I heard Sylvester move closer to the pool, his shoes hard on the stamped concrete. “We need to talk. Something’s happened.”
That was all he needed to say. Maddox pushed off of me, which allowed me to spin in the water and face him. Sylvester stood, looking down at us both, his lips drawn into a thin line. He didn’t look happy, but he didn’t appear to be the opposite, either. What the hell was going on?
Sylvester said nothing else, returning to the house, leaving Maddox and me to wonder just what was going on. Maddox got out of the pool first, and to my utter shock, the bastard offered me a hand and helped lift me out. Such a kind gesture, done so willingly; it went against his harsh glares and everything he ever said to me.
Fuck. I was letting Maddox get under my skin, and that was so not good. Sylvester had already wormed his way there, with his earnest glances and his honeyed words—not to mention his gift, my mask.
I guess… I guess if I was honest with myself, they were all getting under my skin.
Let me be the first to say that putting on clothes while you were sopping wet was not a fun endeavor. It was gross, and not to mention a little difficult. The clothes instantly stuck to your skin. And jeans? Ugh, forget about them.
Maddox had a towel, which he so graciously did not offer to me, but his clothes must’ve been in the house, for he headed right inside, leaving me out with Mike.
I glanced at the big lumberjack of a guy, eyeing him up. His stubbly jaw was set, but I could tell he was itching to get inside and see what was going on. I gave up on the jeans, throwing them at Mike—who caught them with a grunt—before hurrying after Maddox inside.
I eventually found Maddox in an office—not the office, not Daddy Luciano’s office—but the same office I’d been tied to a chair in… twice. He stood in his black swimming trunks, a towel draped over his shoulders, uncaring that he dripped chlorine-filled water onto the old wooden floor below.
Eh, I was sure these floors had seen worse. They’d damn well nearly saw my blood that first night, when I’d been kidnapped by the brothers and brought here to answer for my crime. My teeny, weeny indiscretion of murdering their baby brother.
Mike was right behind me. He must’ve folded my jeans while he walked, for he held onto a neatly-folded square of dark blue fabric.
“Close the door,” Sylvester ordered, and with his free hand, Mike did. He paced back and forth a bit, tugging at the tie around his neck to loosen it. His blonde hair looked like he’d run his hands through it a bunch of times, its short length sticking every which way. He looked, for the first time in a while, not put-together, very unlike himself in every way. I couldn’t remember a time when I’d ever seen him like this.
Well, except that time I nearly killed myself in their bathroom.
And right after that when I’d told them about what had happened to me when I was younger.
So, okay, maybe that whole night was just a disaster, but that’s because it was. Moving on.
“Sylvester,” Maddox spoke, crossing his arms over his bare chest. He still had the fading hints of an erection in his shorts, but it was something everyone collectively decided to ignore, apparently. “What is it? Just spit it out already.”
He stopped pacing, his blue eyes full of concern. “If rumors are true… something happened. Something very big.”
Until he said that, I honestly had no idea what this was about, but now, now I wondered if this was something of my own design. My own, very delayed design. Could this be about Carl DeLuca? Did the bastard die?
“Well?” Maddox spoke after a while, his voice demanding. “Don’t tell me you’re going to make us guess.” His voice sounded so gruff, so annoyed, and it would’ve made me grin, had I not suddenly realized this might be because of me.
“There’s a rumor going around that Old Luke is sick,” Sylvester said, glancing between us all, though he spent the most time staring at his brother. I was not born a Luciano, so I couldn’t imagine what it felt like, hearing that the head of the family who’d been practically going to war with your own was sick.
But, if he was sick, that meant he was still alive. Carl DeLuca wasn’t dead.
Yet.
“So?” Maddox shrugged. “He’s an old man. That doesn’t mean anything—”
I bit the inside of my cheek, wanting to say something but unsure if it would be smart to. Would Maddox and Sylvester be happy if I was the cause, or would they turn me over to their father and let Daddy Luciano handle me? Not gonna lie, I was interested in meeting the guy, but not like this.
