Accomplice: A Dark Mafia Romance (Romano Brothers Book 3)

by Samantha Cade

  This makes me laugh. Harley smiles, obviously enjoying this human connection.

  I lay my hand flat on my chest. “Listen to me. I’m the expert here. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it right. I don’t want to lose any of my guys this time. If we barge into Unit A, guns out, it could start a war.” Without thinking, I lay my hand on top of hers. Her skin is unexpectedly soft. “We have to be patient.”

  Harley’s eyes land on my hand, and she blinks. I should pull away, but I really don’t want to. I want to grab her hand and pull her into my lap. Instead, I give her hand a squeeze. That’s enough to make her tremble. My every impulse is telling me to take her, to pick her up by the waist and throw her back on this table, mail be damned. But I have to control myself, just like I do around booze. Just because it feels good and seems right doesn’t mean it is.

  “So, what’s the first step?” she asks.

  Now is when I pull my hand away. I immediately miss the touch of her skin. I rub my palms roughly against my jeans.

  “I’ll let you know when I need you. I’ll be in touch.”

  Harley nods, silently. “Can I get you anything to drink? Sorry I forgot to offer. I’m not used to my guests breaking and entering.” The corners of her mouth rise wickedly. “I have water, tea, or red wine.” She looks at me through her lashes, making me doubt that she’s only being polite. “Should we toast to our new partnership?”

  I’m tempted to take her up on her offer, but it’s better to stay away from both of my vices. I stand up quickly.

  “I have to go,” I say. “I have some things to do.”

  Harley bites her lip, barely masking her disappointment. “Of course,” she says, then walks me to the door.

  I’ve been so fixated on controlling myself, I haven’t considered what she could be thinking. Maybe I’ve given her the wrong idea with that kiss. I stand by the door, finding myself in a position I’ve never been in.

  “Last night,” I start, my voice low and hollow. “I shouldn’t have done that. I crossed the line.”

  Harley’s face turns beet red. “You didn’t. You didn’t force me to do anything.” Her eyes dart to the side. “I was a willing participant.”

  I rake my fingers through my hair, just wanting this moment to be over.

  “It’s unprofessional,” I say. “Especially since we’re going to be working together.” I drill my gaze into her forehead to keep from looking at her tits. “It won’t happen again. I promise.”

  Harley nods sharply. “Oh, okay.”

  She forces a smile as she bids me goodbye. I walk away, certain that this had been a mistake. Why had I gotten her involved? Why not take care of this by myself? I know the answer to these questions. It’s because she’s been dominating my thoughts, making appearances in my dreams and fantasies.

  I walk into the darkened streets, shoving my hands in my pockets.

  Get a grip, Vince. Stay away from her.

  Chapter Seven

  ————————

  Harley

  I close the door behind Vince, then press my back against it. Had that been a dream? Had Vince really been here, or was it just an apparition, willed into existence by my pathetic loneliness? No, if it had been a product of my fantasy, Vince wouldn’t have left so soon. We’d be sharing a bottle of wine, letting the alcohol dull our inhibitions and allowing us to migrate to the bedroom.

  He’s going to help me free those women.

  I concentrate on this fact, waiting for the happiness I should feel to bubble inside of me. This is what I’ve wanted. Why do I feel so…so…ugh?

  I’m thinking of opening the wine just for myself, when my phone on the counter starts to vibrate.

  “Shit,” I say, after swiping the screen. It’s the alarm I’ve set to remind me of my weekly phone call with my parents. I can’t ignore it. They’re expecting me to call.

  “There you are,” Mom says, her voice shimmering with relief. “I was wondering when you’d call.”

  “I’m only a few minutes late,” I say, defensively.

  Mom is terrified of me being a cop. If she doesn’t hear from me for too long, she assumes I’m dead. I imagine her sitting in her recliner, watching the minutes until our weekly call, when she can be assured I’m okay.

  “How are you, sweetheart?” she asks.

  “I’m fine.” I make my voice high and chipper. “It was rainy today, and pretty quiet at work. No bad guys to chase down,” I say with a laugh.

