by S. Massery
I reach out and take his hand.
“Wilder was upset, but it wasn’t a strong emotion. It’s like he knew exactly why she left and just used it to fortify himself. Luca—well, she wasn’t his mother. I was the only one who really seemed to give a shit.”
“Where did she go?” I whisper. I don’t want him to stop talking.
“Away.” He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. I moved on from crying to hitting things.”
I flip his hand over and brush his knuckles. The bruising has faded a little, the split skin scabbed over. “Then killing?”
“That came later.”
I lift the mug and take a sip, surprised by the chocolate flavor on my tongue.
“Hot chocolate?”
He nods.
I take another sip. It’s almost too hot to drink, but it warms me from the inside out. “I haven’t had hot chocolate in years.”
“I figured. It’s a good comfort drink.” He watches me with a steady gaze. “What’s your plan?”
“For what?”
He just raises his eyebrow.
I sigh and shift, eyeing the dark clouds. “Maybe just stay up here all day.” I turn back to him. “You could distract me.”
“I could. Are you sore?”
I shift and contemplate that. I should, at the very least, be hesitant about sleeping with the enemy again. It’s like my brain has been put on pause and my cunt is in charge. And the pain will ground me in reality… or prolong my fictional world where everyone I love is still alive and happy.
His gaze darkens. We both set our mugs aside, and I pivot onto my knees. He doesn’t object when I climb onto his lap, straddling him, and lean forward. This is my show—for now, anyway. I hook my fingers under his shirt and pull it over his head. He raises his arms, smirking when I toss it away. I mimic the movement for myself, throwing my shirt over my shoulder.
He runs his hands up my sides, cupping my breasts.
“So fucking beautiful.” He rolls my nipple between his fingers.
I tip my head back and close my eyes.
His hot mouth latches on to my other nipple, and his teeth scrape my skin before his tongue darts out. I dig my nails into his biceps while his hands ghost up my spine. He winds his fingers into my hair and tugs my head back farther, while his lips travel up my chest.
“I love my marks on you,” he says, nipping my throat.
I open my eyes and run my finger down the scratches I left on him, and my stomach flips.
“Me, too.” I’m so hot I might combust. I roll my hips against his growing erection, seeking some sort of relief. “Aiden.”
“Patience,” he admonishes.
There goes my control.
He flicks his tongue against my earlobe, and I groan. I reach between us and palm his length, gripping him through his sweatpants.
“Are you going to turn me into a sex addict?” I blurt out. Because that’s how I feel. Crazy for it—him.
“Would that be the worst thing?” His breath hits my ear. “Shirk all our responsibilities and stay in bed forever?”
He doesn’t let me answer. His lips press to mine. My grip tightens on his cock, and he groans into my mouth. Our lips part, his tongue sweeping into my mouth. He tastes like coffee, and he kisses me like I’m his breath.
I drop my other hand to his lap, pulling his cock out. He doesn’t protest when I shift closer to him, on my knees. I didn’t put panties on—didn’t think of it when I first got out of bed, and now I’m grateful for that.
He growls when I run his tip through my folds, pausing at my entrance. He breaks our kiss to look down.
“Impale yourself on me,” he orders.
I take him in an inch at a time, bringing my hands to his shoulders. He stretches me, and it’s a mix of pain—different than last night—and pleasure. He palms my hips, guiding me down until he’s fully inside me.
This isn’t the fast fuck I was hoping for. Instead, I meet his steady gaze, and my heart skips a beat. I don’t feel… alone. Like here, naked, he can see me—and he isn’t running away. If anything, he bares his own demons to match mine.
I rise a little and lower myself, and my eyes nearly roll back. He watches me figure it out. How to move. What feels good.
I’m a quick study.
“Touch yourself,” he whispers.
I suck my lower lip into my mouth and shake my head. “I can’t.”
“You did before. What feels good?” His finger finds my clit, rubbing small circles. “Show me.”
