by CJ Bishop
Flynn shoved his mouth against his ear, lips peeled back from his teeth. “You so much as look in Caterina’s direction again and I will come back with some sharp toys and start chopping off the protruding parts of your body. Beginning with…” he rammed his knee between his legs, crushing his balls. “…your cock.” Armand wilted with a gasping cry and Flynn let him fall to the floor. He stood over him and jabbed him with his foot. “Capisce, asshole?”
The man sucked for air through a pain-constricted throat.
Flynn grabbed a fistful of his hair and wrenched his head back, glaring down into his bloodied face. “Capisce?”
Armand choked and nodded. “Capisce,” he rasped.
Shoving his head against the wall, Flynn released him and walked out of the apartment, closing the door behind him.
•
After speaking with Cruz, Caterina retired to her room for a nap. What little rest she’d gotten last night had been used up this morning. If she was going to pull an all-nighter with Flynn tonight, she needed some sleep.
Sanchez came into her room about time she was starting to drift off, and plopped down on the bed beside her. She groaned into her pillow. “What?”
“So, how did you make out last night?”
“Didn’t you talk to Cruz?” she mumbled.
“Not yet.” He twisted onto his side and propped up on his elbow. “You look exhausted.”
“I am.” She tried to wave him off. “I need to sleep.”
“So, he wore you out, huh?”
“Yes,” Caterina moaned. She buried her face in the pillow. “Very much so. I need to rest up. I’m going to see him again tonight.”
“Really?” Sanchez murmured. “I thought you were just looking for a one-night thing.”
“I was, but…” Caterina sighed and turned onto her back. “He’s worthy of a second night.”
Sanchez smiled. “A real loverboy, hm?”
“Very much so.”
“Not a jerk like the last one?”
Caterina pictured Flynn in her mind. “He didn’t seem to be.”
“Well,” Sanchez said. “If you decide to take it further and date him, you better let us inspect him and make sure you picked a winner this time.”
“Inspect him?” Caterina smiled teasingly. “Not sure I want you and Cruz to inspect him. He might decide he likes it and switch teams. And I really, really need him on my team. Like really bad.”
Sanchez chuckled. “You horny little devil.”
“Look who’s talking. You and Cruz ‘bout bring the house down every night. And sometimes in the middle of the day.”
“True.” Sanchez grinned and kissed her head. “I’ll let you get some sleep for your big night.” He stood up and looked down at her. “Just guard your heart, cariño. Sometimes great sex can be mistaken for more than it is. I don’t want to see you get hurt again.”
Caterina smiled softly. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”
•
Flynn entered his apartment, the door slamming behind him. He walked into the kitchen and paced, agitated, hand raking his hair. Caterina—part of the Santiago family? No. That couldn’t be right. Of all the women in the entire fucking city of New York, that he would hook up with a Santiago—it defied the odds.
“Fuck!” He smashed his fist down on the counter then went still. What the hell was he getting so pissed about? She was no one to him. Just a hot and wild fuck. He hadn’t planned to see her again after tonight anyway—had he? It wasn’t his style to be a one-woman man.
If anyone could make me fall…it would be you.
He trembled. They were just words. It didn’t mean anything. And she hadn’t heard him say it, so it was as if the words were never spoken.
Flynn stared at the countertop, his palms flattened forcefully against the hard surface, veins swelling in his forearms. Every second he’d spent with Caterina played through his head, from the moment he saw her walking down the street to the moment she’d left his apartment this morning, hair damp from the shower and smelling of his shampoo. Her warm kiss goodbye still heated his lips.
You wanted to keep her. You didn’t want any of this to end.
Flynn’s chest heaved as his breath began to surge through his nostrils again and the rage and frustration boiled up inside him once more. “God dammit!” He grabbed a nearby coffee cup and hurled it at the wall by the doorway, barely missing the man who suddenly appeared.
