When I said nothing, Richard was slow to stand. The movement was such a deliberate thing, allowing me to see that, beneath his all-black suit, he was just as thick and well-built as Maddox. He was not a man that sat on his ass all day; he was a man that was not afraid to take care of problems himself, a man whose hands were undoubtedly rough.
He was a monster of a man, maybe even more so than Maddox. Just because he looked more refined didn’t mean anything. He was just more well-groomed than his son, a monster of a different variety, one that effortlessly could haunt dreams.
Mine? Oh, Daddy Luciano wouldn’t haunt me… not in the way you’re thinking.
There was something to be said about a man who looked like that, a man who commanded the room and anyone in it so easily. Richard was everything I imagined he would be and more, and as he rounded the desk, heading toward me, I found myself frozen. Not afraid, but waiting. Waiting to see what he would do, how he’d hurt me, if it would be over quickly for me or if he’d make it last.
My money, not that I had much now, was on the latter.
“You,” he went on, dark eyes nailing me in place, “told my son you were given something by Tony to give to Carl DeLuca?”
I nodded, for there was no use in trying to deny the truth. Sylvester had told him what I’d said, and I wouldn’t begrudge him for that. After losing his brother, Sylvester was all about family—except, on the odd occasion, he was all about me.
Richard’s lips smirked, though I wouldn’t say he was smiling or grinning. Whatever expression he then wore didn’t matter, because I didn’t get a good chance to see it. In a split-second, the man had his hand wrapped around my throat, and within the next moment, he had me pushed against the wall, having dragged me backward, causing me to stumble over my feet as I reacted involuntarily and grabbed the arm connected to my neck.
I wasn’t trying to pull him off, but he sure as hell was holding onto me pretty damn hard. So hard it was difficult to breathe, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me gasp for air.
Once my back was slammed onto the wall with enough force it would surely bruise—that was, should I live long enough for the skin to bruise after this encounter—Richard growled out, “You have no idea what you’ve done.”
The fingers around my neck were tight, dedicated in their choking of me, but still I managed to smile, coughing out, “You should be grateful that he’s dying.” I mean, Carl DeLuca was this family’s enemy, wasn’t he? He was an ass who sent a sympathy letter to the house after a traitor told him all about Mario. The old man would get what he deserved.
What I didn’t get, though, was why Daddy Luciano was so angry about it. Shouldn’t he be happy? I mean, you’re welcome.
“You think you can murder my son, waltz into this house, and declare you know everything about us?” Richard’s voice was pure venom, thrown at me like acid. “You know nothing. You are nothing.”
Words that might cause injury to other girls, but me? I wasn’t so wounded by him, nor was I particularly bothered by that firm, choking hand around my neck.
I did something right then that he wasn’t expecting: I smiled. I smiled and I laughed—albeit, the laughter was a bit cut off and wheezy, what with the hand around my neck and all—but I couldn’t help it. This was… oh, this was just too grand, you know?
What kind of mess did I step into that night I killed Dickless? A fun one, a dirty one… one that would end up swallowing me whole. Staring into Richard’s black, almost pupil-less stare, I knew it. I’d known it before, but this guy made everything feel more real.
He must’ve been truly confused at my outburst and my grin, for the fingers around my neck loosened just a bit. Not all the way, not enough for me to ever hope to escape his hold, but enough for me to whisper, “Are you going to kill me now, Daddy?”
His jaw ground, his eyes narrowing. Oh, my words only served to further anger him, but they were worth it. Richard, with his hand on my neck, whirled around, tossing me to the floor just before his desk. I landed on my hands and knees, still grinning, still chuckling to myself.
Before I could get up, he was behind me, kneeling and grabbing a fistful of my hair and pulling my head back, exposing my neck as he growled into my ear, “By the time I’m done with you, you’re going to wish I’d killed you.”
I ran a tongue over my lower lip, saying, “Ooh, Daddy, threaten me with a good time! You sure know the way to my heart—”
With one hand still curled in my hair, the other found its way to my neck again, stifling whatever else I might’ve said as he hissed, “You know nothing. You think you helped us by doing what Tony asked? Your ignorance just might’ve killed us all, and if you think I’m going to let you walk out of this office now, with that pretty face intact, you’re wrong.”
