UNPROTECTED: A Dark Bad Boy Baby Romance (Hanley Family Mafia)

by Zoey Parker

  “I think…”

  I slide the bill back across the counter.

  “I’ll go for two more Jack Daniel’s.”

  The next glass is down the hatch, making room for the next.

  And my lips are on the rim too, when memory taps on my back and whispers in my ear, “Gabe?”

  I freeze. It can’t be – and yet, that low gravelly voice, that rich jasmine scent – it has to be.

  “Anya?”

  I turn and there she is. The first woman I ever loved. My girl from before. The one who nearly ruined me.

  Seeing me, she shakes her head, sending her curls into a ruby dance of mirth.

  “Who else could it be?”

  Hands on her slim hips, she regards me with a severe grin.

  “You haven’t changed.”

  I let my own gaze take in her skintight dress that’s even more red than her hair, her lips that look bigger than I remember.

  “You have.”

  She leans on the bar beside me, teal blue eyes roving all over me, smile playing on her lips.

  “So, you’ve missed me then.”

  She says it as the statement it is, as if she had somehow witnessed the gaping void of the months that followed her.

  And now I’m seeing her. Seeing her and sweet Jesus, what a sight she is.

  Next thing I know she’s pressing herself to me, red-nailed hand snaking down, husking, “What do you say we pick up where we left off?”

  I look down at her, memory tingling awake every nerve in me.

  I see myself: taking her in my arms right here, throwing myself onto her, the way I ached to do for months after. I see myself, ripping down the red cotton, revealing the pink nipple, sucking it, mashing my face between the huge swells of her bouncing breasts as I plunge into her, her red-furred cunt clutching and spasming for more.

  I see us fucking our brains out, the room rolling with our pleasure, as she cums again and again and again and I anoint her with my joy. I see us fused into one body, one feeling.

  And then I see myself waking up, rolling over and seeing her.

  Tony. My olive-limbed princess. Staring at me with wide eyes.

  My stomach twists.

  “One second,” I tell Anya, walking to the door.

  My legs take me out the door to my motorcycle.

  I get on and drive. Away from Anya, memory, the past; away from Tony, the future, the feeling that’s getting harder and harder to deny.

  I drive until I get to the motel.

  In the parking lot, I sit on the curb, stare at the outside door of our room: Room 29.

  There’s light spilling out of the bottom. It could be us in there, curled up into each other: Tony and me.

  I check my phone. Still nothing.

  Why did I have to go leaving Anya like that? Am I afraid?

  I stand up, then sit back down.

  No, not of her. Not anymore. By the woman who’s taken her place, who’s awoken feelings in me I’ve never had before.

  Tony.

  I check my phone again, finally turn it off.

  I can’t keep checking it every minute like this; I’ll go crazy.

  I sit there gazing at the door for who-knows-how long.

  When I finally turn my phone back on, it blinks with messages and rings.

  I scan through them eagerly, but all I see are a series of texts from Pulse, Jaws and Pip.

  My phone rings. I answer it, though I know already.

  “It’s go time,” Jaws says, “Papa Piccolo is officially in the past.”

  “Great,” I say, then, “Why are you calling me? Aren’t you still in the hospital?”

  I hear some shuffling then Jaws says, “Irrelevant.”

  “Jaws…” I say.

  “Boss, I’m gonna be there at the meeting,” he says, and, when I don’t answer, adds, “Whether you tell me when it is or not.”

  “Fine,” I say, “Tomorrow. The basement. Tell the boys.”

  “Oo, this is gonna be something!” Jaws says, and I hang up.

  I walk back over to the bike, almost relieved.

  Now I have bigger things to worry about then my hurt feelings.

  ###

  The basement is the perfect place for the gathering. Usually it’s for the higher paying clients, the “don’t ask, don’t tell” gentlemen whose behind-the-scenes antics even the cops don’t question.

  They get the nice black-marbled room with the red satin seats, and I get a fat wad of cash.

  It’s a room of sumptuous luxury. A $500,000 thousand investment that has turned out five times that much already.

  It’s a room of victory, of possibility, and, tonight, of planning possibility’s victory: the Piccolos’ takedown.

  Today it’s jam-packed with more men than it has room for. They all part for me to walk through.

  Once I reach the front of the room, I stop to survey the crowd. A smile flickers on my face.

  Damn, will you look at just how many men are in the Rebel Saints!

  It’s easy to forget when they’re all spread out in the separate districts, dealing with the separate shipments, driving around in separate motorcycled packs - when you only catch glimpses of groups of them at a time. But here, now, the whole motorcycle club gathered together for a single goal, the sight is staggering.

