by S. Massery
I’m stoking another fire, but there’s one person who can tell us who contracted Rubert’s guys to mess with us. I cross the hall and step into another room, where the harbormaster waits. His accommodations are slightly better than McCreery’s. Sam gave him a padded mattress on the floor, a bucket. I step over a fast food bag and soft drink cup, glaring at the man hunched on his mattress.
“What’s your relationship to Rubert Willis?” I ask.
He lifts his head. His shocked expression is nothing new—he seems to be constantly surprised at whatever comes out of my mouth.
“Martin,” I say patiently, crouching in front of him. “I’ve got no more use for you, so let me put it plainly: you can tell me how you know Rubert, or I can put a bullet in your brain and ask your wife.”
He sucks in a breath, his chin wobbling. If he fucking pisses his pants again, I’m going to kick him in the balls. My patience is fraying.
“He’s my wife’s cousin,” he finally says. “Came around wanting to learn the ropes of the yard, you know? That was a few weeks ago—he’s got nothing to do with—”
I press the muzzle of my gun to his temple. “Don’t tell me what he has nothing to do with, Martin.”
He bursts into tears.
Tears.
This big man sobs in front of me, ignoring the gun. He’s probably decided he’s going to die. There’s no information left for him to give, and that damn hope has popped, leaving him… this. Messy.
“Get up,” I growl.
When he doesn’t move, I stow my firearm and lift him by his upper arms, then let him go.
“Take your family and get the fuck out of my city,” I say. “If I so much as hear a whisper of you warning Rubert, I will hunt you down.”
He doesn’t need any more prodding. Sam stands by the open door and lets him pass. He breaks into a jog once he’s in the hallway, and we watch him navigate his way through the maze of corridors.
“You don’t think he’ll tell someone about this place?” Sam asks.
We don’t usually let people just walk out of here—but the man is virtually untouched, save for the fear and adrenaline he’s been building up over the past few days.
“Wife’s cousin,” I muse. “He didn’t think to mention that relation.”
Sam grunts, and we head up to the ground floor. This building is one of our safe houses, but it’s about time we let it burn. I don’t think the harbormaster would squeal, but then again, Rubert probably didn’t think McCreery would give him up, either.
Anything can happen.
“Clean up and close it down,” I say to Sam.
My thoughts shift to Gemma. Two days until our wedding. She’s with Cat right now, hopefully in our apartment. They had a dress designer bringing a litany of wedding dresses for her to choose from. If she’s not in our apartment, I might have to resort to more drastic measures.
A tracker under her skin.
A chain around her ankle.
Welding the door of my apartment closed.
That last one might prove to be a challenge when I want to return, but as I said, it would be a drastic measure. It would keep her safe. And in one place for longer than an hour.
Ford pulls up beside the house, and I climb in the passenger’s seat. He eyes me but says nothing. As always.
“My house,” I tell him.
Halfway to Rose Hill, where our summer estate is, my home is situated in a tiny neighborhood of people who like privacy. There’s a gate to get onto a narrow winding road lined with giant oak trees. My house is toward the front entrance—slightly more traffic, but if I ever had to escape in a hurry, it’s best to not get boxed in. Besides, the cluster of houses along the cul-de-sac in the back is just a cesspool of children. It takes us about a half hour to get there, and Ford follows me inside.
“Does the girl know?”
I raise my eyebrow. “She knows I don’t live full time at the tower.”
She’s smart, though. She may have already guessed.
He grunts and keeps moving toward the kitchen, his gun drawn at his side. I leave him to sweep the downstairs and head up, my weapon also drawn. No one should know about this place, or know when I’m headed here.
But Gemma and I will be coming here after the wedding, and so Ford will periodically make sure it’s secure. This place has more of my personality in it. My office on the second floor has framed photos of my brothers and me, a portrait of my mother.