“It’s bad,” Sylvester whispered. “He’s been given his last rights by their family priest. I don’t think there’s any getting better from this.”
Finally, I spoke up, though I did not confess the fact that I’d probably done it, “Would it be so bad if the old coot did die? I mean, that letter he sent was an asshole move. He kind of deserves it.”
Maddox and Sylvester looked at me then, and I mean they both really looked at me. It was like I’d grown a third eye or something, like I was some stupid, hideous freak who’d just said the strangest possible thing. I mean, really, would that be so bad? Especially if the DeLucas were in a position of power more so than the Lucianos.
“Does our father know yet?” Maddox asked, a muscle in his jaw clenching. He leaned toward the door, like he wanted to bolt out and never come back.
Sylvester shook his head. It seemed the two brothers were completely okay with ignoring what I’d said, which was only a little irritating. “No, I haven’t gone to him yet. I don’t think he’ll take it well, considering.”
“Considering what?” I pressed, and still I got no response. Okay, you know what? Scratch that. It was really irritating.
“Shit,” Maddox muttered. “I’m going out.” He said nothing else, turning and pushing past Mike to leave. He didn’t even look back at us once. It would seem getting out of this house as fast as he could was the first thing on his mind.
I watched him go, holding back a frown as I looked to Sylvester, who was busy shaking his head and muttering, “You should go with him. Once our father gets on a rampage, you might not be safe.” Thinking of me, always thinking of me. It would be sweet, if it already wasn’t.
As much as I was curious about Daddy Luciano and how he would react to Carl DeLuca’s impending demise—why he wouldn’t be leaping for joy rather than going on a rampage—I felt the urge to tell him. If there was a Luciano that should know what I did, it was Sylvester. If anyone would understand, it was him.
Glancing at Mike before addressing him, I asked, “Can I talk to you?” Sylvester looked as though he was seconds from nodding, so I quickly added, “Alone, I mean?”
Sylvester lifted a hand, and Mike gave a short nod. My bodyguard left… along with my pants. Not that I felt uncomfortable standing there, totally wet, with nothing on below the waist besides my panties. Not in front of Sylvester.
Right now, he was all business, anyway. His blue eyes didn’t dip low, didn’t dart to check me out, as tempting as it might be. It just went to show how serious this whole situation was.
Once we were alone in the office, I took a step toward him, my hands hanging limply at my sides. “There’s something I should probably tell you,” I started, earning myself a risen eyebrow. Just one, and it was an adorable expression on him, I had to say.
Ugh. Adorable? Since the fuck when did I use that word?
“Well, I actually should’ve told you a while ago, maybe even before it happened…” God, the longer I went on, the more I beat around the bush, the worse it would seem. How much worse could it be, though? Depending on how you looked at it, things were about as bad as they could get, at least for the old Carl DeLuca.
“What are you talking about?” Sylvester spoke, slow to tilt his head down at me.
“When I sang at the Gilded Rose, I met a lot of people.” I decided to give some backstory, along with a few embellishments, but Sylvester didn’t need to know all that. “Newton
introduced me to a few. There was a man—I think he might’ve been Carl DeLuca.”
His expression darkened. “You met Carl DeLuca and didn’t tell us?”
“He didn’t exactly introduce himself,” I said. “And on the drive home, I asked Carter if he was there, and he said he didn’t see him.”
“So then why do you think you met Old Luke?”
“He was upstairs, in the manager’s office. I don’t know if he was ever downstairs at all,” I spoke with a shrug. “And if he wasn’t, then…”
“Carter wouldn’t have seen him,” he finished for me. “What did he look like?” I described him, and Sylvester was slow to sigh. “Yeah, that does sound like him. Did he seem sick to you?” The question hung in the air, heavy, foreboding.
I just could not understand why it wasn’t a good thing he was sick and about to die. Wasn’t that like taking out an enemy general in warfare? Wasn’t that considered a tactical win or something?
