KYLE: A Mafia Romance (The Callahans Book 4)

by Glenna Sinclair

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Then you really like this girl?”

  “You’ll like her, too, once you get to know her.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Amelia.”

  “Classy. Much better than Candi or Cookie.”

  “She’s not like that. She’s not like the other cocktail waitresses.”

  “Good.”

  I looked at myself in the mirror again, dabbing at the blood that refused to stop seeping from my lip. And then I noticed the dust stuck to my jacket. I sat up a little, slipping the jacket off and brushing at the dirt adhering to my cuffs. I didn’t want to freak Amelia out when I walked into the loft.

  “You’ve got someone with her?”

  “Colin.”

  Killian nodded. “Good man.” He gripped the wheel a little harder. “Pops wants you, me, and Ian at the house tonight. The Italians are making a move on the McKinnon warehouse. He wants to talk about what we’re going to do about it.”

  “Jack doesn’t want to lose that warehouse. It’s one of the few left that the cops haven’t been watching.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not as worried about the cops as I am the Italians. The cops we can deal with. The Italians…we’ve lost half a dozen men in the last week alone.”

  “That many?”

  “Make sure you’re watching your back, brother. And keep a close eye on Jack, too.”

  I nodded, but I had to admit there was this little trickle of regret that I wouldn’t be able to spend as much time in Amelia’s company as I’d hoped. It sounded like things were going to be crazy for the unforeseeable future.

  We’d just have to make the most of what time we did have.

  Chapter 9

  Kyle

  Amelia was lying down when I got home. I sent Colin away and took the stairs two at a time, slowing only when I approached the double doors to the master bedroom. She was wearing nothing but a pair of panties and a thin undershirt, her hair wrapped in one of my heavy, blue towels, her eyes closed as she nestled against the pillows on my massive, king-sized bed.

  I’d seen a lot of women reclining in this bed. None of them excited me quite the way the sight of Amelia’s petite, firm body did.

  I tossed my jacket over the back of a chair as I made my way to her side.

  “I see you’ve made yourself at home.”

  She jumped a little, but I wasn’t sure if it was the sound of my voice or the suddenness of which she came out of her dreams. She sat up and stared at me as though she didn’t recognize me. Then she gasped, reaching out to touch my lip.

  “You’re hurt.”

  “It’s nothing,” I said, grabbing her wrist and kissing the center of her palm. “I’ve had worse.”

  “Are you okay? You might need stitches.”

  “Naw. This is just a little scratch.”

  Her eyes widened slightly as she studied the wound, her fingertip coming just close enough, but not touching. I pulled her hand closer, forcing her to touch it. She blushed a little, but there was open curiosity in her eyes. She was fascinated by it.

  I tugged at the towel on her head and pulled it loose, loving the way her dark hair fell around her face in long, thick strings. Her eyes fell as I watched, her hand moving self-consciously to the heavy strands that fell over her forehead.

  “Do you know how beautiful you are?” I asked softly.

  She shook her head. “I’m not beautiful. Not like all those other girls.”

  “What other girls?”

  She shrugged. “The other waitresses. The showgirls. The performers.”

  “That’s because those women are all performers. They use makeup and costumes to make themselves beautiful. But you…you’re beautiful without all the props.”

  Her eyes came slowly up to my face. “You think so?”

  “I know so.”

  I slid my hand along the curve of her jaw. She could have pulled away, but she turned into me, pressing her face harder against my palm. And then she peeked at me from under her eyelashes and I could swear my heart nearly exploded. There was just something about the way she looked at me, something about the way she blushed—even as excitement danced in her eyes.

  I buried my fingers in her hair and tugged her closer to me. I kissed her, ignoring the flash of pain that came from my lip. Kissing her was so exciting that the pain didn’t matter. She moved into me, returning the kiss with an almost hesitant passion, with the softest touch of her lips against mine. I pulled her closer and she was like a ragdoll in my arms, allowing me to position her however I wanted her and I wanted her on my lap. I lifted her up, and she groaned, hesitating when the proof of my desire brushed against her thigh.

  “I want you,” I whispered against her mouth. “You drive me crazy.”

  “You barely know me.”

  “I’ve barely known most of my lovers. What’s to know beyond this?”

  I slid my hand under her shirt, sliding my fingers over each and every bump of her spine. She shivered just slightly, her hand sliding over the top of my head.

  “Tell me you don’t want this and I’ll stop.”

  “I don’t know what I want.”

  I studied her face a long moment. It was a lie. I could see the need in her eyes. Her body knew what she wanted, it was just struggling to communicate that to the side of her that was locked behind her Catholic ideals. But I knew a couple of well-placed touches would help the lines of communication come together.

  I kissed her again, our tongues dancing as my hands slid down over her ass, pulling her higher onto my lap. She had such a tight ass…and the way her hips moved against me was intoxicating. I wanted to hold her there for hours; I wanted to feel her perfect body against mine like this for the rest of my life. But, again, I wanted more. I wanted to be inside of her; I wanted to feel her warm, moist body swallow mine whole. I wanted to taste her kisses, and I wanted to explore every inch of her skin. I wanted to take my time with her, drive her insane, and then start all over again.