Wait a moment. Killed us all? How? How the hell could me poisoning Carl DeLuca kill the Lucianos? Someone please explain this to me, because I sure as hell wasn’t understanding it like I thought I did.
This… none of this made sense.
The smile on my face wavered, and though I couldn’t turn my head to look at him, I still managed to ask, “How? Why isn’t it a good thing?”
The fingers on my neck moved upward, no longer strangling me but instead uncomfortably cupping the bottom of my jaw. “You come into this city, my home, my fucking territory, and expect to know everything after a few jobs? All you knew was Carl was my enemy—but Carl was keeping his wolf pack at bay. Carl hated me, but the worst he would do was send a mocking letter. Carl and I go way back, you see. There was a time, long ago, when our families were not at each other’s throats as we are today.”
But, let me guess, that time was long gone now. Yeah, it didn’t take a psychic to see what happened next.
Richard growled, “Carl is a fucking saint compared to the Bloody Princess. If he dies, she’ll take over, and the bickering in the shadows will turn into a full-scale war. People will die. My family will die—all because of you.” The fingers on my jaw clenched, causing me to grin. He would not see me writhe in pain. “Again.”
The Bloody Princess? Sounded like a gal I’d get along with.
“I knew I never should’ve let Sylvester sway me when it came to you,” Richard whispered, pulling his head away from mine just enough that he no longer leaned his nose against my ear. I could still feel the hotness of his breath on me, though, and not gonna lie, the way he had my body, kneeling over me, made me wonder how wild and animalistic he’d be in the sack.
Hey, he might be in his forties, but he was still sexy as hell, with a swagger that would wet any gal’s panties.
“I should’ve killed you that first night, when my sons brought you here,” he went on, the hand around my throat leaving as he reached for something else—something that, if I had to guess, sat in the waistband of his pants. He brought out a shiny black gun, holding the front of the barrel against my cheek. “When I’m done with you, Lola,” he hissed out my name as if it was the worst word he’d ever had to say, “everyone on the street will run in terror from you. There will be no more Night Slayer. No man will ever want to go home with a girl who has a face like yours.”
Was that supposed to be a threat? Was I supposed to cower in fear over what he’d said?
My eyes closed, and I could not stop myself from laughing. It was a hearty laugh, a laugh only a crazy bitch would have after someone had told her what he’d just told me. But, and that’s the thing: I was crazy. I was absolutely, one hundred percent, motherfucking crazy, and no mafia man, regardless of how well-dressed and handsome he was, was going to make me cower.
“Go on,” I said once I got my laughter under control. The hand holding my hair tugged harder in response, but I didn’t stop. The gun pressed against my cheek sure wouldn’t stop me, either. “Hurt me. Shoot me. Make me regret ever laying a hand on your son. Beat me. Rape me. Kill me slowly—or quickly. I don’t care.”
I could only eye him from my peripherals, could only glare at
him with a side-eye as I went on, “Do you think you could do anything to me that hasn’t already been done? Do you think I’ve ever felt love or warmth or happiness?” When he said nothing, when he made no moves to answer me or shoot me, I added, “No, Richard, I haven’t. My whole life I’ve been waiting for someone to finally end it all, so bring it on. Make it hurt. Make me regret it.”
I couldn’t tell what Richard was thinking, mostly because I couldn’t stare at his face. The gun, I noticed, did lessen in its pressure on my cheek, but he did not move it away entirely. If only I could cut into his scalp, bury myself through his skull and get in his brain, just to see what he was thinking. To be a fly inside that brain, oh, I bet it would be a wonderful thing.
But then Richard did something I wasn’t expecting: the hand holding onto the back of my head released me, the body kneeling over me from behind getting up. Richard still held onto the gun, but he now stood beside me, his finger no longer on the trigger.