“No,” I said, drawing out the word to the extreme. “He didn’t seem bad. He looked pretty healthy… but, uh…” It was so unlike me to not get straight to the point, but then again, I was having more fun than I wanted to admit with these guys, and the mere thought that killing off Carl DeLuca might make me meet my end sooner was not a good feeling.
I hated it, in fact. I really hated it. I wanted so many things out of these guys, things which I knew I could never get. Stupid, because I’d never longed for anything or anyone before. It was so unlike me. It was fucking annoying.
Ick. Feelings and shit.
“But what?” Sylvester prodded, inching closer to me. He wasn’t trying to intimidate me; more like pull the whole truth out of me whether I wanted to tell him it or not. At this point, I hardly had a choice.
“I might’ve put something in his drink,” I whispered.
“You… you what?” It took a few seconds for him to register what I’d said, and once it sunk in, he frowned at me. I was used to glares from Maddox, but Sylvester? The look didn’t suit him. “What did you put in his drink? Were you seen?”
“We were alone,” I said. “No one saw me do it. And I don’t really know what I put in his drink—”
“How the fuck do you not know?”
“I didn’t ask Tony what the ingredients were—”
“Tony?” Again, with the interruptions. “You got it from Tony?”
Well, too late now to turn back and rewind what I’d said, so I held my head high as I nodded. “Yeah. Tony gave me a small vial of some clear liquid before I went off with Carter. He didn’t want me telling anyone.”
Strong, unyielding hands were on my arms suddenly, fingers curling around my wet skin. Sylvester took a page from Maddox’s book as his face turned furious. “And you listened to him? Why? Lola—”
“I don’t understand why you’re so upset,” I hissed out, refusing to flinch under his harsh stare. “Why isn’t it a good thing?”
He wouldn’t answer me, but he did release me, his fury replaced by a sorrowful look. “I have to tell my father this, Lola. I’m sorry, but… this is not something I can hide.”
Something inside me ached when he said that, but I didn’t let it show. Instead, I said, “I never asked you to hide anything from him, Sylvester.” And that was the truth. I never asked for anything of these guys, because, for the longest time, I didn’t want anything.
Now? Now I think I wanted too much, and it would be my downfall.
“I’ll give you fifteen minutes to get ready,” he whispered, almost dejected in the way he looked at me. “My father will want to see you. Whatever happens… it might not be pretty. He might—” He stopped himself from saying anything more, but I understood.
Richard Luciano might kill me.
He might kill me for killing Carl DeLuca, because I’d gone with Tony’s idea, thinking it was smart. Great.
I held his stare, saying, “All right.” I said nothing else, and I couldn’t tell if Sylvester was disappointed or not that I didn’t beg him to not tell his father. He was so loyal to his family… it was bad enough he’d kept my little meltdown away from his father. This? This was too big.
Chapter Six – Lola
I dried my hair as best as I could, Mike having returned to my side as my watchman. I also put on pants—black leggings that clung to every curve on my body. I mean, if I was going to die today, I might as well do it while looking good.
When I was done and ready, I smiled at Mike. “How do I look?”
All he did was grunt and shrug, though his hazel eyes did linger on my legs. It might be the last time he tried to act like he wasn’t eyeing me up like a fine piece of meat.
It was a strange thing, the anticipation I felt. For the longest time, I declared over and over again I wasn’t afraid of death. I wasn’t scared of dying. It was inevitable, and it would always be, even if I didn’t have such a shitty childhood. Death came for us all, and sometimes it wasn’t too kind.
But now, things felt different. Now I felt differently. I wasn’t afraid of death itself, but I did fear what it meant. No more Sylvester. No more Maddox. No more Viper or Mike or anything. It would all just end, and I wasn’t ready for that. The final destination, the last curtain call where the fat lady sang… no, I wasn’t ready at all. Being here had shown me there was still more to life. More I wanted, more I could squeeze out of it.
Unfortunately, that meant there was also more to lose, and I wasn’t a fan of losing.
I tried to think of something smart to say to Mike, but nothing came. And then, as I stared at his ruggedly handsome face, I recalled his brother, Viper. Viper would hear through the grapevine what happened to me. He’d never get the chance to say goodbye, since his time with me wasn’t for a few hours yet.