  “Uh huh,” Mom says, not impressed. I get the impression she doesn’t believe me. She thinks I spend my days embroiled in shootouts. I’ve tried to explain that though there are moments of excitement and danger, it’s mostly driving, waiting, and paperwork.

  And what if she knew about the mobster who was waiting for me in my apartment, and our plan to take down another crime family, all while operating outside of the law? I don’t think she’d ever sleep again.

  I turn the conversation to Mom’s quilting group. After a few of my prodding questions, she takes over, doing all of the talking. I listen, saying, “uh huh,” every now and then, and injecting the occasional laugh. She gets particularly passionate when talking about Laura, who, when it’s her turn to buy the fabric, buys the cheapest stuff in the store.

  “Laura insists you can’t tell the difference, but you can tell the difference. That low quality stuff looks terrible patched next to the nice fabric the rest of us buy.”

  “Wow, have you talked to her about it?” I ask.

  “No, but a few of the others agree with me,” Mom says.

  She finishes up the conversation by giving me an update on White Oak, listing off names of people in the hospital, telling me about the new restaurant that had opened, and other general gossip. When she finishes, she passes me off to Dad.

  “Hello, Butterbean,” Dad says jubilantly into the phone. He follows this up with a rough cough, which tells me he’s still smoking. I decide not to say anything about it, because it never does any good.

  “Hey, Daddy. What are you up to?”

  “Well,” he grunts. I picture him taking off his glasses at his desk, the smell of leather and cigar smoke drifting through the air. “I’m in the middle of organizing a letter writing campaign. There’s a group of developers looking to buy public land to turn into condos. I worry our county commissioners are weak enough to give in to them.”

  “That sounds so cool. I wish I was there to help.”

  Dad is silent. I hear papers rustling in the background. “Say, Butterbean. Did you get those links I sent you?”

  “I’ve been meaning to look at them when I get the chance.”

  I have no idea which link he’s talking about. Dad sends me stuff all the time. I hate to say it, but they’re mostly useless, or things I’ve already seen on social media.

  “Make sure you look at it, maybe even print it out and get it laminated. Some good stuff in there. It’s got a hundred and one easy recipes, so you should be able to find something you’re interested in.”

  “Even the easy recipes aren’t easy enough for me,” I crack. “I barely know how to turn the stove on.”

  My laughter gets no response.

  “Cooking is a necessary skill,” he says in his lecturing voice. “You’d do well to master it now. When you have a family, you’ll need to cook for them.”

  “Maybe I’ll meet a man who can cook.”

  I’d meant it as a joke, but there was an edge of bitterness to my voice.

  “Don’t bet on it,” Dad grumbles.

  Dad goes on to list the same White Oak updates that Mom had. I pretend like I’m hearing it all for the first time.

  ————————

  Every morning, I wake up expecting Vince to contact me. I keep my phone on me at all times, and am constantly making sure the ringer is turned on. Or, maybe one day I’ll come home to find him waiting in my living room.

  Neither happens. My phone stays so silent, it makes me wish I had fr
iends to text me. I just want to hear my phone make a noise, any noise. Even if it’s not Vince, I’d get a brief moment of hope.

  Walter has introduced me to the best sub shop in town, so I do have that going for me. I buy our lunch one day, turkey on wheat and a cup of coffee for him, an Italian sub with all the fixings and a soda for me.

  “Enjoy it while you can,” Walter says, watching covetingly as they put together my sandwich. “One day you’ll be my age, and your doctor will be telling you to watch the salt.”

  We take the sandwiches to-go, and I drive us to my Unit A stakeout point. Walter eyes me when I hand him his sandwich.

  “Back at it again?” Walter asks, jutting his chin towards the outhouse.

  I raise my eyebrows conspiratorially. “Just a quiet place to enjoy our subs.”

  “Of course.” Walter unwraps his lunch and digs in.

  He doesn’t say anything when I pull out my binoculars and start to watch. There’s a car parked outside of Unit A, but other than that, there’s little actively. I eat my delicious sandwich absentmindedly, and before I know it, half of it is gone. My stomach feels tight. I look down at the other half in my lap, and immediately regret ordering the footlong.

