Mafia Romance

by Aleatha Romig, Skye Warren, Annika Martin, Natasha Knight, Kaye Blue, Michelle St. James, Renee Rose, Parker S. Huntington, Alexis Abbott, Willow Winters

  The second the words leave my mouth I wish I could call them back. I shouldn’t care about Damon Scott, even if he did protect me once. Even if he is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.

  He glances at me, his dark eyes impenetrable. “No.”

  One word doesn’t invite more questions. My feet are rooted to the concrete, my lips forming words before I’ve given them permission. “Damon.”

  Something sharp flashes over his face. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Say my name.”

  I blink, slow and uncertain. “Why?”

  “Because it’s what I need to get away from. This game we’re playing, the stakes are higher now. High enough that I need to leave you alone. You’re not safe.”

  Undercurrents swirl around me, like the rapids that once pulled me under. I can sense the sharp rocks looming, the darkness closing in. “I don’t understand.”

  “I can’t want you, Penny. I can’t even like you.”

  He wants me. “Because I’m fifteen?”

  A harsh laugh. “That’s not why. Do you think that could stop me? Do you think the police in this town would lift a finger to protect you from me?”

  A shiver runs through me. “Stop.”

  He circles me on the pavement. “That’s the point. This has to stop.”

  “You’re talking in riddles,” I say, turning to keep pace with him.

  His voice drops lower. “That’s what you like, isn’t it? Riddles? Puzzles? Something that will keep that sharp mind occupied for even a second. There’s been so little of that. So little mystery, hasn’t there?”

  I swallow hard. “You’re the one who made me like this.”

  “I’m to blame,” he murmurs, his tone sure but not sorry.

  “Where are you going?”

  “That’s not important. The important thing is that I won’t be near you. You’re in danger as long as I want you. As long as I follow you, as long as I have people watching you. In danger. You’ll never be safe while I’m here.”

  Anticipation beats in my chest. Maybe it’s wrong to be excited by a man like him. Maybe it’s disloyal to be interested in someone else. But Damon is right. He is a riddle I can’t solve, and I’ve had so few of those. He’s a warm, breathing puzzle with wooden parts and hidden clasps.

  I still remember the boy he was, so fierce and alone.

  What would I want with a puny kid?

  He said that to me so I wouldn’t be afraid of him. It worked.

  It worked too well, because even knowing what he’s become, what he’s capable of, I’m not afraid when he’s near me. My body feels electric, my breath comes short, but not from fear.

  I place my hand on his arm. The first touch. Heat arcs from him to me, along with a jolt of boldness. “What would you want with a puny kid?” I ask him.

  The corner of his mouth turns up. “You’re in over your head.”

  Dark water. Sharp rocks. I lift my chin, determined not to let him bring me low. “That’s probably true, but I know a secret. You are, too.”

  He moves so quickly I can’t anticipate, can’t defend against it. Suddenly I’m up against the bricks, the coolness against my back, his hard chest an inch from mine.

  “My sweet Penny. So smart. So pretty. So fucking little. And you’re right.” His words are low, bouncing off the bricks as if they’re coming from the night itself. “I lived so long underwater that I became a part of it. I rule this place.”

  “Then what are you afraid of?” I ask softly, knowing it’s true.

  Because the body in front of me, the arms that hold me in. They’re flesh and blood.

  “You,” he says.

  It doesn’t seem possible. I’m a poor village girl. He’s the prince. How could I pose any danger to him? But when he lowers his head, it feels almost against his will. As if he’s being moved by some unknown force, denial and frustration in the air. His lips brush my cheek, barely a soft touch. Chaste. Innocent. Earth shattering.

  “It doesn’t matter, even if you give Daddy an extension. He has other debts. And he wants me to do this big poker game with him. He says—”

  “Wait. The big poker game? How did he even get the buy-in money?”

  I look away, my cheeks turning hot. My insides a terrible churn.

  “Let me guess,” he says, his voice dark. Something moves in his eyes, a shadow beneath the waters. “He’s going to use you.”