What? No, no, I—I didn’t say all those things to make him feel bad. I didn’t tell him all that just to stop him from what he was about to do. Kill me. Shoot me. Hurt me. For God’s sake, do something. Don’t just stand there, looking brooding and pensive and handsome all at the same time. I mean, what’s a gal have to do to finally get her release? And I didn’t mean the fun, tingly, orgasm-y release.
I meant death. Sweet, sweet death. Because death had to better than this miserable existence, didn’t it?
Everything was too real now, too… emotional. I wanted things I shouldn’t, and I craved things I never had before. None of it was fair. Death was the only answer, right?
“What are you doing?” I asked, not moving from my disheveled spot on the floor. I was certain I looked a mess. I felt it, as much as I didn’t want to admit it. Not because of what I’d done, but because of what I wanted. It wasn’t every day when someone admitted to themselves that they wanted to die.
I mean, I’d known it before, but I’d thought, surely, coming face to face with Daddy Luciano, would be it for me.
“If it wasn’t for you,” Richard spoke, tapping his gun against his side, “we wouldn’t know about Tony.”
“Tony?” I echoed. “What about Tony?” Even now, I wasn’t seeing the full picture.
“He’s betrayed us. The DeLucas have him, probably the Princess.” Still holding onto his gun, he folded his arms over his chest, quite pensive.
It took far too long for his words to sink in, for me to realize what he’d just said, and when it came to me, I wanted to deny it. The possibility that Tony was a traitor—it couldn’t be. I mean, didn’t everyone here want Carl DeLuca dead, at least a little? “You don’t know that,” I started, not sure why I felt the need to defend Tony to begin with.
I hadn’t spent much time with him, but I liked him. There was no way he’d turned on the family.
Richard looked at me—or, should I say, he looked down at me. Even from this angle, the guy was impressive. “Everyone knows to leave Carl alone, because they all know what would happen if he dies. We take care of traitors, we deal with people who should be loyal to us but aren’t… but as for going after the head of the DeLuca family, that’s not something anyone would do, unless they have a personal stake in it.”
I figured it was time to stand, and I slowly got to my feet, gripping the desk behind me as I stared at him. He stood over a foot taller than me, wide and strong. The only way I’d ever be able to take a man like him down would be with the element of surprise… and a whole lot of luck.
“I have everyone who’s able out looking for him,” Richard said, sighing as he went to put the gun underneath his suit jacket, on his back. I couldn’t say whether or not I’d ever seen an action more deliberately sexy and dangerous before.
Oh, fuck. I had it bad for the Lucianos, apparently. Even old Daddy could get my motor going.
“Once they find him,” he spoke, taking a measured step towards me, “they will bring him here, and I will deal with him.” He lifted an arm, raising the back of his hand, brushing it against my cheek. It was almost a delicate, tender gesture, but I knew it wasn’t. “Should I find out that you knew more, that you knew exactly what blood would be spilled because of this, I will keep good to my earlier words.”
I said nothing, because I knew this man would never believe anything I’d say. I was a liar, a deceiver, a murderer, and he was keeping me around only for my usefulness. I’d be a whole lot less useful with a fucked-up face.
“It would be a pity to destroy something as beautiful as you,” Richard whispered, his jaw setting as his hand fell away from my face. “But I’ve done worse, and I’ll do worse yet before death takes me.” He turned away from me, moving around me and his desk to once more sit on the impressive leather chair behind it. “Go, before I change my mind and paint the walls with your blood.”
I didn’t stay to argue with him, knowing it would be best for me to simply get out of here as quickly as possible, so that’s what I did. Not outright run away like a coward, but I hightailed it out of there as fast I could without tripping on my own two feet, and once I was in the hall, I let out a loud sigh.
Fuck.
Tony was a traitor? It still didn’t seem right.
I walked until I found someone else, and that someone happened to be Sylvester on the stairwell. My feet froze when I saw him, and when our eyes met, I replayed everything that happened in that office, everything his father had told me. None of it felt real. This all felt like some kind of hazy dream, as if I’d died in that office. As if Daddy Luciano had killed me after all.