  “Do you want this?” I ask Walter. “I can’t finish it.”

  “I shouldn’t. Doctor’s orders.” He shake his head, but he can’t tear his eyes away from the sandwich.

  “Look at it like this,” I say. “This is only half of a sub, so therefore, it’s half the sodium.”

  Walter narrows his eyes and laughs. “That makes no sense,” he says, before snatching it from me.

  I look through my binoculars. There’s a man leaving the outhouse, walking to the car parked out front. I recognize him. It’s Peter Connell. Why has he been allowed back inside?

  “Him,” I growl to myself.

  “Who?” Walter picks an oil and vinegar soaked piece of salami out of the bread and savors it.

  I bite my lip reluctantly.

  “You don’t have to be so secretive,” Walter says. “I’m your partner, you know.”

  “I know. It’s just, this isn’t exactly police business.” I cringe at myself. I shouldn’t be telling anyone that.

  Walter gives me a sideways smile. He looks mildly impressed. “I didn’t join the force yesterday, Redding. I’m retiring in five years, you know.”

  He holds out his hand. I relent, and place the binoculars into his palm.

  “Skeevy Petey,” Walter says, the binoculars pressed against his eyes.

  “You know him?”

  “Oh, sure.” Walter puts down the binoculars and takes a sip of his coffee. “Me and Petey go way back to when he was a teenager. He was a real troublemaker. Shoplifting, vandalism, loitering. I was always picking him up.”

  I think back to when Patty and I arrested Peter, how the cops just let him off the hook. If he had a rap sheet, he wouldn’t have gotten off like that.

  “So what’s he up to now?” I ask, casually.

  Walter scoffs at me. “I told you, you don’t have to play dumb with me.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not playing dumb,” I’m unhappy to admit.

  “Not much has changed, only he’s gotten worse. The guy’s untouchable now because of his connections.”

  My brain lights up. “Connections? To what? To whom?”

  Walter narrows his eyes. “You really don’t know?”

  I shrug in shame.

  “Geez, kid. It’s a good thing you partnered up with me.” His eyes dart around, and he whispers, “The Donovans.”

  “Do-no-vans,” I repeat to myself, sounding out each syllable. “That’s a crime family?”

  “Yes,” Walter says, suddenly agitated. “Now can we get out of here? I’m starting to feel uneasy.”

  ————————

  “I have some news for you.”

  I relax my shoulders, making my face as serious as possible. I’m trying to keep my cool, but the jitters start up again, and I can’t keep from smiling. I shake my arms loose, take a few breaths, then look into the mirror and try again.

  “I have some news for you.”

  I fix my eyes on my reflection, not breaking my seriousness.

  “That’s good,” I nod at myself.

  Of course, I won’t be saying that to a mirror, I’ll be saying that to Vince, tall, broad, dominating Vince. I swipe on a coat of red lipstick, and smack my lips together.

  Yes, he told me to wait for him to get in touch. But I have information. Isn’t that what he needs me for? I can’t just sit on it.

  I pull a black silk blouse from my closet. Mom had given it to me for my birthday years ago. I’ve never worn it. It still has the tags on it. I slide it on with my most flattering jeans, and admire myself in the mirror.

  I know exactly what I’m doing. I refuse to deny it any longer. I want Vince, and I want him to want me. I want him to see me as a woman, not as a cop. I want to ignite what I saw in him the other night when he kissed me.

  I arrive at the pool hall at eight that evening. I rap lightly on the storefront door, but no one comes to answer it. Peering in through the window, I see that the lights are off except for in the office, where it spills out from under the door. I knock louder, and there’s still no answer.

  Vince picked my locked. He shouldn’t mind me walking in unannounced.

  The door’s unlocked, so I waltz right in, right up to the office door, and knock. There’s no answer. I’m tired of knocking, so I try the doorknob. It’s unlocked. My heart pounds in my ear as I open the door. But all the energy dissolves, drifting to my feet, when I see it’s empty.

  Is he even here?

