Russo Saga Collection

by Nicolina Martin

  “What are you offering?” Her voice is sultry, the sound shooting straight to my groin.

  It’s ridiculously easy. Being six foot three, nothing but muscle underneath a tailored suit, oozing power and self-assurance, I can get almost any girl I like in here.

  I decide to go all in. “Ropes, gag, blindfold.”

  She widens her eyes, glances around us, then back at me, taking stock again.

  “I don’t know,” she says, her voice a little shaky. “Sounds a bit… dangerous.”

  “You’re telling me it doesn’t make you,” I lick my lips and let my gaze wander to her chest, and lower, “interested?”

  She squirms, chewing on her lip, measuring me up. “I don’t know anything about you.”

  “Correct. And I don’t know anything about you. That’s the way I like it.”

  “Maybe have a drink first? Chat a little?”

  “I don’t chat.” I pin her with my gaze. Her chest heaves, her cheeks have taken on a slight blush. When she doesn’t answer, I take a step back. “Okay.” I turn and feel her hand on my arm.

  “Wait!”

  Gotcha. I turn back to her, taking my time. “Yes?”

  “How do I know you’re not some mass murderer?”

  “You don’t.” I reach out and brush my thumb across her lower lip, making her shudder visibly. “I’m no gentleman, but you’ll leave my place tomorrow morning, somewhat intact, on your own two feet.”

  Her mouth falls open, her breathing changes. I can almost smell her arousal and my cock stiffens. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

  “Alexandra,” she says on an exhale.

  “I’m Christian. It’s time to make up your mind.”

  “Oh God,” she moans in defeat. “I’m not right in the head, but what the hell.”

  I smirk as I snake an arm around her waist and steer her out of the club, into a cab I hail. Tomorrow, she’ll be sore, and she’ll probably never want to see me again.

  I like it rough.

  Ridiculously satisfied, my carnal needs fulfilled, I call a cab for the girl who can barely walk. She’s fresh from a shower and smells of a musky sandalwood. Nathan’s soap. I toss her one of my brother’s shirts to give her some more decency on the way home, and give her a smack on the butt.

  “Off you go, Alexandra.”

  “You are one sick puppy,” she says as she finds her way into the shirt and grabs her purse.

  “And you enjoyed every bit of it.”

  She shakes her head, more in disbelief than negating my claim. “Fuck off.” She strides to the door, pulls it open and slams it shut behind her, probably waking Nathan. If he slept at all.

  I smirk and go to make myself an espresso, glancing at the clock. Caffeine, a shower, and then off to see what our sis is up to.

  Angela Russo is a blend of all her brothers. She got all the best features. A hint of a Roman nose, high cheekbones, almond shaped almost-black eyes, and thick, dark brown hair that cascades down her back. We used to chase her and pull her braids when we were kids. The few times we got to play innocent games.

  “Looking good!” She gives me a once-over before she sits on the cheap, red vinyl bench opposite me in the booth.

  “Same, girl. Exile suits you.”

  “I don’t live in exile. I’m the only one who lives a real life, you freak. Now pay for my breakfast and make yourself useful.”

  “So dirty money is good enough for coffee and a bagel.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Watch your tongue.”

  She sticks out her tongue at me and flips me off. I shake my head and shuffle out of my seat to go order us something to eat. My stomach growls. I’m depleted of energy after last night’s activities.

  “Hey,” she half shouts, “pancakes too. And orange juice.”

  After I’ve ordered, I fall down on my seat again as our coffee is served. “So, Angela. How’s life? Seeing anyone?”

  She sighs and accepts the coffee. “Ain’t nobody got time for that.”

  “You work too hard. You could live life in luxury.”

  “And in the clutches of Uncle Salvatore. No fucking thanks.”

  “He’s not happy with this, you know.”

  Her face turns serious and she puts down the cup, her hand shaking a little. “Did he say anything?”

  “He hints at it from time to time.”