  It’s hard for me to say yes. Hard for me to look Damon Scott in the eye now that he knows. Impossible for me to reconcile the daddy who loves me with one who would do this. “He thinks we’ll win.”

  “You won’t. And it’s not worth the risk. Do you know who’s running that game?”

  “He came to the diner.”

  A sharp breath. “After I did?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he do to you?” His gaze sweeps over me as if he can see beneath my dress. “Are you hurt? Have you seen a doctor?”

  “He didn’t touch me.”

  “You’re lying.”

  I spread my hands palm up, as if that proves something. “He came and ordered a slice of pie.” I shrug, not wanting to add about the coffee. Or the hundred-dollar bill. “I recognized him right away. I’m pretty sure he didn’t recognize me from that day on the playground.”

  “Good,” Damon says tightly. “Stay away from him.”

  I had given up more dignity in those fifteen minutes than actual sex would have been. Preparing his coffee and fetching pie he had no interest in eating. Only so he could watch me. I had known it was wrong, but I hadn’t known how to stop it. Never again.

  “If I do the game I don’t have a choice,” I say, “but either way you don’t control me.”

  “About this I do.”

  I don’t know where the impulse comes from, but challenge sparks in the air like electricity. A touch, not with skin but with energy. I can feel him pulsing five feet away from me. “Or what?” I ask softly.

  His black eyes narrow. “You want trouble, baby genius? Is that what you’re after? Because I know a way you can get a little adventure and help me find my father.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve been looking for him for years. Didn’t you know that? Trying to trap him. To hunt him down like the fucking animal that he is.”

  “For what he did to you.”

  “For what he did to everyone,” Damon says, his voice scathing.

  He doesn’t need to spell it out. “And you want me as bait.”

  He looks almost sad. “You always were smart.”

  So smart that I had to hide for years. It might seem like a small thing. Only numbers. Only breathing. I’ve been in shadows forever, my skin pale, my eyes hungry for the sun. “I’ll do it.”

  He runs a hand through his hair, mussing the silky strands. “No. Forget I said that.”

  “I can’t forget. This is too important.”

  “It’s not safe for you, not if my father has his eye on you.”

  “He had his eye on me ten years ago,” I remind him. “I got away that time.”

  “Only because—” Damon’s voice cuts off, but I can hear the rest. Only because he protected me. Only because he sacrificed himself. He wouldn’t do that again. Why would he? “I can’t risk it again.”

  That solidifies my decision. All of us need justice—especially Damon. A sense of protectiveness rises up inside me, as foreign as the possessiveness I feel for him. I don’t understand it, but I know he’s hurting. I know this will help.

  And my life isn’t his to risk. It’s mine. “I didn’t sell myself to your father, but that doesn’t mean you own me. That’s what I came here to tell you. I’m making the decision to do this.”

  His eyes turn liquid black. “And what if I decide to stop you?”

  “Can you?” I ask, feeling bold now. Feeling free. “He already knows where I work. Already came to see me once. He’ll do it again. You know that as well as I
do.”

  “I could keep you here.”

  I look around at this beautiful prison, the bars made of ancient oak. He’s the one trapped here. Trapped by his anger and his need for revenge. In a perverse way, trapped by me.

  “No,” I say softly. “I don’t think you’ll do that.”

  He smiles, which only makes him seem darker. More dangerous. “That sounds like a challenge.”

  The idea forms with a sense of deep satisfaction, of rightness.

  Damon Scott ties me into knots. The things I feel for him crisscrossing and turned over—sympathy and guilt and longing. And an unbearable anger that he became this man. Not exactly his father, but still so far away from my wild boy.

  Everything may have led me to this moment, but not so that I could lose to him.

  So that I could beat him.

  “Do you want to be challenged, Damon?”

  His name hangs in the air, far too intimate for the two of us.

  “God yes,” he says, and it sounds like a prayer.