“Whoa!” The man ducked quickly as the cup shattered next to his head. He was about Flynn’s size, a few years older than Flynn’s twenty-two years. Beneath his black leather jacket was stashed a glock and a hunting knife. Flynn didn’t have to see it; Riccardo never left home without them.
Eyes burning, Flynn glared at him. “What do you want?”
Recovering, the guy glanced at the broken cup littering the kitchen tiles. “Still throwing tantrums, I see.”
“Fuck you,” Flynn muttered. “Why are you here?”
Riccardo touched his heart. “You wound me. I thought you would be glad to see me. It’s been a while.”
I’d like to wound you, Flynn thought sourly. “Not long enough. What do you fucking want?”
“What’s with the temper tantrum? It’s a woman, isn’t it?” he chuckled and shook his head. “You always let the bitches get to you. Find ‘em, fuck ‘em, forget ‘em.” He pointed at Flynn. “That’s a motto every man should live by. All the baggin’, none of the naggin’. Don’t you remember anything I taught you?”
The prick sounded like Caterina’s ex. Then again, hadn’t that been Flynn’s motto as well—at least until last night?
Flynn opened the fridge and took out a beer.
“You’re not going to offer me a beer?” Riccardo asked when Flynn shut the refrigerator door.
“No.” He cracked the tab and took a drink. “How many fucking times am I going to have to ask—why the fuck are you here?”
Riccardo ambled through his kitchen. “Your daddy’s been trying to reach you.”
“I know.” Flynn guzzled more beer and wiped his mouth. “I’ve been ignoring him. I don’t want to talk to the fucker.”
Riccardo stopped and looked at him. “I know you and your old man have your differences, but if you’d show the man some respect and listen to him a little more, you might actually learn a few things.”
Flynn looked at him dryly. “Are you done?”
“He isn’t going to let up until you come and see him.”
“I’m not going, so just follow your leash back to your master and tell him to fuck himself.”
Riccardo shrugged and moved back to the doorway. He absently kicked a chunk of broken cup across the floor and cast Flynn a crooked smirk. “Good luck with your lady troubles.”
“Fuck off,” Flynn muttered.
The man was gone a moment later, the sound of the front door clicking signaling his departure.
Your daddy’s been trying to reach you.
Flynn grunted, emptied the can and crushed it in his fist. “Should’a pulled the fucking trigger.”
CHAPTER 11
“The Cost of Knowing”
______________________________________________
Fucker! Armand gripped the sink with one hand, his kidneys throbbing, weakening his legs. His free hand shook as he turned on the faucet and scooped up cold water onto his face. Bloody streams ran back into the basin and down the drain. He stared at his reflection; his face was demolished. Black eyes. Cut, swollen lips. Ugly bruises across his cheekbones and jaw. One tooth dangled loosely and he wrenched it out then spit blood into the sink, rinsed his mouth, and spit again.
“Piece of shit motherfucker,” he rasped. His whole face hurt when he spoke. He grabbed a hand towel and carefully dried his face, drawing back a stained cloth. He ran the tip of his tongue through the empty tooth socket and scowled; this was going to fuck up his charming smile.
He left the bathroom with a labored walk and returned to the kitchen. The doorbe
ll rang as he took a bottle of beer from the fridge. Armand froze, his heart pounding. Was the fucker coming back to finish the job? Seemed unlikely he would leave then return to continue pummeling him.
Anxiety knotting his gut, Armand shuffled to the front door, beer in hand. At the very least, he could use the beer bottle as a weapon if it was the same son of a bitch. He gripped the door knob, hesitated, then opened the door.
It was a different guy, about Armand’s height and age, built slightly thicker. Looked Italian. His black leather jacket hung open and his dark eyes held Armand’s stare unwavering.
“Fuck,” the man murmured. “Looks like you pissed off the wrong guy.”
Armand was not in the mood for jaded humor. “Can I help you?” he asked stiffly.
“Yeah, I think so.” The man dug into an inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew a photograph. “You can tell me who this is.” He turned the photo facing Armand.