  “You’ve got my back, though? Right? It would kill me. I could never live that life, him deciding what I do, who I meet, what I fucking eat, drink and wear.”

  I frown. Out of all us Russos, Angela is the one who has chosen her own path. I’d rather die than sell her out. There’s nothing more important to me than keeping my promise to her.

  “You know it. I won’t let that happen.”

  “Thank you,” she says and smiles faintly. “I love you to bits, Bro, but every time I meet with one of you guys my stomach clenches up a little, thinking this is it, this is when it ends and you pull me back by my hair. Now, let’s talk about something else. I found a new site yesterday, an old church a few miles from here. I’ll go check it out this weekend. Want me to send you the pics?”

  I smile, fighting down the unease. “I’m always interested in your work, Angel, you know it. Is it in ruins?”

  “Yep. A big wonderful pile of rocks. When are you going back to San Francisco?”

  “Eager to get me out of town?”

  She shrugs. “Just making conversation. If you have time you can buy me breakfast again.”

  “I’d be happy to. I’ll head home as soon as I’m done here. Couple of days, tops.”

  It’s not a good feeling knowing I represent darkness to her, fear. But it’s who I’ve become. There’s not a thing I can do about it.

  I’m not one of the good guys.

  Chapter 2

  San Francisco

  Kerry

  “Who are they?”

  “Who are you talking about, sweetie?”

  The young boy sitting by my feet rocks back and forth. “The men in black. What is the red?”

  A shiver slithers down my spine, even though I can’t tell why. I’ve never seen little David Salvatore looking so worried. He’s usually a quiet boy. He has his favorite toys he won’t let anyone else touch. I can only put them back in the cupboard after he leaves, even though he somewhat trusts me. I’m the only one he trusts enough to talk to. But he usually only talks about his blue truck, and the Gameboy.

  “Where did you see the red, David?” I sit next to him on the floor and cross my legs, careful not to come too close. He has a very specific distance he accepts.

  “Floor. On the man.”

  The hair on my nape stands. “Who was the man?”

  “My truck is green.”

  I follow his lead. There’s no use continuing when he changes the subject. I pick up a blue wooden block from the box next to us. “Is this green, David?”

  He laughs. It’s a monotonous cackle. His face is stiff and unmoving, his eyes expressionless. “Not green.”

  I hold the block near his truck, careful not to touch it. “Is this the same color?”

  He nods several times and waves his arm. “Same, same, same, same.”

  “Do you like blue?”

  “Like, like, like, like.”

  All I can do is tread carefully as I try to find a way to reach him again. It’s rare to have a conversation with David, even three or four sentences. There’s no real progress to be made, though. He’s seven years old, with the mind of a three-year-old.

  As I leave the community center for autistic children, hop on my Vespa and push the helmet over my head, I’m overcome by a shudder. I think of the red on the floor, the red on a man. What did David really see? It was probably someone who got hurt and bled. Right? That must’ve been it. My imagination is running wild. Probably because the news is full of war-sized headlines about an unusual amount of murders in the San Francisco underworld this autumn.

  I decide to ask his d
ad. I don’t know how much of a trauma this is for David, but since he actually spoke about it spontaneously, I have a strong suspicion it is. It’s my job to help him, so I need to know as many facts as I can get. I’ll see if I can catch him as he leaves David at the center tomorrow morning.

  The sun is still up, but it has sunk low and blinds me as I head home. I need to stop at a grocery store since I’m having the girls over for dinner tonight. We usually gather at my place. I have the most space and a fantastic view of the bay and the bridge. Thank you, alimony. Thank you, Evan for cheating on me and having a massive bout of guilt as our lawyers worked out the details of the divorce. I actually don’t feel guilty at all for receiving the money. It’s only for a few years while I try to build my own life after being his supportive wife for six freaking years. My whole adulthood. I mean to make the best of it. Between my studies to become a behavioral therapist for children with mental disabilities, and my volunteer work at the center, I have little time for a social life. So when my friends offer to come by and cook for me, I’m game even though I’m tired.