It’s what Sylvester had been expecting, judging from the look he gave me right then: eyes widened, mouth hanging slightly ajar, hands loose at his sides. And then, and then he rushed toward me, practically sweeping me up off my feet. Since we were on the stairs, it was a difficult position to accomplish, but he managed.
He was hugging me, I realized in horror, the urge to push him away strong inside me. He was fucking hugging me, like he was glad I was still alive and kicking. And, fuck it all, what was worse was that I found myself closing my eyes and leaning into his chest, breathing him in like I was also glad to be alive. What in the ever-loving fuck was this?
These feelings… I wasn’t made for them. Really. I wasn’t.
“I thought…” Sylvester was unhurried in pulling himself off me, studying me, as if he’d see new wounds now that we were closer. “How did you…”
I knew what he was attempting to say. He thought I’d be dead. How did I get out of that office alive? A very good question, a question I was kind of wondering, too—along with why having his arms around me felt so good.
“I don’t know,” I spoke quietly, the truth. “He was going to kill me, I think, slowly, but… I don’t know what happened.” Enough about me. I didn’t want to talk about myself. In fact, I was so damned tired of talking about myself and my past and my feelings; I’d rather talk about literally anything else. “He mentioned Tony. He’s got men looking for him. You don’t think he’s a traitor, do you?”
Sylvester’s eyes fell to the carpeted steps, and it was then I knew: he did. He agreed with his father and thought Tony had betrayed them all. Why?
“You do,” I said, frowning somewhat. Was I the only person in this house who thought Tony wasn’t a traitor? I didn’t know who this Bloody Princess was, but if Carl died and she took over… I wasn’t afraid to meet that bitch head-on. “Why don’t any of you believe in him?”
He looked around, as if somewhat nervous someone would appear at the top of the stairs. He settled for taking my hand and dragging me down to the second floor of the house… where he locked us in whatever room we came upon first. A spare bedroom that didn’t seem to ever be touched, a whole lot less cluttered than mine.
And more pink.
Ew.
Wait a minute. A pink room in the Luciano house? That didn’t seem right.
As I was busy staring at the room we were in, Sylvester adjusted his su
it, appearing uneasy, perhaps the most anxious I’d ever seen him. Finally, I focused on him. “What? Don’t tell me you brought me here for some hanky-panky. Buddy, I’m all for pink, but this light, bubblegum pink is so not my thing. It’ll be like having sex in a nursery—”
“My mother decorated this room,” he spoke quietly. “It was her favorite color.”
Ah, right. Totally awkward, thanks.
“You are still new to all of this,” Sylvester changed the subject, thankfully without any further pushing from me. “This isn’t the first time Tony’s loyalty has been put in question, but this does look really bad.”
“Your father mentioned something about the Bloody Princess taking over if Carl dies. Who is she?” Really, Richard Luciano hadn’t said much at all. He was much more wordy and descriptive when he was describing what he wanted to do to me. Like, some background information would be nice.
“Bianca DeLuca,” he spoke her name softly, as if fearing to speak it any louder, like she might appear out of nowhere like Bloody Mary. “He is her only surviving child. She never had any children of her own.” With everything he said, it still felt like there was something he wasn’t saying, something he was trying to avoid.
“Do you think she turned Tony, or do you think Tony was always…” I couldn’t finish the sentence, because I didn’t think it was true. I had no reason to believe Tony, but some things still weren’t adding up here.
“I don’t know, but I do know my father is concerned for a reason. Bianca is… she’s kind of like you.” Sylvester paused, letting my imagination run wild until he said, “She’s not afraid to get her hands dirty. In fact, she loves it. I’ve heard she has a fascination with blood, which earned herself the name Bloody Princess.”
I’d met Carl, and I’d put the man in his sixties. Any daughter of his must be middle-aged by now, unless he hooked up with a younger woman—which was possible, I’d admit. These families had so much power and money, I didn’t doubt there were girls out there who’d gladly spread their legs for them.
Crooked Heart (A Death So Sweet Book 2) Page 11
