TAKE ME, OUTLAW: A Dark Bad Boy Baby Romance

by Zoey Parker

  I'd never seen Mr. Bolt-Cutter before—a tall, thin guy with very dark skin, muddy brown eyes, and a head full of curly black hair—but I knew who he was as soon as he walked in wearing a white surgical mask, produced a scalpel and deftly sliced my ear off with it.

  We'd all heard of him—mostly whispers and spooky stories. Sure, Vole may have been Giovanni's favorite errand boy, but when it came to the really bloody stuff, Big G had always relied on Tommy Buonasera, or Tommy Bone-Saw to his friends. He was often referred to as Giovanni's favorite nephew, but with these Italians and their “family” bullshit, it was hard to tell whether they were actually related or what. The Bonaccorsos had paid Tommy’s way through medical school with the promise that he'd be their “private physician” and patch their guys up whenever they got into scrapes.

  Tommy went along with it, but it turned out that the kid was kind of a psycho asshole who showed a serious preference for torturing and killing guys instead of saving them. His knowledge of anatomy made him pretty fucking good at it, too. He could make it so quick you never even felt it, or he could stretch it out for weeks, even months. So even though he got to keep being the family surgeon, he also became its top hired killer, especially for “message jobs” where things needed to be really ugly.

  And now, he was squinting those dull brown eyes at me, clearly wondering what to carve off next.

  So yeah, sure, all of that stuff was pretty bad. But none of those things could honestly be called the worst part.

  No. The worst part was the fucking singing. Because while Tommy sliced and diced, I could hear Big G in the next room, playing opera records and caterwauling to them at the top of his lungs. It was a bunch of Italian gibberish I couldn't understand, and probably didn't want to.

  “La donna e mobile! Qual piuma al vento! Muta d'accento! E di pensiero!”

  Fuck, I'd happily lose two more fingers if it meant an end to this headache-inducing garbage. I mean, when a dude like me who loves death metal and cranks it up to 11 with his ear against the amp tells you that it's too loud and annoying, how fucked are you, right?

  “Sempre un amabile! Leggiadro viso! In pianto o en riso! E menzognero!”

  I took a deep breath and bellowed at the top of my lungs, unable to take it anymore. “Would you knock it off with the goddamn fucking wop music, already? I'm suffering enough over here!”

  Tommy's eyebrows raised slightly, and he let out a muffled chuckle behind his mask. After a brief pause, the singing voice fell silent, and the record in the next room stopped with a mild scratch. I heard a series of heavy footsteps, and the door behind Tommy opened.

  The light blinded me for a moment before it was eclipsed by Big Giovanni Bonaccorso himself—all five hundred-plus pounds of him. He wore a crisp white three-piece suit that looked like it must have been custom-made by a tent-maker. His bronze skin was always covered in a thin layer of oily perspiration, and he frequently dabbed at his face with a handkerchief, even when he wasn't doing anything more active than standing still.

  “Everybody's a critic, it seems,” he rasped, shaking his head in mock sorrow. “I try to soothe a man's pain through the power of song, as any good Samaritan would, and what do I receive for my trouble? Ethnic slurs and gratuitous profanity. How sad.”

  Tommy giggled again behind his mask. Those damnable swamp-brown eyes were unreadable, like a shark's.

  Giovanni paced around my chair slowly, continuing. “I know you weren't one of the men who killed my friends Joey and Paulie. Not for lack of trying, obviously, but for lack of skill. No, I'm well aware that Joey was shot by this 'Kon' fellow—who has already gone on to his final reward—and Paulie was shot by your Sergeant-at-Arms Nic, who continues to draw breath.”

  I scoffed. “Yeah, sounds like you know the fuckin’ score. Hey, I'm curious. Which do you enjoy more? Pie-eating contests or the sound of your own voice? 'Cause initially, I'd have guessed the pies, based on the whole whale thing you've got going on. But Jesus, after listening to you for thirty seconds, I'm starting to think it might be a toss-up...”

  Giovanni nodded serenely. “That's fine. Dogs bark when they're kicked, cats scream when they're scalded, and men like you sneer threats and insults when you know you're backed into a corner. These are things of nature, and I am at peace with them. As I said, I know that you are not to blame for Paulie's death. That is why I have not taken your life, and would prefer not to. His wife Marie, however—she has demanded the ancient right of vendetta, and as the head of the family that her husband swore an oath to, it falls to me to deliver this. Do you understand me?”

  “No, I don't fuckin’ understand you,” I spit back. “Can you maybe stop sounding like you're chugging Brando's cock and just get to the fuckin’ point? I'd rather get the fuckin’ knife again than be bored to death.”

  “Vendetta is meant to redress such grievances, but whenever possible, there must be a perfect balance in how it is carried out. Otherwise, we are nothing more than animale, yes? Nic owes me a life for a life. You do not. If this were the Old Country—if he were a real man, instead of un codardo—then Nic would walk through my door with his head held high, accept his punishment, and vendetta would be satisfied. Then the matter would be settled, and Bard and I could shake hands like men and return to our business together. Instead, Bard hides Nic from me and I am forced to pry him out to face justice, like un insetto crawling under a rock.”