Above the fireplace hangs a painting I commissioned of Gemma—it’s abstract but undeniably her. The slope of her nose, her golden blonde hair. Her blue-gray eyes. The rest is unique to the artist, flashes of colors and lines that blend with the stand-out Gemma features.
I stare at it for a moment, then pour myself a drink.
“All clear,” Ford says in the doorway. “You… okay?”
I glance at him, then back to the painting. “The wedding will be trouble.”
He exhales. “Probably.”
“We should call in Hart.” I swallow my whiskey in one go and relish the burn down my throat. It has a smoky aftertaste that sits on my tongue.
Hart is Ford’s brother—in spirit, not blood. Although it may as well be blood. They served in the Marines together, fought beside each other… No better bond than that. So I hear, anyway. I picked up Ford when he was fresh off deployment and looking for work. Hart tagged along, but the city can be too much for him.
He does better in quiet settings, which is why he’s working in upstate New York doing security. It’s peaceful up there—precisely what he needs.
However, he offered his services if we were ever in dire need, and I’m sure this qualifies.
“I’ll see what his schedule is like, but it shouldn’t be a problem.”
I’m unconvinced, with my father being a fucking wild card and Gemma… and her family. I’ve been left in the dark on how this wedding ceremony will go. But at least I learned one thing: the whole DeSantis clan is going to attend.
If that doesn’t spell danger for Gemma, then I’m illiterate.
My phone buzzes, and this time it’s my father. My chest seizes. I don’t trust him with Gemma—so why the hell did I leave her there alone?
Just two more days, I tell myself. Then we can get out of dodge.
Well, I can’t, but Gemma can. And if she’s safe, I can do my damn job without worrying about her. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
The truth of the matter is, I can see why Luca and Amelie abandoned the family. Luca never felt like part of it, what with his mother being different from mine and Wilder’s. Dad didn’t really care where they went once the Pages—Amelie’s parents—wired him the money.
A deal with the devil turned out all right. Who would’ve thought?
But now I have the same longing to leave it all behind, even as guilt and duty fasten me down tighter to the city. Without speaking with her, I imagine Gemma feels the same. Perhaps less, having not been brought up knowing she’d take a position of power.
“Go,” I finally tell Ford. “I’ve got the bike here.”
I settle at my desk and pull out a stack of paperwork from the drawer. Three years ago, I opened a corporation that has been acting in my interest, purchasing property in Hell’s Kitchen and surrounding neighborhoods. Hart is the acting CEO, and he signs off on all decisions. He emailed me updates on our accounts—it funds Ford and Breaker, as well as an off-shore account for myself.
An escape plan I now don’t think I’ll get the chance to use.
After an hour of poring over finances, signing off on Hart’s proposals for new contracts, and generally exhausting my eyes, I rise. I give myself another second to take in the painting, and then lock up my desk.
Everything else is in order, and I’ve given the girls long enough to try on dresses.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I glance at it, then do a double take.
This isn’t the dress she picked, but isn’t she fierce?
I load the image,
and my heart stops. Gemma stands on a stool in the center of the living room, holding back her hair. The dress is sexy—the sort I’d expect on a vixen or seductress, not Gemma. It hugs the curves I’ve been learning intimately, the lace nearly sheer. The neckline plunges to just above her bellybutton, and the designer must’ve fastened a heavy necklace for the effect.
I adjust myself in my pants and grit my teeth, then dial the designer.
“Mr. DeSantis,” she answers, her voice high. “How can I help you?”
“Are you still in the tower?”
“I was just heading to my car. Ms. West found a lovely dress. It fit her—”
“I don’t want details.” Call me superstitious, but I’d rather be surprised. There’s still some element of a real wedding happening—right? If not, then all of it would be a sham, and I can’t bear to think that way.
I want this to be real.
More than anything.
Gemma is mine.
I tell the designer what to do and end the call. My leather jacket is hanging from a peg in the garage, and I slide it on over my black shirt. I zip it up and secure my phone, then pull on my helmet. My bike is like an old friend. One I haven’t been able to see in a while—not with the craziness happening in Manhattan.