  There has to be at least 50 of them, maybe even twice that much. Fifty broad-chested, sharp-eyed beasts of men. The Rebel Saints only employ the best of the best, the most hardened, the most determined, the meanest bastards of men around. And now, all these wild hyenas have gathered together to listen to me.

  The murmuring of voices quiets when I get to the front, but doesn’t die down completely.

  “Rebel Saints!” I say, and the room goes silent.

  “Rebel Saints!” I repeat, and they repeat, “Rebel Saints!”

  “Harooooooo!” we cry.

  I raise my hand and the room goes silent again.

  “The Piccolos have messed with the wrong motorcycle club,” I say, “They’ve stolen our shipments, tried to recruit our boys. They’ve even taken my sister.”

  I pace back and forth, my bootfalls echoing through the room.

  I let my gaze slide over the crowd, shrug my shoulders in an expression of indifference.

  “But maybe they’re done for now, what do you think? Should we just let them keep taking and taking from us? Maybe they’ll tire of the taking, be grateful we’ve bent over and taken it in the butt so much, yeah?”

  Voices rumble with anger, and, slouching onto the table, I say, “What’s that? What do you think? We should just let them do as they will, yeah?”

  Jaws is the first to snarl out the fury of the crowd, “Hello no!”

  Another voice pipes up immediately after, “They won’t stop until they’ve taken everything!”

  Then another, “Put ‘em down!”

  I get up off the table, spread my arms.

  “So, you think we should put ‘em down, eh? Crush the Piccolos with all that we’ve got?”

  The room roars its approval and I pump up one fist.

  “You think the Rebel Saints should stomp its foot down for the final time – give the Piccolos a reckoning they won’t soon forget?”

  Another roar of approval.

  I nod.

  “That’s what I think too. And what I know is – now is the time to act. Now. Big Daddy Piccolo has finely met his due end. His funeral is in the next few days. Now is the time to act, to hit the Piccolo compound, while they’re all off boohooing their great dead leader – we hit ‘em. Now.”

  My hand smacks the table, sends it rattling.

  “Yes. We’re going to annihilate those Piccolo bastards. And Pip is going to show us how.”

  Seated a little off to the side, beside a projector, Pip gives a self-conscious half-smile, then nods to Jaws at the back of the room. Jaws flicks off the lights, and Pip hits a button.

  On the wall behind me, the projected red words, “Piccolo
Annihilation” grow then shrink.

  Snickers from the crowd that are probably Jaws’.

  “Right, so, the Piccolo property is broken up into three,” Pip says, as the screen changes to a map with three rectangles.

  “There’s the main house and two other buildings. Since we found their office, we’re pretty sure they’re using one of these as their temporary one, but that’s not the point. The point is, we’re going to blow up all three.”

  A flame slides across the screen to more snickers.

  Now Pulse strides up to the front beside me.

  “We’re doing it when they have their funeral, which they’re keeping quiet about, but our contact will let us know about soon enough.”

  He shifts both of his arms, the white-eyed bull on each seeming to shift themselves.

  “Our contact also tells us that Gabe’s sister Hannah is being kept in the main house, will be shipped out with the next shipment. While the rest of you are setting up the bombs and hiding for the attack, Gabe and I will be finding her.”

  The two buildings off to the side light up.

  “So, the plan is pretty simple,” Jaws says as he strides up to the front, “Most of you guys are gonna be setting up the explosives, which will be made and transported by none other than our dear boy Pulse.”

  A small smile flickers on Pulse’s face.

  “Anyways, after they blow, we get the hell out of there. Then, we go back and wait for the Piccolos to come back, let loose when they do.”

  I step beside him.

  “The rules are simple. You see a Piccolo, a guard, anyone who’s not a Rebel Saint – you question them about Hannah, then you shoot them. You don’t set off the explosives until we say so. You find a shipment of girls, you get them out of there, get them into the vans. You see anything out of the ordinary, anything – you tell us. The Piccolos come back early, you shoot them. Meanwhile, Pip is going to be disabling their security and seeing if he can get an infrared reading on the house.”

  I let my gaze slide over the crowd, the crowd with the eyes flickering fire and the clenched fist hands.

  My voice is a low growl:

  “I don’t need to tell you that this will change the game for us. That this will send the Piccolos back to Hell where they belong. That this will change everything.”

  My voice echoes through the room as loud as if it were empty.

  I stop again and survey them, this army of brute force, these men of merciless strength.

  “Who are we?” I ask.

  “Rebel Saints!”

  “And what are we gonna do?”

  “Annihilate the Piccolos!”