  “Mister, if you ever thought there was a hope in hell of you working with Bard again after what happened with Kong, you're even weirder than you look.”

  Tommy cackled at this, and Big G nodded patiently again. “As I said. You are a thing of nature, not to be blamed for your rudeness any more than a dog that consumes its own vomit. Earlier, you mentioned Brando. As you can imagine, it's a comparison I've heard more than once. Usually, it's meant as an insult, though I choose to take it as a compliment instead. As it happens, I am quite fond of classic cinema. Tell me, young man—have you ever seen Un Chien Andalou?”

  I blinked, confused. What was this guy babbling about? “'Chin' what?”

  Giovanni made a tsk sound. “So sad. No appreciation for the classics anymore. It was a silent movie. Quite shocking, for its time. But unfortunately, if you haven't seen it...”

  With that, Giovanni flicked his wrist, and a thin, straight blade with a carved ivory handle popped out neatly from up his sleeve. Clearly, it had been mounted on a spring-loaded apparatus. Nice toy, I thought. If I ever get out of this, I want one of those.

  “...then I'm afraid the reference will be entirely lost on you,” Giovanni continued. “Tommy, hold his left eye open for me, please.”

  I didn't feel the cut at first.

  But when the pain hit, I passed out to the sound of my own screams, and Tommy's laughter.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lauren

  “As a bodyguard to the stars, I know how important it is to offer the best protection possible while staying out of the way. So when it's that time of the month, I reach for the only pad that's as tough and flexible as I am...”

  I stared at the page in disbelief. Seriously? They expect me to say this with a straight face?

  It had been six weeks since the night at the Devil's Nest, and in that time, I'd been on a handful of first dates that had been boring and awkward at best, and disastrous at worst. Even the guys who seemed interesting or adventurous at first glance inevitably turned out to be too conservative or banal to hold my attention for an entire evening, and I'd start tuning them out to fantasize about Nic.

  I'd thought about returning to the Devil's Nest many times, and there were nights when I even started getting dressed and putting on makeup to go there. But I'd always stop before I reached the door, thinking of the people I'd known who'd lucked into thrilling experiences at some point in their lives and had attempted to recapture those same experiences over and over again, with disappointing results.

  I used to lecture my friends for that, reminding them that each momen
t in life that's truly precious is meant to be remembered and appreciated, not duplicated. Whenever I said that, they listened patiently, but the look in their eyes always said the same thing. Easy for you to say. You've never had a moment that you'd be so desperate to find again.

  Now I understood, but I was still afraid that pursuing that thrill again would somehow diminish the initial experience. Maybe Nic wouldn't be there, and I'd wait for hours as the other Reapers slobbered and pawed at me until I went home alone and depressed. Maybe the man he'd called Bard would sit down next to me and explain that I didn't belong there. That I'd gotten a free pass the first time but would never be welcome again. Maybe Nic would be there, but he'd be with some new girl, or he just wouldn't be interested in me anymore. Maybe he'd see me waiting for him there and think I was some kind of clingy stalker girl who couldn't have a one-night stand without expecting a relationship.

  Or, worst of all, maybe Nic would be there and he'd still want me, and we'd go home together again and have sex—and it just wouldn't be as good, and we'd both know it. And any time I tried to remember the first night, all I'd be able to think about would be the second time instead.

  So instead, I threw myself into my work and nagged Royce every day via phone and email until he started sending me on more auditions. I was offered a print ad for a clothing store and a part in a car commercial. I accepted both, which gave me enough to pay my rent. I was also waiting to hear about a minor part in a sitcom pilot, which had the potential to become a recurring role if the show got picked up and the test audiences liked me.

  But meanwhile, I still had bills to pay, so...

  I cleared my throat and read the script page again, then put it aside and looked into the mirror. For the most part, curvy girls like me were offered roles like the neurotic best friend or the gossipy receptionist, so I wasn't used to playing someone hard-nosed and competent like this bodyguard to the stars. I tried to deliver the line again a few more times, but the words didn't seem to fit in my mouth properly. First it came out soft and breathy, then high-pitched and sassy, and finally, gruff and oddly masculine like a drill sergeant in a war movie.

  Would I buy panty liners from any of those women? No, probably not. And frankly, that last one sounded like she might have had a dick, so what the hell would she know about it?

  This thought sent me into a fit of giggles, and I had to take several deep breaths to get myself under control.

  I thought about Nic again—the way he spoke and carried himself—so different from the other Reapers. Something in his voice and stride clearly communicated how tough and sure of himself he was without the need to be obvious about it.

  I took a deep breath and said the line the way I thought Nic would say it. It wasn't quite there yet, but it was definitely a step in the right direction. Confident, straightforward, with a hint of dry humor that was almost self-effacing.