I hesitantly cover his hand with mine, replacing his finger. He stops thrusting inside me, watching my finger move with dark eyes. I keep my gaze locked on his face, one hand curled around his neck. He groans when I lean back slightly, creating more room, and the tension in my abdomen creeps higher.
He pinches my nipple again.
I gasp and arch my back. I lift up and come back down, fucking him and getting off at the same time. He grunts and grasps my sides, but he doesn’t take over. Not until my orgasm crashes over me, and I still.
He thrusts up, milking every last drop from me. I see stars, my vision spotting white. Then he grips my hips and moves below me. I hold on, my breasts bouncing with each slap of our thighs meeting, until he suddenly comes with a groan.
We sit like that for a moment, still connected, and he cups my cheek.
I will away the emotions, but they blindside me. Tears fill my eyes again. My attention snags on the white bandage on his arm—something I’d stupidly failed to notice until now.
“Your own father shot you.”
He lifts his chin. “If he wanted me dead, I would be.”
“Why even take that risk?” I rise, and he slips out of me. The loss is a keen emptiness, but I squash it.
He watches me stand and cross to the bathroom. I just… I need a minute. But a minute of silence, sitting on the toilet, turns into two. I don’t want to move and face the day again.
Why would Jameson even point a gun at Aiden? It’s stupid to risk his whole empire like that. Even crazy, Jameson would have to acknowledge that there’s only one son left after Aiden—and he’s on the other side of the world.
Virtually untouchable with Amelie.
I finish my business and wash my hands, trying to work out the why behind Jameson.
It’s impossible. It doesn’t make sense.
Risk for no reward, besides torturing me.
Wait.
I spin slowly toward the closed door. I go and yank it open, hiding my surprise that Aiden’s right on the other side of it.
“Is the endgame just to torture me?”
Aiden raises his eyebrows.
“Your father. That’s why he made me choose. But it’s not just him, right? You wanted me to suffer when you killed Kai in front of me.” Forget grief—anger blazes through me.
“No,” he says.
I shove at his bare chest. “Stop lying.”
He doesn’t even move, but his brow lowers. I’m provoking him. I need him to understand that this isn’t a joke for me.
“I started to trust you,” I continue. “I trusted you to at the very least not want to hurt me—”
“And why would you think that?”
I freeze.
He steps forward, boxing me in the bathroom.
“You were your father’s sacrificial lamb, baby. Your family is the one that gave you to the wolves hoping to save themselves. What the fuck did you expect?” He laughs. “Guess our truce is over.”
I cross my arms and narrow my eyes, ignoring my pounding heart. “Guess so.”
He reaches out and touches my collarbone, tracing the edge of one of the bruises he left on my skin. He presses into it, eliciting a hiss from between my teeth, and chuckles at my response. I stay stock-still as he walks me backward. My ass bumps the counter, and he frames me in.
Caught.
“What do you think that means?”
I grimace. “Will you lock me up for real this time?”
<
br /> “Because you deserve it?” He sees too much.
“I do,” I bite out. “I let you kill Kai. I chose you over my father—that’s the worst thing I could’ve done. I played right into your hands.” Why did I pick Aiden? Jameson was eager to kill Dad.
His hand moves up, wrapping around the back of my neck, and he pulls me forward. His lips capture mine.
Why is he kissing me?
When I don’t respond, he leans back just the slightest bit, nipping my lower lip. He kisses me again, softer. Little presses, his tongue slipping along the seam of my mouth.
I’m confused, and I grip the countertop so I don’t give in to him. I can’t.
“I’m not torturing you, Gemma.” His voice is low, right in my ear. “You’re the one torturing me. The only way you’ll play into my hand is by coming on my fingers.”
My abdomen clenches, and his hand dips between my legs.
“What do you want me to say? That you don’t deserve what’s happened to you?”
His teeth graze my earlobe, and I automatically tilt my head to give him better access.