  Gayle, Chloe and Rebecca chatter away in the kitchen as I set the table, a long beautiful, heavy piece made of dark oak.

  Chloe works as an accountant for the center, a tall golden-blonde whirlwind of a girl, her skin a pretty, light caramel hue. We see each other almost every day.

  I’ve known Gayle since high school. We hard-core book nerds found each other and navigated the maze that is the social life in school together, gossiped about boys, but were both too shy to approach anyone. We don’t see each other a lot lately, sadly, different lives, different interests making us drift apart. She’s short and curvy, with straight jaw-length brown hair, and a lot prettier than she thinks. She’s still single and works all the time as she runs a bookstore with an adjacent café. She’s living her dream and I’m really happy for her.

  The latest addition to our little group is tall, platinum blonde Rebecca. She’s a bartender at our favorite bar and ten times more outgoing than the rest of us combined. She’s new in town after trying out a career as an unemployed actress in LA. A happy-go-lucky girl we adopted almost the moment we met her. She has the most contagious laugh I’ve ever come across. She’s also extremely interested in cooking, and whips us into action in the kitchen, slicing vegetables, stirring pots and opening wine bottles.

  “You should be a chef, Rebecca,” says Gayle, her mouth stuffed with food, “this is fantastic.”

  “Why thank you! I sure as hell don’t wanna serve drinks the rest of my life, but the thought never crossed my mind.”

  “You were too busy using your blonde locks to get into the film industry to have time to think.” Chloe ducks to avoid the napkin that comes flying through the air.

  Rebecca flicks a strand of her hair. “I tried to fuck my way to the top. Turns out I’m not the only one trying that method. They screw you, use you and screw you over.”

  “Don’t ever go back to that.” Gayle makes a disgusted face.

  “Oh, I won’t.” Rebecca puts her hand over her heart. “Chef, you said? Hm. I like the thought.”

  We’re devouring fresh pasta with a spicy vego sauce of aubergine, tomatoes and black olives. The third bottle of wine has just been opened.

  “I had the weirdest experience today,” I say.

  Three pairs of eyes turn to me. I look at the lights from the Golden Gate Bridge in the far distance, taking comfort in the sight. It’s been my faithful companion since I was a kid. I’ve always lived with a view of it.

  “Yeah?” says Chloe. “What happened?”

  “One of the kids, a little guy who barely speaks at all.” I look at Chloe. “Not mentioning names but…”

  She nods. “I’m pretty sure I know who you’re talking about.”

  “He spoke. Spontaneously. I can’t make heads or tails of it. He said something about a man on the floor. And red color. On the floor and on the man. My imagination is running wild right now.”

  “Ohh,” says Rebecca, her big light blue eyes widening. “Do you think he witnessed a murder?”

  “No!” I say, a little too fast. “I mean, how likely is that? He must’ve seen someone hurt themselves. I need to dig a little. I was thinking about asking his dad tomorrow.”

  “What’s his dad like? Maybe he’s the one who murdered someone?” Gayle nudges Chloe and turns to her. “Right? Have you met the guy? Does he seem all right?”

  “He is a little creepy,” says Chloe and turns to me. “Isn’t he? Seriously hot, but he scares the bejesus out of me. Strict. Always fancy suits. I’ve always wondered if he couldn’t afford having his kid in a private care facility instead. It’s almost like he’s hiding him at the center.”

  My stomach clenches. He does give off a bit of a strange vibe. “You all watch too many movies. Come on. He’s just a guy. Probably an accountant or some other boring suit-job… Oh shit! Sorry, Chloe, your job sounds incredibly fun.” I grimace, embarrassed, but she laughs.

  “It’s not for everyone. I like numbers. Numbers are my friends.”

  “Hey, I thought we were your friends,” says Rebecca with a pout.

  I listen to the conversation the rest of the night with half an ear, wondering how I’ll go about asking the dad tomorrow.

  Three hugs and six cheek-kisses later, I fall into bed, my head already pounding from too much red wine. I won’t be at my best tomorrow morning.