Although, who knew? Maybe Daddy Luciano would want to torture the fuck out of me. Maybe I’d still be alive, hanging on by a thread.
Sylvester slipped his head into my room without knocking, his blue eyes landing on me, shadows dancing across his features, hiding whatever it was he felt about this as he said, “Come. My father wants a word with you.”
It was time. I was going to meet Richard Luciano, the head of this family, the father to the guys. I was going to stare into the eyes of the man I’d perhaps wronged the most by killing Dickless way back when. That alone was enough reason for him to not want to see me, but now? Now there was nothing. There would be nothing left to hold him back from me.
Glancing at Mike, he said, “You can stay.”
All Mike did was nod, though he did watch as I went toward Sylvester. I couldn’t tell if he was wordlessly giving me his last goodbyes or not, but it didn’t matter. Mike never talked much, anyway. He was just one big, huggable lumberjack.
The walk to Daddy Luciano’s office was almost too long. The hallways seemed to stretch into infinity, and with each step, my stomach churned. I couldn’t remember ever being so anxious to meet someone before, not even Carl fucking DeLuca. This felt too real.
This was real.
We went up a flight of steps. Neither Sylvester nor I hurried, for I didn’t think either of us wanted to speed this up. As we walked, our hands brushed against each other’s, and once we made it to the third floor of the house, his fingers intertwined with mine. No one else was around, so no one saw it, which was probably the only reason he did it. Still, it felt nice. Like, even though he couldn’t do anything to save me, he still cared.
We stopped before a closed door, its mahogany wood dark. His hand gave mine a squeeze as he turned to face me. We stood, staring at each other, for what felt like eternity… even though it was only a minute.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for you,” he whispered, still holding onto my hand, almost refusing to let it go. “I wish—”
“I know,” I spoke, knowing what he was going to say before he said it. I knew it because I wished the same thing, especially lately—that things were different. That our circumstances were different.
Sylvester released my h
and, and he reached for the door, pushing it open. “Father, I brought Lola.” He glanced over his shoulder at me, moving to hold the door open.
I slipped inside, not bothering to keep my gaze down. I should be meek, I should not instigate anything further—but I was still Lola Harding, the Night Slayer, and I wasn’t about to let a mafia crime lord make me feel like I was nothing, like I did something wrong.
Sylvester left, the door latching behind me, and I stood smack dab in the center of a dimly lit office, an office with wood paneling on the walls and built-in bookcases. It was not the kind of office you’d find in a regular house; everything in it, including the grandiose desk before me, was elegant and refined.
And, of course, I wasn’t alone here. A man sat at the desk, leaning back, dark eyes on me. He was exactly what I pictured Maddox to be in twenty years, minus all of his tattoos, though much more discerning.
Richard Luciano was in his forties, with pitch-black hair and equally dark eyes, mirroring both his biological sons. His hair was cut short and slicked back, shaved short down to his sideburns, which were impeccably well-kept. He looked more like Maddox than Mario, a deep-seated anger in his eyes as he stared at me, unblinking. His jaw was sharp and clean-cut, the suit he wore sleek and black, not an ounce of color anywhere to be seen on his frame. Even though he was sitting down, I could tell he was perched and ready to get up, ready to lunge at me.
He was everything I imagined he would be and more, so much more. Just being in his presence would put any normal person ill at ease; even I felt a bit uneasy beneath his black-eyed stare.
Making any moves right now would be very unwise.
“Lola Harding,” he spoke, his voice so low and deadly it cut through the air, almost as sharp as a knife. “I told myself the first time I brought you into this office would be the last.” He said nothing else, glaring at me, waiting for me to… to speak?
I wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not. Maybe he was just playing with me like a cat toyed with its prey before eating it. If that’s what Daddy Luciano wanted, he wasn’t going to get it. I wasn’t the typical mouse, just as he wasn’t the typical cat.
Crooked Heart (A Death So Sweet Book 2) Page 10