She roars to life under me, and I can’t stop my grin from spreading.
Just two more days.
20
Gemma
“It’s going to be perfect.” Cat bounces on her heels, holding the black dress bag in her arms. Inside it is the dress. The perfect one.
I didn’t think it existed. I’m still a bit skeptical about the whole wedding—a forced charade, honestly. But there’s a deeper part of me that wants to take it seriously.
“What about the rest?” I ask.
She tilts her head.
“Something borrowed, blue, um… old?”
“Oh!” She grins. “I’ll take care of it. And I’m going to store this bad baby in my closet so Aiden isn’t tempted to peek. I’ll talk to you later?”
I nod. It’s dark out, and my stomach lets out an unfortunate growl. Once I’ve locked up behind Cat—a new measure of protection is a deadbolt that only Aiden has the key for—I get to work cooking.
And, let’s be honest, cooking is a stretch. I find pasta and an assortment of cheeses. It can’t be too hard to make homemade macaroni and cheese, right?
Wrong.
Twenty minutes later, my pasta is an odd blend of some overdone, mushy pieces and a few crunchy ones. They’re all stuck together, either way. And the sauce has clumped and attached itself to my spoon.
I toss the curdled cheese mess into the sink, pan and all, and groan. Inexplicably, tears blur my vision. It’s stupid—I was fine when he was gone. I make a mean grilled cheese and soup—but pasta has conquered me.
Aiden walks in with a helmet in his grip, and his gaze immediately finds mine.
“What’s wrong?” he demands.
I shrug, but the burning behind my eyes intensifies. It’s made worse when I remember the first meal he made me: fucking pasta.
He circles the island and comes up behind me, peering into the sink.
“If you laugh, I’m going to knee you in the balls.”
His hands slide around my waist and pull me back into him. I release a sigh and tip my head back. Damn it, body, why are you relaxing against him?
“Cheese sauce is at least intermediate level,” he says in my ear.
“And the pasta?” I point to the bowl of shells.
“When we have time, I’ll teach you.”
I rotate in his arms and meet his gaze. “Is that a promise?”
He smirks. “Yes. But for now…” He maneuvers me sideways, to the counter beside the sink, and lifts me onto it. He wraps his hand around the back of my neck and guides me forward, our lips touching.
All too soon, he pulls away, a mischievous glint in his eyes. I pout and draw my leg up, resting my chin on my knee. And he proceeds to go full Italian chef on me. Chicken, a creamy pesto sauce, sautéed spinach, gnocchi. Gnocchi. I haven’t had that in years.
My mouth is watering by the time he’s done. Neither of us have spoken a word, instead opting for a smooth instrumental soundtrack to play over the speaker half hidden by the citrus bowl. And it’s actually nice.
We’re coexisting.
Today is weird.
We spent most of the morning exploring each other’s bodies, until Aiden got called away. It was the distraction I needed, but I still feel untethered.
And then the dress shopping after lunch, Cat and the designer fawning over different fabrics. She had brought a whole wheeling rack with her stuffed with garment bags, a wide selection of styles.
Aiden steps between my legs and wraps his arms around my back. I loop mine around his neck, then lock my ankles together behind him.
“We could stay like this,” he says, tilting his head back. “Or we could eat.”
I nod. “After all your hard work, I won’t turn down the meal.”
He smiles and releases me. I hop down, and together we build plates. He pours me a glass of wine, setting it on the table for me. I die of happiness when I take my first bite. All of the bites. I let out a groan, and his expression darkens.
Another groan, but I can’t help it. I’m in awe of the meal he made. Whether it’s a talent he keeps a secret, or a well-known fact, he’s impressed me. Then again, the easiest way to a girl’s heart is through her stomach—so the saying goes, anyway.
He shifts in his seat, eyes on my lips. “I won’t be held responsible for my actions if you keep making those noises.”
I wink. “I’ll make up for it later.”
