MARRIED TO MY MASTER: A Bad Boy Hitman Romance

by Fox, Nicole

  He flinches, and I know I’m onto something.

  “He’s an asshole,” I say. “But lately, I bet he’s become more than that. An asshole everyone can ignore is one thing. An asshole who’s in charge—”

  “He beat him,” Smiley whispers, a faraway look in his eyes, like he’d rather not remember but can’t help it. “He had this little kid, you see—must’ve been like five or six—and he just beat the hell outta him because—we were at a bar, all of us, and this barmaid had her kid with her. And Mickey didn’t like that the barmaid wasn’t ... he was all kissing on this barmaid and she didn’t like it none, so Mickey just smacked her kid five, six times across the face. Broke his nose, knocked out a couple of his teeth. He’s an animal, but he’s got goons all around him. They worship him, Cor. They worship that ogre fuck.”

  I pour Smiley another whiskey. “Listen,” I say, sliding the glass across to him. “I don’t need you to do anything. All I need from you is a promise. If some shit goes down—might be tomorrow, might be in a month—you’ll be ready to back me up. No undercover stuff. No sneaking around. Just promise to be on my side and not Mickey’s.”

  “Well, shit, Cor.” Smiley knocks his whiskey back. “You know you can count on that.”

  I meet Trevor, Dylan, and Liam behind a kid’s school during recess, sitting behind some bike shed,s knowing that Mickey would never think to look here. They have similar stories to tell me about Mickey. “He just put his hand up her dress, right there, right in front of everybody and when her feller came up and got in his face, one of his goons just blew his fucking head off, Cor. I ain’t no pussy when it comes to women, but fuck, putting your hand up another man’s wife’s skirt like that. That’s somethin’ even an animal wouldn’t do. Makes me sick.” They all agree that they’ll help me, or at least not shoot at me, if it ever comes to a head with Mickey.

  I get seven more men on my side over the course of the next couple of days, returning exhausted in the evenings, knowing that any of one those men might go and tell Mickey what’s going on to try and earn some brownie points. But when I look into their eyes, I see love for my old man in there.

  I get back to the penthouse one late afternoon with my head aching like hell. I don’t know what it is, and then I’m in my bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed, terrified that I might cry. I hunch over, clench my fists, and tell myself I have to be strong now; a Don has to be strong. Scar enters the room quietly, a cheeky smile on her face. I know she’ll want to fuck. We’ve been fucking like mad, even though both of us are tired from our separate investigations. But when she reaches me, the smile falters.

  “Cormac?” she says uncertainty. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I nod, but I can’t look her in the face. I’m afraid if I do I’ll break down. What the hell is happening to me? “I’m fine. I just need a minute.”

  “What is it?” She speaks softly. I think that’s what makes me start talking—the softness.

  “Meeting with the guys, hearing them talk about dad ... Some of them don’t even mention dad, but I can see it in their eyes. I can see it, just by looking at them. All of them loved him, Scar. All of them respected him. One of the fellas told me earlier about the time dad stood outside a woman’s house for thirteen hours straight holding a bunch of flowers because he wanted to go on a date with her. This was before he became Don. It’s just ... Fuck, I just miss him, Scar. I miss him.”

  The tears get dangerously close when Scar puts her hand on top of my hand, but I cough and force them back. I won’t cry. I can’t.

  “You’re allowed to be upset, Cor,” she says, running her thumb along my knuckle.

  “Cor,” I echo. I look into her face and see that she’s watching me with a wounded expression. It’s like she can’t help but comfort me, but knows she shouldn’t. Maybe it’s all that FBI stuff kicking in. Maybe the knowledge that, even if we’re on the same side now, one day soon we might be enemies. I force that from my mind. “Cor. You’ve never called me that before.”

  She smiles. Her sea-green eyes light up mischievously. I’m constantly surprised this past week with just how quickly Scar can change. One second she’s serious, the next she’s playful and flirty. It’d give me whiplash if I didn’t love it so much.

  “There’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?” She kisses me on the nose. “Don’t think you have to be so strong all the time. You’re only human, Cor. You can’t help it if you’re sad, can you?”

  I stand up and close the door. When I turn back to Scar, her chest is rising and falling. She’s leaning back, her legs opening. All this happens naturally. I bet she doesn’t realize she’s doing it. We want each other on such an instinctive level, it just happens. Like a natural force, once it’s set in motion, it’s almost impossible to stop.

  “I don’t want to be upset,” I tell her, my hands moving through her hair. “I want you.”

  Chapter Eleven Scarlet

  “What do you mean, you’ve never read it?” Moira is on her feet, glass of wine in one hand and paperback novel in the other. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  She looks so much like Tess in this moment I hardly know what to do with myself. One moment she’s Moira asking me how I’ve never read Oliver Twist; the next she’s Tess begging me to go out in the snow with her, play Barbies with her, or to go tree climbing with her. I take a sip of my wine, my face warm with pleasure and life. Cor is out, working. I got back around two hours ago, two hours in which I’ve been Moira’s prisoner on the couch.

  “I haven’t read it,” I say. “Is that so surprising?”