“You’re a West.”
“And you’re a DeSantis.” My words come out breathless. “We’re not supposed to be happy.”
“Glad that’s decided.” He hoists me up on the counter and plunges two fingers inside me. “Let’s be miserable together, then.”
And we are… at least, until we’re not.
19
Aiden
I stride down the dark hall. Sam waits for me outside a door, and his expression is carefully blank.
Great.
“What?” I snap.
“Jameson has ordered the whole family to attend a wedding in two days,” he says. “I thought this would be a drawn-out thing.”
I resist the urge to rub my eyes. “He’s impatient. He can see the end of the West family on the horizon.”
“Marry Gemma, kill her brother?”
“You think that’s a bad idea.”
He shrugs. “I didn’t say that.”
He never says anything—he waits for me to guess what he’s thinking. It’s how he stays safe and off Jameson’s shit list. It’s how Ford and my other guys operate, too. Discreetly. Father dearest might suspect I have my own men, but he’s never come out and said anything about it.
There are very few people I trust in this world.
“How’s he fairing?” I jerk my head at the door.
Sam makes a noise in the back of his throat. “He’s not used to the big league.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Nothing we didn’t already know.”
I nod once and motion for him to move, tugging on my black leather gloves. He grins and opens the door for me, then steps aside. I take in the scene: our hostage stands in the center of the room. His hands are bound above his head, attached to a chain suspended from the ceiling. It’s loose right now, letting his feet touch the floor. He lifts his head and stares at me, revealing a face full of injuries.
Busted lip, black, puffy eye. His cheekbone might be broken, the angle all wrong compared to the other one. And that’s just his face.
I cross to the wall and jerk on the chain, wrapping it around another peg. It hoists him up until just his toes scrape the concrete.
“What do you want?” he growls. He’s got a bravado, even still.
It’s because I’m the new face. He’s dealt with Sam, but now he needs to know how I operate.
I draw my knife and stop in front of him. He flinches when I cut through the collar of his shirt, dragging it down. The fabric slices easily, revealing a litany of bruises across his torso. He’s been here for less than a day, but Sam works quickly.
I dig the tip of the knife between his ribs and twist. Not deep enough for serious injury, but it gets my point across.
He grunts, trying to get away from me.
“Just making sure you’re awake.” I grin and pat his injured cheek.
I pull the blade free and wipe it on the tatters of his shirt, then flip it in my hand. I confiscated it from Gemma when she first arrived. She had it in her boot, but I doubt she realizes I kept it close after she tried to use it on me. It’s well-balanced, not some cheap thing she could’ve got from her kitchen. Besides, I like that it’s hers.
“What the fuck?” He shoves away and swings wildly, spinning around.
I step back and let him go, folding my arms over my chest. Sam snickers in the corner.
Rubert’s small-time gang is trying to make a run for the big time. But unfortunately for them, big time lands them directly in DeSantis territory. And no one is allowed to get away with encroachment.
“Do you know who I am?” I ask.
Rubert’s second-in-command wouldn’t have heard of me—just rumors. But it’s the rumors that I bank on, and for a moment, he simply eyes me. But then his mouth slackens. His struggle intensifies, jerking on the chains. They rattle, but he doesn’t get anywhere.
“I don’t know anything, man.” He twitches. “Seriously, what the fuck? Your family always treated us well. We—”
“Your little gang is making a bid for Manhattan.” I shake my head, disappointed. “Cut the shit. You’re Thomas McCreery. Thirty-two years old. Born in Pittsburgh and moved here with your mommy and daddy when you were sixteen. Fell in with some interesting people. Dropped out of school a year later. Married, although she’s not really a looker, is she? How do you fuck her without cringing?”
“A hole is a hole,” Sam says behind me.
McCreery snarls, lashing out at me. I laugh, slapping away his foot and plunging Gemma’s blade deeper into his side. He squeals like a pig. I yank it out, and blood spills down, collecting in the waistband of his pants. It drips onto the floor.