“Where did you come from?” he asks, but it seems more of a rhetorical question.
I get it—I feel different. Like someone new has slid into the driver’s seat in my brain. Maybe that’ll end and I’ll go back to feeling all sorts of hatred toward the DeSantises, but I can’t muster that same energy of anger toward Aiden.
And the sex…
Who knew it would feel like this?
I’ve woken up, when my family wanted to keep me asleep.
“Thank you,” I say to him.
His brow lifts. “You’re welcome. But, for what?”
I glance away. “I guess… all of this? It could’ve turned out differently.” Worse, I don’t add.
“No,” he says simply.
“What?”
“It wouldn’t have turned out differently. I was coming for you regardless.” He leans forward, his tone serious. “I told you before, you were mine since you were sixteen. Nothing was going to stand between us.”
“Just our families.” My voice is a whisper.
“And look what happened to them.”
I rise and go to the window. “We aren’t Romeo and Juliet.”
“I should hope not. Their story ends in death.” He comes up behind me again, and this time his hands don’t slip around my waist. He just gives me his presence. “We aren’t going to die. We’re going to make it through this wedding, and then…”
I exhale. “That’s the problem. You can’t promise we won’t die.”
He grunts.
“You can’t. Life and death don’t work like that.”
He sweeps my hair off my shoulder, and his lips touch my neck. “I work like that, princess. Get used to it.”
I sniff against the sudden pain in my throat. His hot breath travels higher, to my earlobe. His teeth catch it, and I tilt my head to the side even as tears fill my eyes. It’s stupid, really, that I’m worrying about an us with everything else happening.
“Crying won’t save you,” he says.
“I don’t want to save me.” I swipe the wetness on my cheeks away.
He grabs my fingers and brings them to his mouth, licking the tears away. My lips part, and heat unfurls in my chest. It’s too much. There’s too much hope and grief and anticipation inside me, threatening to burst out.
And
the loneliness… the unbearable loneliness ebbs when he’s around.
I twist in his arms and bury my face on his chest.
“You’ve been cooped up here all day,” he says suddenly.
I don’t answer.
He steps back and draws me with him, eyeing my clothes. Light-washed, high-waisted jeans. Bare feet. The bottom hem of my rust-colored cropped top—a hand-me-down from Cat—just brushes the top of the jeans. If I lift my arms, it reveals my stomach. It has bell sleeves, but they’re rolled and tied above my elbows with little ribbons.
“Boots,” he mutters, shaking his head as if to clear his vision. “Go on.”
I step past him, and he slaps my ass.
I yelp and leap forward, tossing a glare over my shoulder. He smirks at me, and his gaze is hungry. But I want to go wherever he’s thinking of taking me, so I hurry upstairs to grab my shoes and ignore the way my stomach flips.
Aiden’s phone rings downstairs, only once before he answers with a sharp greeting.
My curiosity piques.
I grab my boots and creep forward on the landing. I don’t need to see Aiden to know he’s almost directly under the stairs.
“You found him,” he says. It sounds like he’s repeating it back to whoever’s on the other end of the line. “Where?”
I slide my socks on, then lace my boots. No use sitting here doing absolutely nothing—that’s the easiest way to get caught.
“Follow him. Don’t engage until I get there—he’s fucking mine.”
My heart turns to ice.
He’s found Colin.
Their truce ended. Of course it did. And the hunt resumed, while I tried on pretty dresses and thought Aiden and I might survive this.
I pull myself up and rush downstairs, furious at myself. Aiden steps toward me, stashing his phone in his pocket, and I shove at his chest. He goes back a few steps. Confusion flickers over his features.
“How could you?” I shove at him again. “What, were you going to take me to watch you kill my brother?”
He scoffs. “You think so little of me.”
“You killed my cousin,” I shriek. I go to push him again.
He grabs my wrists, dragging me into him. “I did. He killed three of my men. Men who had families at home. Wives. Children. Not everyone is like us, Gemma, with no attachments.”
