have Mike warning me away from my family, then me countering his concern by telling him everything will be okay. Yet he’ll still push for me to separate further from that life more than I’ve already managed to do.

  I shouldn’t blame his career choice, as he’s worried about my situation since the day he came to my house to pick me up for a high school soccer game and was met at the door by one of my uncle’s soldiers.

  The now-deceased Cleo Banes had been wearing his standard Palleshi-issued uniform: a black leather shoulder holster, which was equipped with a loaded .45, a black belt, fully laden with piercing knives, and his signature cruel smile which, at the time, frightened Mike enough to cause him to slowly back away and head to his car to await my arrival.

  “My life isn’t theirs. The two aren’t connected in any way,” I try to convince him, using a practiced line I’ve called upon countless times in both my personal and professional lives.

  “Your name may not be the same as Ciro’s, Liam, but you’re still a well-known Palleshi. You’re also a Dawson and just as visible as the others in your family. If not more so, being that you’re both Irish and Sicilian.”

  “Do you think Killian Dawson is involved in whatever Ciro’s plotting?”

  Impossible.

  My uncle despises the Dawsons’ existence. So much so that he willfully cut my ties to both my grandparents. In doing so, it was p
ut to me in terms such as “traitorous” and “death becoming” if I decided to bridge the gap to anyone of the Dawson name once I was of age to do so by right. I never did, not because the threat of Ciro loomed but because by then the families had been at a ceasefire for so long I didn’t want to cause any fallen blood to be shed on my own hands.

  “I’ve heard Ciro is reaching out to his alliances. I assume he’s personally plotting against Zalesky, but I don’t know what he’s up to yet. Luckily, it’s not my place to find out, but I hear shit around the department and my first instinct is to warn you. I don’t want you caught up in whatever insane plot Ciro’s formed in that crazy head of his.”

  I don’t know why the hell Ciro would even entertain the idea of going after Zalesky again.

  Eight years ago, Vlad lost his sister. The Russian king was devastated by the loss but he’s also kept to himself, remaining eerily quiet ever since. All families in our city have waited with bated breath for the wrath of the Russians to unfold against the guilty. And I have very little doubt that my uncle stands guilty.

  “I’ll lie low,” I agree. “If you get something solid, call me. Right now, I’m going home.”

  “You’ll tell me about this woman soon, right? Don’t make me go home to Mary empty-handed. I’ll never hear the end of it. Give me something to tell her about this girl.”

  “Another time. I promise.”

  Throwing down the last fifty I have in my wallet, I pay our joint tab.

  “Thank God,” he breathes. “Mary’s about to kick me out, I’m afraid.”

  I smile, knowing Mary couldn’t live a day without him. Let alone the thought of taking him away from their young, sweet son.

  Slapping him on the shoulder, I respond to his idiocy with my own. “You’ll always have me.”

  “Right,” he groans. “If I ever get a case of blistered balls or toe fungus, maybe you’ll prescribe me something for the pain.”

  “Or dump a fifth of Beam all over you and call it a day.”

  He laughs, turning back and lifting his beer for another drink.