  It was a stupid cliché, but I wanted her in a way I’d never wanted anyone before. Abigail always said there would be one woman who’d touch my heart, who’d worm her way through the cracks in my armor. I told her it would never happen.

  Was it possible I’d been wrong?

  I snagged the bottom edge of her shirt and lifted it over her head, moaning as her breasts bounced free, her hard nipples standing at attention and reaching for the ceiling. I bit her neck, ran my tongue along the curve of her collarbone, sliding slowly—excruciatingly slow—down along the soft pillow of her full breast to that lovely nipple. I rolled it with my tongue, aware of how good it was for her when she pressed her fingers against my skull and pulled me closer to her.

  She lay back without me encouraging her, resting her head on the mattress as I moved slowly over to her other side, drawing that nipple into my mouth as well. I rolled it with my tongue, loving the sounds of pleasure coming from between her lips. I couldn’t get enough of it. I wanted more—more pleasure, more sounds. I nibbled at her belly and ran my tongue just under the ridge of her ribs. I moved lower until her fingers tugged at my shirt, pulling me back up to her pretty, swollen lips.

  As we kissed again, she continued to tug at my shirt. I pulled away—a little reluctantly—and loosened my collar so that I could pull the shirt, tie and all, over my head. She sucked in a breath—hard—when she saw the bruises forming on my ribs.

  “What did they do to you?”

  She ran her fingers over them slowly, the touch of her fingertips threatening to drive my patience away. But then her fingers moved from the bruises to my tattoos, the crude ones I’d gotten in jail—and the more colorful ones I’d gotten outside.

  “Abigail,” she said softly, running her fingers over the script that revealed the name of the only woman I’d ever loved. She didn’t seem jealous or annoyed like some of my other lovers had been. In fact, she seemed touched by the gesture.

  Then her fingers
moved to another tattoo and another, her fingers tracing the outlines of eagle wings, the silhouette of a dragon, the Chinese symbol for strength. Her fingers moved over every tattoo on my chest, the curiosity never dying in her eyes. But she never asked a single question.

  When her fingers reached the tattoo that disappeared beneath the waistband of my slacks, I grabbed her wrists and pushed her back down against the mattress.

  “My turn.”

  She made a tiny sound that was probably supposed to be a giggle, but was more of a sigh.

  “I don’t have any tattoos.”

  “But you have plenty I want to explore.”

  I pressed my mouth to the center of her belly, just above her navel, kissing her there before I slid the tip of my tongue slowly down, rimming her pretty, little outie, moving slowly down until the scent of her filled my senses. She was so aroused that her dainty cotton panties were moist. But I ignored that fact for the soft, lovely scented flesh of her inner thighs. She groaned as I nibbled there, breathing hard as I moved down the length of her thigh, pausing when I reached her knee. I lifted her leg a little and ran my tongue along the back of her knee. She groaned, writhing a little against the mattress. And then I repeated the move, slipping slowly up the length of her other thigh.

  Her hands were on my skull, her fingers pressing into the sensitive bones, drawing me to that place where she needed my touch. And I needed to taste her. I slipped my fingers under the band of her panties, brushing against the sensitive, puffy skin of her outer lips. She moaned, pushing her hips up, forcing my finger harder against her. I pulled away and watched her face closely as I took my time licking her juices from my finger.

  “You like that?”

  She groaned, her face turning a lovely shade of red. I slid up the length of her body and kissed her.

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. We all want it, we’re just not all capable of admitting it.”

  She touched my jaw. “You scare me.”

  “Do I? Why?”

  “Because I know you can make me want this, that you can make me need you. And that scares the crap out of me.”

  I recognized myself in her words. And that frightened me.

  “I should go,” I said, tugging her hands from my body. “Pops wants to meet with me and my brothers at his place.”

  “Now?”

  “I should go,” I repeated, climbing off the bed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have started this.”

  I walked away and didn’t look back.

  I shouldn’t have started this.

  Chapter 10

  Amelia

  I dressed while he was in the shower and went downstairs, curling up on the couch. I didn’t know what to think about what had just happened, though my mind kept dancing with the thought that he’d lied when he said I was beautiful. That he’d suddenly seen something ugly and undesirable about me.

  What had I done?

  When he came downstairs, he was dressed in jeans and an Oxford shirt—pale blue, a great contrast to his dark skin—all properly attired and coifed.

  “Have you eaten anything since we got here?”

  I shrugged. “I was more tired than hungry.”

  “You should eat. The fridge is well stocked, but if there’s nothing there you want, you can buzz the concierge and he’ll get you whatever you want.”

  “There’s a concierge?”

  He didn’t seem to find that unusual. He gestured to the elaborate intercom system on the wall.

  “Just dial nine.”

  He grabbed his keys off the side table and headed for the door.

  “Kyle?”

  He hesitated, but he didn’t turn.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you back there.”

  “You didn’t. I just lost track of time.”

  He still wouldn’t turn, but he didn’t move on, either.