Armand tensed; Caterina?
“I know you know her,” the man said. “I saw you at the pub last night, giving her a hard time.”
“The pub?” Armand narrowed his eyes; who the hell was this guy? Was he following him? And what did he want with Caterina? “Why do you want to know about her?” Armand frowned suspiciously.
The guy shrugged. “I have my reasons.” He shifted. “And what about the man who beat the fuck out of you? What do you know about him?”
Armand was getting a bad feeling. “Nothing,” he mumbled and stepped back, ready to close the door. “I don’t know anything about anyone. Find another source of information.”
The gun was in his face before he could shut the man out. Armand went rigid then moved backward, hands raising cautiously, when the man motioned to him and stepped inside. He closed and locked the door.
Oh fuck—fuck! What the fuck was going on?
Armand was ushered into the kitchen and backed up against the far counter. “What the hell?” He swallowed hard. “Who are you?”
“That isn’t important. What is important, is that you give me some straight answers.” He walked forward, weapon aimed at Armand’s head. “Who is the girl?”
“Her…her name is Caterina López,” he stammered. “She’s my girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend?” The man snorted. “You always let your girlfriends fuck other men?”
His chest tightening, Armand murmured, “She was my girlfriend.”
“Why did her fuck-date beat the shit out of you?”
Armand frowned. “How did you know it was him…”
“Answer the question.” The man slid back the hammer.
“He didn’t want me coming around her anymore.”
“Why the fuck does he care? They just met last night.”
“I…I don’t know,” Armand mumbled.
“Tell me what you know about her.”
Armand pressed back against the counter, the gunman only a few feet away, the weapon holding steady. “She…she’s twenty. She lives with her godfather, Lorenzo Santiago. He’s supposed to be some badass gangster from the old days-”
“That’ll do.” The gun fired.
•
Caterina heard the men’s voices while she was still in the hallway; at least two others besides her godfather. They were in the dining room and she stepped into the doorway and paused. “Papá…”
Lorenzo glanced her way and smiled. “Mija.” He motioned to her. “Come. Come. I would like you to meet two very good friends.”
The two men sitting at the table looked a few years younger than her godfather, and had the wear and tear of the life etched across their faces. Both men stood with Lorenzo and offered her friendly smiles.
“Amigos,” Lorenzo said as Caterina approached him. “This is my goddaughter, Caterina.” His arm wrapped her affectionately. “Mija, these are our brothers from across the city. Anthony Romero and Angelo Messano. They run the Sanitini family since Nathan Sanitini’s untimely passing.”
Caterina detected the shadow of sorrow that wisped through the men’s eyes at the mention of Nathan Sanitini. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Señors.”
“The pleasure is ours, Ms. Caterina,” Anthony replied.
“Am I interrupting, papá?”
“We have important matters to discuss, mija,” Lorenzo said.
Caterina had come to understand that ‘important matters’ was code for the issues of which her godfather wished to shield her. From time to time, Cruz and Sanchez, and often a handful of the other men, left and were gone for days. She was never told where they went or what they did, and she never asked. It seemed to bring her godfather comfort that she remain innocent of the family’s activities. A few months ago, Cruz, Sanchez, and some of the other boys had come home with haunted looks in their eyes; a look that took a long time to recede. She still saw it at times in both Cruz and Sanchez, though more often in Cruz. She’d never inquired what had happened, but knew it was bad; really bad. And that scared her. She hated it when they disappeared for days on end, always terrified they wouldn’t return. The way Diego didn’t return from their last time out.
“Of course, papá.” Caterina kissed his cheek and smiled at the other men. “Señors.” She left the room and paused outside the doorway, just out of sight. Occasionally, her curiosity got the best of her and it kicked in upon meeting these two men from across the city.
“Do you think we have a problem on our hands?” Lorenzo asked.