  “Then let’s play cards. If I win then I help you catch Jonathan Scott. I’m your bait.”

  He looks dubious. “Have you even played much cards?”

  “No. Actually never,” I admit, feeling shy. “But I’ve seen Daddy play plenty.”

  “Christ.” He shakes his head, at once amused and dismissive. “And when I win, what will you give me? I think you know the answer to that. You’ll stay here with me. You’ll be mine. Mine to keep, Penny. Mine to protect.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Of course we don’t play cards at anything as mundane as a kitchen table.

  Not over a coffee table, the way Daddy sometimes fiddles with an old deck, shuffling the cards and running them through his fingers. He would never even bother with Solitaire. It couldn’t satisfy that itch.

  Damon has a private card table, deep emerald velvet and butter-soft leather on the bumper surrounding. There are only two seats at the table, even though poker usually has more. I imagine private business meetings happening in this small wood-lined room.

  Or maybe he brings women here.

  It seems appropriate for a man like him. A bordello for people turned on by risk.

  He pulls out a chair for me, every inch the gentleman. Even in a shirt soft from wear, in slacks less than crisp, he could be in a magazine for menswear. His eyebrow rises as I stare at him. My distrust of him must be plain on my face, because he seems pleased.

  “Thanks,” I mutter, dropping into the most magical chair I’ve ever sat in.

  I turn my face away so I can hide the look of pure bliss I must have. God, I would sleep in this chair. I would live in it. The thick leather cushions cradle my body like a cloud.

  “Comfortable?” he asks casually, laughter in his voice. He knows. Of course he does.

  He sits across from me, all business. “How many cards?”

  Now I see the point of the chairs. They’re a distraction, like his movie star smile. Keeping me from seeing what’s underneath. “What game do you play?”

  He smiles. “I play all of them, baby. I want to know which one you like.”

  Awareness rushes over my skin, smooth as water down my arms, my back. I can’t help the shiver that comes, his words a sensual caress. “Five,” I tell him, my voice faint.

  “A classic,” he says, sounding pleased.

  Of course I immediately regret the decision. Anything that makes him happy must be bad.

  He pulls a fresh deck from a little shelf under the table, the plastic wrapper glinting off the lamp overhead. His hands are strong but deft, tugging the little blue strip with practiced ease. The wrapper comes off, discarded into a small leather wastebin.

  The scent of new paper and whatever glue coats the cards fills the small space as he pulls out the deck. His hands move impossibly fast, shuffling the cards with intimate knowledge. The same intimate knowledge I imagine he has with women.

  You’re a woman, my mind helpfully supplies.

  Damon Scott won’t be intimate with any part of my body. Not if I win this game.

  There’s a sense of loss about that, but also power—because I’ll be the one to decide my fate.

  He deals the cards so fast they look like blades through the air, flying into two neat piles in front of us. I stare at the classic red designs, the nondescript backs hiding their numbers and their suits, my stomach as small and hard as a rock. How did I get here so fast?

  “Shouldn’t we have chips?” I ask, because I’d like to count something right now.

  “I don’t think we need them,” he says, his voice smooth and certain. “We won’t play long enough for that. One hand should do it, I think.”

  The knot in my throat makes it hard to swallow. “One hand?”

  He smiles that stupid-beautiful smile. “Luck of the draw.”

  One hand means I won’t be able to count the cards. There’s only what I have. Not enough to be statistically significant. Does he know that I can count cards? I was sure he wouldn’t know. Being able to do advanced calculus in theory doesn’t mean you have perfect recall.

  Or maybe his insistence on one hand has nothing to do with counting.

  Maybe he doesn’t want to waste time before claiming me.

  My gaze somehow strays to his throat, to the place at the collar of his shirt, tanned skin and a hint of dark hair. Such a personal detail to show in public. Then again we’re not in public. No, this is very private. Enough to make my breath come faster.

  “Fine,” I say, wanting this to be over more than I want to win.

  No, I can still do this. My odds are as good as his—better, because I can at least count what I see.