  I start pacing again, the words flying out of me of their own will:

  “Annihilate isn’t enough – we’re going to wipe them off the face of the planet. We’re going to destroy them so completely, all that will remain is a fuzzy fear of a memory. They’re going to be a cautionary tale – something up-and-coming gang members whisper to each other to let each other know that YOU DON’T FUCK WITH THE REBEL SAINTS”

  I kick the table and it flies into the wall– “SO WHAT DO YOU SAY?”

  “HAROOOOOO!” the room roars as the table falls into a pile of splinters.

  “WHO ARE WE?”

  “REBEL SAINTS!”

  “AND WHAT ARE WE GONNA DO?”

  “WIPE THE PICCOLOS OFF THE PLANET!”

  And, amidst the roaring, gesturing crowd, I stride through them.

  Once outside, Jaws walks up beside me with a familiar yellow box.

  “Timbit?” he asks.

  I shake my head. I check my phone, frown. Still nothing from Toni.

  Jaw pats my arm.

  “Hey man, we’re gonna find her. Don’t worry.”

  “You’re not coming, Jaws.”

  “Boss, Gabe, c’mon.”

  “You’re right that we’re going to find her, but you’re not coming.”

  Cheeks chipmunk-full of timbits, Jaws’ eyebrows curve with frustration.

  “You didn’t even look at the disguises I got yet.”

  I scrutinize his face, but he looks serious.

  “When did we decide on disguises?”

  Jaws shrugs, scratches his neck then his leg.

  “Just makes things easier, take a look at this.”

  He unzips his bag and extracts a handful of skin and grey fluff. He unfurls it, then slops it over his face.

  I take one look at the bald hideously wrinkled thing that Jaws’ eyes are now in and burst out laughing.

  An old man mask. That’s Jaws’ brilliant disguise idea. An old man mask – and a hella ugly one at that.

  “Good, eh?” Jaws says, chuckling himself.

  “You’re still not coming,” I say, walking over to my bike.

  It’s only Jaws’ protestation that follow me, “Aw, come on!”

  Chapter 26

  Toni

  The worst day of my life actually turned out to be three.

  The past few days I’ve moved to my room and slept. I’ve eaten what Maria Fernanda’s brought me, responded when spoken to and slept whenever I could.

  Whenever I sit up, memory smacks me back down under the covers: Papa’s parchment face, Laurenz’s squinty eyes.

  Whenever I try thinking of anything, the gut-wrenching fact returns: his last minutes were spent with the one woman who didn’t deserve a second of his time. That my Papa couldn’t even be permitted to die in peace. That that is a wrong that can never be righted.

  It seemed this black repetitive clench of a day would continue forever, until, finally, she asked it. The question I’ve been dreading.

  “The funeral is in a few minutes. Will you go?”

  Her question shakes me awake.

  I sit up.

  I know what I have to do. And yet what I have to do and want to do are two entirely different things. Funny how the wrong thing is always the easy one.

  Maria Fernanda tries at a smile.

  “They picked the marigold flowers, his favorite. He’ll be buried beside your mother. Your uncle came to town too.”

  Slowly, I pick myself up, get out of bed.

  “I won’t go,” I tell her, “Then the Rebel Saints would know just who Toni Piccolo is, not to mention that it would be a prime time for Carlos and his men to take me out.”

  Maria Fernanda nods. “I’m not permitted to go either.”

  Then, leaning in, she adds, “There’s been much movement in the house the past few days.”

  I walk over to my closet, pick out some black pants and a white button up.

  They can have their funeral there, at the old church Papa loved, all those people, some who loved him, many who didn’t deserve him. I’ll have my own here. Out in the backyard, by the fire pit he loved.

  I’ll have my own funeral here, I’ll honor him in my own way.

  Jane trots by my side as I make the preparations, make the horrible black tea he always liked, get out a lighter, put on a coat.

  Outside the fire pit is full of leaves.

  I can’t even remember the last time we used it. The last time we were a family. Maybe that died years ago with Mama; maybe it was never really there at all. Who knows?

  There’s a pile of logs already there, as if someone knew. That today’s a fire kinda day.

  I light them and a flame flickers to life. From one log to the next, until a full fire is raging.

  I sit down on the log bench Papa made and think of him.

  “I’m sorry, Papa,” I say. “I’m sorry for not being a better leader. For not continuing what you started. I’m sorry I haven’t got along with Carlos in years. I’m sorry about Mama.”

  I sip the tea, my throat rejecting the horrible bitter taste, my hand still forcing it down. I can do this, drink his tea, say goodbye. And yet, the tea won’t go down, no matter how I try. Mid-pour, my hand freezes.

  Just like the family business. No matter how I tried to accept it, resign myself to it – I couldn’t. Because it w
asn’t right for me. Because I’m a different person, with a different moral code.