“You fucking asshole,” he yells.
“So much fight.” I step closer and wrap my hand around his throat. I cut off his air—and the noise. “You’re going to tell me what I want to know, or I’ll go find your ugly wife and drag her here. I’ll take my time carving her up in front of you. If that doesn’t work, maybe your mother would do the trick?”
He’s turning blue in the face, so I release him and immediately drill my fist into his stomach. I hit him again then retreat, taking a cloth from Sam’s outstretched hand.
“We heard the Wests and DeSantises were going to war,” he rasps.
I tilt my head. “And?”
“And that leaves an opening.” His chest heaves, and his eyes are wild.
There’s some part of him that knows he’s not getting out of this room—but there’s a bigger part that will sing when I ask. That bigger part is my worst enemy: hope. It’s a dirty word in my brain. But it serves its purpose now, giving McCreery that spark of incentive to spill secrets like blood across the floor. If he just talks, then we won’t kill him.
Wrong.
He was dead the minute Sam grabbed him from the street.
“An opening,” I repeat, drawing it out to get him to continue.
“Lawrence West is dead, ain’t he? Can’t be a coincidence that this is all starting after they took a shot at your brother. It’s about time the city’s most self-important families imploded on each other.”
My laugh is cold, and I have to stop myself from gutting him.
He’s not done. “And you’ve got Gemma in your—”
The knife is at his throat before I can stop myself. I wrap my other hand around the back of his neck, holding him still. At this angle, we’re eye to eye.
“Think very carefully about what you say next,” I say in a low voice. “Your life depends on it.”
He swallows, and the bob of his Adam’s apple causes the blade to nick his skin. He winces. “I only meant everyone heard of your upcoming wedding,” he blabbers. “And that can only mean one thing, right? Consolidation. We saw an opening.”
“To partner with the Wests?”
“What? No.”
Jack and Sam met with Rubert, who supposedly confirmed it him
self. And then, hours later, Lawrence is full of bullets. Maybe Jameson was going to kill Lawrence either way because of that stupid deal.
It doesn’t matter now. Unless there’s a paper trail, Rubert’s gang will deny, deny, deny. All to save their own skin.
I narrow my eyes and slice a little further. “Tell me about the shipyard.”
“Fuck, man, I don’t know anything—okay, okay.” He lets out a strangled sigh when I step back. “Rubert got a contract. It was just the damn money. Easy in and out, hit the customs guy and loop the security feeds.”
Shit.
Why the hell didn’t I think that was a possibility? We were operating under the assumption of a brutal show of force—not a carefully thought-out plan. But of course it was thought out. How else would they have slipped past the cameras undetected?
They hacked the feeds.
It was the middle of the night. No change in lighting, no people.
“Did they hire you to steal from us?”
His eyes bug. “Steal? We ain’t got a death wish. It was a simple job, man, I promise. We wouldn’t have done it if we knew he was protected.”
I grunt. The customs officer wasn’t protected. Wasn’t even on our radar.
“Who hired you?” I ask.
“He didn’t say—”
I yank my gun from the holster in the small of my back. I shoot him in the fucking face and turn away before his body even stops twitching. I’m so done with this day—but it isn’t over. He might’ve given me everything he knew, or he might have had more to spill.
I glare at Sam to keep him from opening his mouth. Yes, I realize there are inconsistencies in the stories we’re being told, but my patience snapped.
I call Breaker, gritting my teeth until the call connects.
“Boss,” his deep voice booms.
“Find Rubert,” I order. “Don’t move in—just call me when you’ve got his location.”
“Done.”
My next call is to Ford, who answers on the first ring. I give him our location and then turn to Sam. He’ll put McCreery’s body back inside his house, probably position him in the living room—or worse, their bedroom. When the wife finds him, she’ll go crying to the gang.