  “Aces high or low,” he adds. “No wild cards.”

  I pick up my cards and look at them. A pair of jacks. Not the worst hand. Not the best.

  The other three cards are all spades, which is exciting in another way. If I were to turn in my jacks, I might get back two spades. And that would be a strong hand. Probably a winning one.

  Damon lifts only the corner of his cards, glancing at them briefly before pushing them back down on the table. It’s the kind of move only an experienced player could do, whereas I’m holding mine upright, my hands almost trembling. I push them down onto the table, clumsy.

  He leans forward, his dark eyes large in the dim light. “Now that we’ve seen our cards, we could up our bet. Do you want to call, baby genius?”

  The nickname plants itself inside me, some deep buried seed that finds new life. “Don’t call me that. And I thought you were already taking everything, if you win. What else could I give you?”

  “A kiss,” he says, seeming contented as if he’s already won. “And it wouldn’t be something I would take. You would give it to me.”

  I stare at him, more shocked than I should be. Sex. I had offered him sex, and he turned me down. Because he isn’t like his father. And I suppose that’s still true. I doubt Jonathan Scott would ever ask for a kiss.

  Somehow I could keep a serious face when we were talking about sex, but the suggestion of a kiss brings heat to my cheeks. “You want me to kiss you?”

  “Anywhere you like.”

  “Your cheek,” I say immediately, but it doesn’t feel as innocent as I meant it. Not when I imagine that dark stubble against my lips, the scent of him up close, the taste of his skin burrowing deep.

  He laughs, enjoying himself more than is decent. Really, nothing about him is decent. “Your choice. And if you’re calling the bet, that means I have to put something more in. What would you like?”

  Definitely not a kiss, even if my imagination whispers that I might like it. “My father’s debt.”

  “Ten thousand dollars for a kiss,” he says, his voice thoughtful.

  My chest burns at the implication that I’m for sale. That even if I were for sale, that I’d be worth that much. I feel more like an object than a person. Except I’m not the one who started me down this path. Damon did that himself, when he prop
osed taking me instead of Daddy’s debt.

  You know that Daddy is the reason you’re in this mess.

  My mind needs to be quiet sometimes.

  “Take it or leave it,” I say, sounding unconcerned.

  He makes a sound, kind of tortured, like I just said something sexy. I didn’t say anything provocative, at least I didn’t think so, but he seems to like it when I challenge him. It’s enough to make me want to stop… but not really, because I’m going to fight to my last breath.

  “Take it,” he says, sounding almost cheerful as he pushes in his entire hand.

  My breath catches. “All of them?”

  That means he has a terrible hand. It also means that he could have anything on the next round. Most people think of randomness as favoring chaos. That he wouldn’t be likely to get something strong in a single hand. But really the odds are about the same to get a strong hand as a weak.

  “Every last one.”

  True randomness doesn’t play favorites.

  It’s just as likely to give you fifty heads in a row than an equal split of heads and tails. Then again we don’t have a truly random sample, not with us holding ten out of fifty-two cards. Whatever he picks up won’t be any of these. I bite my lip, running through numbers in my head, determined to make use of what little data I have, running simulations in these precious few seconds.

  “God, you’re incredible,” he says, sounding reverent.

  Only then do I realize I’d been lost in thought.

  And he’s staring at me, intent and for once serious. Brennan had looked at me that way and called me pretty. Damon looked at me like I was some other creature, more than a human—a goddess.

  “Three for me,” I say, taking the safer bet. That means keeping my jacks and pushing the rest back. Giving up any chance of a flush, because then I could end up with nothing at all.

  Damon deals the cards with swift utility, the same way Brennan looks when he uses a wrench. It’s simply a tool, one he’s deeply familiar with. One he uses on a daily basis.

  Only then do I realize my fatal flaw. No matter how many numbers I have, Damon has something stronger. He has a lifetime of experience. Of knowledge and instinct. The subconscious mind can filter far more information than we fully understand. He can make a call based on his gut.