  “Will you be back tonight?”

  He sort of sighed, then turned, crossing the room to me. He braced himself on the back of the couch and leaned over me, brushing his lips against my forehead.

  “I’ll be back in a few hours.” He kissed me again, then straightened. “Eat something. There’s no point in sitting here, wasting away.”

  He walked off and slammed the door. The sound tore through me like a hot knife through butter.

  Why were there tears in my eyes? Why did I care that he didn’t want me? I should be relieved, glad that my virtue was still intact despite his apparent determination to take it away. Glad that I didn’t have to look my father in the eye and lie about what I had to do to fix things for him.

  But…there was still this heaviness in my chest and a pressure in my lower belly, a desire that I didn’t understand and couldn’t do anything about.

  I got up, moved to the windows, and stared down at the city. It was beautiful now, now that it was dark and there were lights on in all the homes. I found myself wondering about the people who lived near here, about the lives they lived. I wondered if they were happy, or if they were miserably hiding their dissatisfaction with life in the bottom of a bottle or a line of coke. I wondered about the people in other parts of the city, the people with less money and bigger problems, the people those of us sitting high in our castles tried to forget about. I wondered if any of my father’s victims were here.

  “I know you have reason to get revenge on the same man I’m trying to hurt,” he said to me during that third conversation.

  “And who would that be?”

  “Brian Callahan.”

  And he was right. If not for Brian Callahan, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t have left school, and I wouldn’t have lost everything that mattered to me. I wouldn’t be aware of the little people, of the pain my father’s scam brought to them when he stole away the small pensions and savings they had managed to store away after thirty or forty years of hard work. I wouldn’t care about anything more than my grades, my wardrobe, and my luxury car. I would be planning vacations with my friends, working with names that appeared in Forbes Magazine on a regular basis, and living a life that a cocktail waitress in Vegas could only dream of.

  I didn’t know why this person was out to hurt Brian Callahan, but I knew I was playing a dangerous game that I wasn’t quite sure my heart would survive. Because it wasn’t just a game. And I wasn’t the calloused woman I thought I was. I thought I could do this, that I would look at Kyle and see the destruction of my family. But I didn’t. I looked at Kyle and I saw a broken child who was struggling to become a good man. I saw a potential lover, a potential mate who could turn my life around, who could walk with me through this maze my life had become.

  I was falling in love…and that was the most dangerous thing of all.

  Chapter 11

  Kyle

  I stood at the back of the room, leaning against the door while Pops, Ian, and Killian lounged on the couches like this was some sort of men’s club or something. I watched my eldest brother, Killian and noted the things about him that had changed since he and Stacy got married. He smiled more. He seemed more relaxed. In the past, he would have hated being in here; he would have wanted to be anywhere but in this house. I don’t know what one had to do with the other—this was the house we grew up in, after all. But Killian didn’t like being in this house after he left for college. I suspected now that that had something to do with Stacy. And then Abigail died and he tried not to be here at all. That I understood. I didn’t like being here in the months after Abigail died, either. But this was still Pops’ home. It was still a home filled with memories that I cherished.

  Now, Killian seemed happy. He seemed more relaxed. He seemed more willing to do just about anything. Was that what marriage had done for him?

  I thought about Amelia—and I say that like she never left my thoughts, but she didn’t. I thought about coming home to her every night for the rest of my life. It wasn’t an unpleasant thought.

  The unpleasantness came when I wondered if she would really ever want to stay with me. Wou
ld she be content to sit in that loft and watched the city while I went out and lived a life I couldn’t even begin to explain to her? Would she be content to only have me when Jack or Pops didn’t need me?

  I didn’t think so.

  “We’ll need to be more diligent during this next shipment,” Pops was saying. “The Italians have threatened to come in and rip us off. We can’t let them do that.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Why are the Italians making threats about a part of the city that isn’t in their territory?”

  “Because they want our territory,” Pops said.

  That seemed pretty straightforward. But the last time the Italians tried to move on Irish territory, there was a street war that didn’t end well for either side.

  “History isn’t exactly something the Italians pride themselves on,” Ian said almost as if he was reading my mind.

  “Do we know how they know about this warehouse?”

  Killian, Ian, and Pops all looked at each other, then shifted uncomfortably in their seats. I knew what that meant. They thought it was our mystery man, the one who had been stalking the family for nearly two years now. Someone wanted to hurt Pops…and they wanted to hurt him bad. The only thing was, none of us could understand who or why.

  Jack was head of the Irish mob. Pops was his business partner—his legitimate business partner—but he hadn’t been directly involved in mob activities, with the exception of helping us run protection, in years. Why someone would want to bring him down and not Jack was mindboggling.

  If I was going after a mobster, I’d go after the head of the snake. That’s what made this feel so personal—this person wasn’t after the Irish, he was after Pops personally.

  “When does this go down?”

  Pops glanced at his watch. “Two hours.”

  I nodded.

  “I know we’re keeping you from your new bride. Must be difficult.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “It is a bit of an inconvenience, but I think we’ll survive.”