  “But it’s Oliver Twist.” She looks at me with big eyes. “Don’t you understand? I don’t think you understand the severity of the situation, Scarlet.”

  When she says severity, it’s like hearing a little kid use a big word.

  Moira rolls her eyes, watching my face. “That threw you off, didn’t it? Severity.”

  “No,” I lie, hoping I haven’t offended her.

  She finishes her wine and drops onto the chair so that we’re facing each other. Pouring herself another glass, she says, “People at college are always saying stuff like, ‘Wow, baby, I didn’t expect you to be so smart.’ It can get really annoying because I’m there to learn, not to be patted on the head and told what a clever girl I am by random douchebags.”

  “I didn’t think anything of it,” I insist.

  She grins at me. She has a disarming grin, just like Tess had a disarming grin. It’s the sort of grin that makes you want to protect her. I try not to let this urge show on my face, just in case I offend her again. “Anyway, you need to read Oliver Twist, or at least Great Expectations. Have you read any Dickens?”

  “I used to read A Christmas Carol to my sister.” My voice breaks toward the end of the sentence. I take a long sip of my wine.

  “And she let you get away with not reading more!” Moira giggles.

  “Well, no, not exactly ...”

  Before I know it, I’m telling the whole story, the words just pouring out of me, unstoppable. I try and get a hold of myself, but soon my glass of wine is on the coffee table and my face is in my hands. I’m hunched over and weeping, forehead against my knees. I weep violently and for a long time, with Moira making a circle on my back with her palm and telling me that everything will be all right. It’s strange to have Moira comforting me about Tess’ death. It’s almost like having Tess comfort me for her own death. After a while, I get a hold of myself and sit up, clearing my throat.

  “Sorry,” I whisper. “That was—I never do that. Sorry.”

  “You don’t need to apologize.” Moira hands me my glass of wine. “You just need a drink.”

  So we drink until the summer sun sets and Cor comes home. We drink until the world turns sideways and my problems no longer seem so insurmountable, and then we keep drinking, on and on, until my problems aren’t even my problems anymore; they’re somebody else’s and I’m only dimly aware of them. Soon I feel Cor�
��s hands on me, helping me undress. I think I keep trying to kiss him, but he forces me back onto the bed. “You’re too drunk, Scar. You need to sleep it off.” I kick, flail my arms, roll over, and generally do everything I can to stop him from helping me into bed. The part of me that is still capable of coherent thought—not the part that is singing Taylor Swift on repeat—knows that sleep is so scary because sleeps means becoming sober. And when I’m sober the torrent of emotion which right now is distant and harmless will come crashing back down on me.

  But eventually I’m under the sheets, and despite everything, I can’t deny that they feel comfortable. At some point Cor leaves and Moira enters. Did I snap at him? She sits next to the bed and we hold hands.

  “I just ordered you a copy of Oliver Twist,” she says. “I think it’d be good, you know ... it’s never too late to start ... Scarlet? Sleep well, sleep well ...”

  I wake up to the smell of coffee mixed beautifully with the smell of bacon. When Moira walks in with the coffee and Cor soon after with two bacon rolls, I can’t help but think to myself, this is a family . This is what a family looks like. Not the awkward stuttering between dad and me. No, I could really fit in here. Moira places the coffee on the bedside table and sits on one side. Cor sits on the other, placing the plate on the other bedside table. I sit up, feeling like a patient in a hospital bed, head pounding. I remember telling Moira about Tess, which causes a pit to open up within my belly. And I remember kicking and flailing at Cor. Otherwise, everything is blurry.

  “How’re you feeling?” Moira asks.

  Like I belong , I want to say. But I don’t. Cor is looking at me funny.

  “Fine,” I mutter. “A bit of a headache.”

  Cor smiles at that, but it’s sort of a bitter smile.

  “I think I’ll go and catch up on some reading,” Moira says, glancing between us.

  When she’s gone, I take a sip of coffee, maybe wanting to postpone the moment every hungover person wants to postpone: facing the things I said last night. The coffee burns the back of my throat, but it also burns my brain into action. Cor leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. I know that soon he’ll be out on the street, just like I’ll be. This past week, we’ve both been meeting with our people, me with a few FBI agents and Cor with some mob members. We both return and pretend that we’re not out there forming armies on different sides of the battlefield. We both grow close in here as we grow further apart out there. I take another sip of coffee, waiting.

  “Do you remember what you said last night?” he asks.

  I think back. Kicking, and then Moira was here.

  “No,” I say. “I don’t. Was it bad?”

  “Nah, I guess not. I guess it’s only natural. You just said that I was an evil, vicious, pathetic excuse for a human being and that the only reason you ever gave me the time of day is because I helped you get busts. Oh, and apparently my ‘massive cock is worth ignoring all the stupid things’ I say. Or something like that.” He grins ruefully. “I mean, Scar, I like fucking as much as the next man. But it came as a bit of a shock, is all.”

  I bow my head like a chastised schoolkid. “I didn’t mean any of that,” I say. “Not one word, Cor. It’s just—you know how people can get when they’re drunk.”