“I hope not.” The reply came from Anthony. “But we’re getting bits and pieces of rumors. I think it’s better to be safe than sorry. We have more to lose than ever before. We can’t afford to dismiss even the most unlikely rumor.”
All was silent a moment, then Lorenzo spoke quietly, a strain to his voice. “I almost lost mi hijo before. If not for your cowboy, mijo would be dead. If we have to fight this war again, we may all lose much.”
Caterina’s pulse thumped in her temples, her heart racing; war? What war? Was their family in danger?
I almost lost mi hijo before. Cruz.
Caterina couldn’t imagine life without Cruz. He was her big brother. When had this happened before? Had she been here and just not known?
If not for your cowboy, mijo would be dead.
Cold shivers swept through her and tears formed. Who was the cowboy?
She walked away. She didn’t want to hear anymore. It was better not knowing…wasn’t it? But had she heard too much already? The talk of war scared her. What did that mean? She’d heard of gangland wars and that thought frightened her even more.
Don’t think about it. Don’t worry. Papá and Cruz and the others will deal with it, whatever it is. They will be okay. Everything will be okay. It always is.
Yet all her self-assurances couldn’t dispel the cold chill that had settled into her heart.
•
“We need to talk.”
Cruz slowed as they approached the entrance of the strip club. “Now?”
“When we get home,” Sanchez said.
“Talk about what?”
“About being honest with each other.”
Cruz stopped walking and stared at the other man. “What do you mean?”
“We’ll talk about it when we get home.” Sanchez nodded at the club. “Let’s deal with this first.”
It was early evening and there was a pleasant warmth in the air. Cruz unzipped his jacket and nodded. “All right.” He didn’t know what Sanchez wanted to discuss, but he let it go for now and walked through the front doors of Cowgirls. Men filled up the club, occupying the tables, and crowding the stools along the bar that ran the perimeter of the stage where a topless brunette with melon-sized breasts and a dental-floss g-string, cowboy boots, and hat jacked up the audience with her sexy gyrations.
Cruz cast her a disinterested look and directed Sanchez toward the main bar, away from the stage and center floor. Girls were circulating through the male customers, flirting and rubbing up against them with their nearly naked bodies. Some led their catc
h off to the private booths. Cruz spotted a break in the crowd by the bar and moved in, taking the stool. Sanchez stood behind him, glancing around with an unpleasant look on his face, his nose twitching as he breathed in the sickly-sweet concoction of various cheap colognes and equally cheap perfume. Cruz swore they just sprayed it into the air; surely no one would actually wear this shit.
A girl suddenly latched onto Sanchez’s arm, looking him up and down with great appreciation. It was understandable; the man was fucking hot. “Hey, handsome,” she purred. “Want to join me in private? I’ll blow your mind.” She snuggled a bit closer, squashing her tits against his arm, and whispered, “Maybe I could be persuaded to blow something else, too.”
Sanchez huffed and untangled his arm. “Honey, you’re barking up the wrong tree.” He stepped closer to Cruz and ran his hand down his back, squeezing the outer swell of Cruz’s plump ass.
The girl followed the course of his hand and backed off, distaste on her face. “Ugh.” She rolled her eyes and moved on to a different man.
Sanchez frowned as he looked down the bar. “Where is Armand? He’s supposed to be working tonight, right?”
“Yeah,” Cruz murmured and nodded at the young bartender. “But that isn’t him.” When the bartender made his way to them, Cruz asked about Armand.
The bartender shrugged. “He was supposed to come in tonight,” he said. “But he never showed. Didn’t call. I don’t know where he’s at. He isn’t answering his cell. So your guess is as good as mine. Can I get you something?”
Cruz shook his head. “No. Thanks.” The younger man nodded and returned to his other customers.
“Go to his apartment?” Sanchez asked. “See if he’s home?”
“Yeah.”
They stepped away from the bar and were confronted by a blond stripper. “You looking for Armand, too?”
Cruz frowned. “Too?”