  Luciano Salvatore has pitch black eyes and studies me with an intensity that makes the skin on my back feel too tight.

  “You wanted to speak with me?” His voice is well modulated, smooth.

  I swallow hard. Chloe is right. He’s a very attractive man, tall, dark brown hair that’s always well combed, a proud Roman nose and a squared jaw shaded by a two-day stubble that seems very intentional, but there is something eerie about those dark eyes. It’s like he sees right through me.

  Inhaling deeply, I fight to shake off the feeling I’m doing something really stupid. “Ehm… David said something yesterday, and I wonder how I should interpret it. I think he’s seen something that shook him and… I wonder if you know what it might be?”

  Mr. Salvatore is absolutely still as he regards me. His face betrays no emotions. Again, an ice-cold trickle of unease runs through me.

  “A cousin of mine was working on the garage door. It snapped closed and cut off his foot. It was a horrible accident, and unfortunately my son happened to witness it. Does this help you, Miss…?”

  “That’s horrible! Ehm… Jackson. Kerry Jackson. Yes, thank you. If David has been traumatized by this, he might speak about it again, maybe draw something… It’s good that I know.” I smile and sigh with relief. Like I figured. Nothing but an accident. “How is the cousin?”

  Salvatore stiffens and his eyes turn a shade darker. “He is well. Good day, Miss Jackson. Talk again soon, yes?”

  He spins on his heels and strides to his car, a black Mercedes with tinted windows. I remain on the first stair leading up to the yellow, worn-down brick building where I work, my heart pounding hard. That’s an expensive car, I don’t know much, but even I see that the Mercedes is something extra.

  The skin on my back crawls as I walk back inside. I’m not sure what just happened. Probably nothing.

  David doesn’t speak again. Maybe it’s for the better? My day goes about as usual, but I can’t seem to shake off the eerie encounter with the boy’s father. I wonder what he does, who he is.

  My phone chimes as I’ve just pushed on the helmet and started my Vespa. Struggling to get it off again, I fumble with my pocket and finally get the phone to my ear.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Kerry, dear, what took you so long?”

  “I had logistical issues.” I turn off the engine and jerk the motorcycle back up on its support, placing my pink and white helmet on the seat. “What’s up, Mom?”

  “We wanted to see if you are available tonight. We’re celebrating our thirtieth anniversary and would be overjo
yed if you would grace us with your presence.”

  I wince. I love my parents, but Mom can be a bit much. She always gets a little tipsy, and starts nagging on me about my future.

  “Aren’t you supposed to do that as a couple? I mean, go out to a fancy restaurant, get a room, all that?”

  She laughs her tinkling, well-practiced laugh. “Those days are over. Can you make it?”

  I pace back and forth on the sidewalk, kicking at pebbles. “Free food. What’s not to love?” And hanging with Dad is always fun.

  “Splendid! Eight o’clock.”

  I glance at the phone. It’s almost six. “Sure. See you then.”

  As I hop on my Vespa and drive home, unease creeps up on me again. I don’t know why this affected me so much. No, I do know. I’ve cared for David for about a year. His behavior yesterday was way off from his usual. And then the dad’s piercing eyes, as if he saw right through me.

  I’m wearing a flowery dress and freeze like hell on the way to my birth home. It’s only a thirty-minute drive, thank God.

  Mom has made us a lavish dinner with a perfectly tender steak, homemade fries, a salad.

  “Did you know there are less flowers in the world now than only a few decades ago?” Dad swallows some wine, wipes his mouth and looks expectantly at me.

  “I’ve read that, yeah.”

  “The implications on the lives of nectar collecting animals are catastrophic. Butterflies, bees. Without bees we will perish. We won’t need a full-scale nuclear war to wipe us out as a human race.”

  “All it takes is fewer bees?”

  “Yes. They’re admirable. They work hard, live in an organized society, no wars, no crime. If a bee dies, his mates will carry him home and then go back out to keep collecting nectar.”