  “You also said that when the day comes for you to clap the cuffs on me, you’d do it gladly. You said you wouldn’t hesitate. I asked you what about us? And you laughed and said, ‘There won’t be an us—not then.’”

  I don’t say anything. I can’t deny it, because one day it might well be true. “I wouldn’t enjoy that,” I say neutrally. “I would never enjoy causing you pain.”

  “Well, all right.” Cor stands up and makes for the door. “But let’s just go on pretending awhile, Scar. Let’s just go on pretending that I’m a man and you’re a woman and that’s all.”

  He leaves me feeling confused and somewhat hollow. I always feel hollow after a night of blackout drinking. Another person came out last night, another person like me, but who’ll say things I’d never dream of saying. The scariest part is I’m not even sure it’s completely untrue. I don’t hate Cor—of course not—but when you get down to it, I am FBI and he is a mobster.

  “Call me Juliet,” I whisper, “And call Cor Romeo.”

  Then I laugh at myself and munch on my bacon roll, because I feel stupid and girlish. It’s time to get my game face on.

  In the street, hailing a cab, I think about the last six days. I’ve met with three agents in total and spent the rest of the time on the internet, doing research on agents who seem suspicious. My main source of suspicion has been Max Smithson, and the more I look into him, the more suspicious he becomes. Before my research, he was just some grinning older man, the kind young women are forced to encounter in most professional lines of work: the smiling, paternal, proud-as-though-I’m-his-daughter man who’s not above making a pass if circumstances permit. But then I discovered that he owns a yacht, which he keeps in California, and an apartment and a house, which he also keeps in California. He doesn’t have offices in California, but he does have a brother who works low down in the FBI. I remember that Cor’s men were sent to Cali. So maybe Max Smithson finances his lifestyle with corruption in New York and takes his holidays in Cali. When I use some FBI magic to check where he’s travelled over the past year, I’m not surprised to see that he’s spent all his holiday time in Cali. I go into his history to discover if he has any wealth that would explain this, and he does: a string of laundromats all over town. But the strange thing is there’s no purchase history. Apparently they were bought with air.

  But he can’t be functioning alone, which is the reason that I’m riding a cab to a nook of a coffee shop squeezed between two larger, more colorful restaurants. I get out of the car, the sun boiling my hungover head. The painkillers have kicked in, but they can’t do anything about the groggy, half-real feeling.

  He might be working with Max Smithson too, I note, for perhaps the hundredth time. Mom always wanted to travel Europe. That’d be a good way to pay for it. I tell myself I’m being stupid, but I have to look at him like I’d look at any other suspect—like he’s not my dad.

  But when we’re sitting opposite each other, both of us sipping on our coffees, the place alive with clattering and chatter around us and our table dead quiet in comparison, when the massive spector of Tess lies before us, I find I can’t look at him like a suspect. He’s fifty-something, but he looks sixty-something, with lined skin and heavy, drooping grey eyebrows. His hands, which worry constantly at the coffee cup, are wrinkled and venous. His mouth is sad, the corners always turning downward. And when he looks around with eyes the same shade of green as mine, it’s as if he’s expecting to see Tess running at him, a smile on her face. For a moment his face reflects the smile, before vanishing as the fantasy vanishes.

  “So,” Derrick O’Bannon says. “You’ve been doing some investigating.”

  “Yes.” I nod. Even nodding around dad is an effort. I feel like a little girl again—a guilty, horrid little girl who let ... “Yes,” I repeat, stomping on my memories. “I’m looking into Max Smithson and a couple of agents I think might be working with him: Elijah Sullivan and Gertrude Fitzgerald.” If dad is working with him, I’ve just given away my hand. I’m a fool. I’ve spent years honing my interrogatory techniques, and yet, with dad, I can’t summon the ghost of a hardened demeanor.

  “These are certainly serious accusations,” dad says quietly. “They have to be approached with a degree of ...” He pauses, looking for the right word, then finishes weakly: “Seriousness.”

  “Exactly. That’s what I’m thinking.”

  “What evidence do you have so far?”

  I narrow my eyes, studying the old man and wondering if Mom’s desire to romp around Europe and forget her problems would ever be enough to push him off the line. I can’t imagine it, but with his favorite daughter dead—I’ve never had any delusions about who the favorite was—it’s difficult to kno
w. “I have to ask you something, Dad.”

  “You want to know if I’m working with Agent Smithson.” Dad smiles. Every time he smiles the cracks in my heart widen. One day he’ll smile and all the pain I’ve ever felt will come tumbling out. I tell myself I’m being dramatic and that it’s just the hangover. But it’s how I feel. I can’t help it. “No, of course I’m not. I would never betray the FBI, Scarlet.”

  Betray the FBI ... the words stab at me. Isn’t that exactly what I’m doing with Cor? I’m sleeping with a mobster. Isn’t that a betrayal? And, yet, when dad says it in that haughty, righteous tone, it makes me angry. It’s the same tone he used when he asked me, “Couldn’t you get to the shore sooner?” He doesn’t mean anything by it, but it still comes out judgmental, as though he’ll always know what’s best for me and I can only play at making decisions.