  I suddenly feel uneasy in this quiet, darkened pool hall. I expect Vince to jump out and grab me at any time. Does he know I’m here? Is he watching? Waiting?

  I stop my breath and listen. Beneath the hum of the electrical appliances, I hear a soft, rhythmic sound. I stand very still, alert to the barely audible grunts coming from another room at the other end of the pool hall.

  Ugh, ugh, ugh.

  The sound is guttural, instinctual. What could he be doing? Is he with a woman?

  An onslaught of crippling jealousy comes out of nowhere, unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. It’s a heavy, gnawing feeling.

  I remind myself of why I’m here, and it’s not to flirt with a hot guy. The polite thing to do would be to leave the pool hall, or patiently wait for him to finish whatever, or whomever he’s doing. However, the information I hold is very important, so I feel justified to tiptoe down to that room and peek inside.

  Vince’s grunting doesn’t cease when I push open the door. I’m relieved, and enthralled, with what I see. Vince is on the far end of the room, his back to me. He’s shirtless, wearing jeans that are slung low around his hips, revealing the top of his black briefs. He’s lifting an enormous dumbbell above his head, grunting with each rep. Every muscle in his back, arms, and shoulders are articulated, contracting in opposition to the massive weight. I watch a dribble of sweat start at the base of his neck, and stream into the deep valley in the middle of his sculpted back.

  A gasp escapes my lips. Vince pauses with the weight high above his head. I try to compose my demeanor before he turns and sees me, but when I glance the handsome profile of his face, and I can’t seem to snap my mouth shut.

  Vince doesn’t look surprised to see me. He gives me a sideways smile, chuckling under his breath, and casually lowers the dumbbell to the ground. Grabbing a t-shirt and wiping his face with it, he steps closer to me.

  I have some news for you.

  The line I’d rehearsed is on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t get it out. All I can concentrate on is the lion on his torso, howling for me to step inside of its grip.

  “What’s up?” Vince asks with a cocky shrug. He avoids looking at me for too long.

  “Hey, Vince,” I sputter. “Sorry to interrupt, um.”

  “It must be important.”

  Vince wa
lks out of the weight room. I follow him into his office. The lights are unexpectedly bright in here, making me squint against them.

  “It is important,” I say, rallying my confidence.

  Vince sits behind his desk. He still hasn’t put on a shirt. He leans forward on his elbows, making his biceps flex.

  “Go on,” he says, with a wave of his hand. He’s being polite, but he has an air of impatience. Does he want my help or not?

  “I think I know which family’s behind Unit A,” I gleefully report.

  Vince’s expression turns to ash, which isn’t the reaction I expected at all.

  “How do you know that?” he asks, forcefully.

  I’m struck with confusion at the question. “I’m not prepared to reveal my sources.”

  “Sources? You have sources?” Vince folds his hands at his mouth, clearly agitated. “Who have you been talking to?”

  No, this isn’t the way it’s supposed to go. Vince is supposed to thank me for the important intel, and his gratitude should melt the icy wall surrounding him.

  “That’s not the point,” I say. “The point is, I know who’s behind Unit A. Now, we can act.”

  “You know?” Vince says, incredulously. “So I’m just supposed to take your word, attack another family without verifying your sources?”

  I don’t like the way he’s glaring at me. His face is turning red, and the veins in his neck are visible and throbbing. I blink rapidly, regaining my orientation.

  “They didn’t know they were a source at the time,” I say. “They had no idea. Walter, he’s my partner. We saw Peter Connell on the street one day, the guy I picked up at Unit A. Walter commented that Peter had ties to the Donovans. I figure that’s why they let him go.”

  “That’s it?” Vince says, raising his eyebrows incredulously. “This Walter, doesn’t know anything else?”

  “No,” I say convincingly. “It was an offhanded remark.” I narrow my eyes, scooting forward in my chair. “But it makes sense, doesn’t it? The Donovans are running the place.”

  Vince reclines back, his muscles relaxing slightly. His gaze is intense, and focused somewhere in the middle of my forehead. I can tell he’s deep in thought.