  “Hi, I'm Nic. As the Sergeant-at-Arms for the War Reapers, I know how important it is to kick ass and fuck shit up without things getting all bunched up on me. So when I'm on my period, I reach for the pad that'll keep the blood off my bike.”

  I fell to the floor, cackling hysterically. My neighbors probably thought I was some kind of loon, but I didn't care. My emotions had been zig-zagging a lot over the past month, which was certainly to be expected after everything I'd been through—Jared, Nic, and now waiting to learn whether I'd have a chance to act on a real TV show instead of holding up coffee mugs and posing in ugly sweaters.

  The intensity of my laughter was making me feel flushed, and my head started to throb. Suddenly, my stomach lurched, and I realized I had to throw up. I pushed myself off the floor and ran to the bathroom, barely lifting the toilet seat cover in time to release the contents of my stomach in a watery gush. Once I was done, I rested my sweating forehead against the cold porcelain of my bath tub for a moment, then got up and splashed cold water on my face.

  Where did that come from? I had one glass of wine last night, so it's not like I'm hung over. And I almost never get sick.

  I figured it was probably just stress, or maybe I'd picked up some kind of bug while riding the CTA. Those trains were basically petri dishes, especially in the winter months when cold and flu epidemics flourished. And just because I had a better-than-average immune system didn't mean I wasn't due to catch something now and then.

  “Well, you'd better pull yourself together and get down to business, girlie,” I told the reflection in the mirror, gritting my teeth and attempting a steely gaze like Clint Eastwood's. “Because no self-respecting 'bodyguard to the stars' is gonna lie around in bed sippin' chicken soup—not when there's panty-pads that need sellin'.”

  I chuckled, then went into the next room and picked up the script, saying the line out loud again. Whatever was rattling around in my body, I hoped it wouldn't stick around too long.

  I had no idea how wrong I was.

  Chapter Twelve

  Nic

  We'd gotten more packages delivered to us over the past six weeks. Over a dozen of them. Each one of them was worse than the last. I couldn’t think about them. Opening each box had been horrible. Even when I knew what would be inside, I still had to go into the back alley and retch until there was nothing but bile strung between my lips.

  There were notes, too.

  “Turn over Nic while this asshole still has another hand left to wipe with.”

  “Give us Nic, or Growler will no longer have any ears to hear his own screams.”

  “Surrender Nic before we run out of pieces to send.”

  We were losing Growler, bit by bit. Time was growing short.

  Unlike the first time, Giovanni's men didn't drive by to drop off these packages. They'd been mailed from false addresses that led to other false addresses, to the point where they were completely untraceable. Maybe the cops could have successfully tracked them to their source, but that's the drawback to being an outlaw. We couldn't exactly go asking the cops for help when we were in a bind. And even if we could, no self-respecting criminal would ever do a deal with us again.

  And meanwhile, in the days between packages, the bloody war raged, spreading past the borders of the city and out into the rest of the state.

  A car was firebombed outside of a Bonaccorso-owned nightclub, leaving one of their capos badly burned and on life support.

  A couple of Giovanni's guys caught a Reaper named Bedbug coming out of a bar on the west side and beat him with baseball bats, shattering his spine so he'd never walk or ride again.

  A brawl between bikers and gangsters broke out in a casino in the suburbs, putting two of our guys in the hospital and one of theirs in a coma.

  Giovanni's younger brother Benito was shot three times in the parking lot of a massage parlor and was in critical condition.

  Even up in Joliet, things were jumping off—two Reapers got shanked in the yard and a Bonaccorso got gang-fucked in the showers, forcing the warden to put the whole place on lockdown before the retaliation led to a riot.

  I was doing my best to help the Reapers hold our own, but the truth was that I'd never been so depressed and ashamed in my life. I felt like all of this was my own damn fault. If I hadn't taken Lauren back to my place—if Growler hadn't been watching my back—then the Bonaccorsos could have just waited for Lauren to leave and settled up with me directly. Maybe I'd be dead, but Growler would be safe and in one piece, and the whole fucking club wouldn't be fighting every Mafia goon in the city.

  When we got the package with Growler's cock, I couldn't take it anymore. I begged Bard to let me turn myself in to the Bonaccorsos and end this before any more Reapers got hurt. He refused. He put his hands on my shoulders, looked me straight in the eye, and said, “Folding under intimidation isn't how the Reapers do business, and never has been. Once other crews know we'll negotiate with a gun to our heads, it'll paint a target on every Reaper's back, and those targets might never quite come off again.”

  “That's a good speech,” I answered, �
�and it makes sense, but only to a point. It's a goddamn meat grinder out there. Reapers can't even wear their cuts in public without the risk of catching a bullet. They've got more guys, they've got more firepower, and eventually, they're gonna take us all down. I don't see any other way out of this shit for us, do you?”

  “I'm working on it,” Bard answered tersely. “Every problem has a solution, even this one. And handing over our Sergeant-at-Arms isn't a valid move.”