by Hamel, B. B.
He pushed off the counter and walked to the bathroom door. I felt anger and sadness and desire all raging inside of me and I couldn’t decide which was more important. Alex’s ghost drifted through my memory—and the image of Reid murdering two men in broad daylight, of glass shattering, of him throwing his body on top of mine to protect me, it all played through my mind.
“If I can help it, that won’t ever happen again.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
He said nothing, just lingered in the doorway for a few more seconds. I wanted to ask him how he thought he could protect me, how he thought he could keep me safe, when apparently a war was brewing. I wanted to know what our marriage even meant if we couldn’t keep violence from spilling out all over the city.
But none of it mattered. I wasn’t in this to keep the peace between our two families. I was here strictly to make money, and my deal with Vincent wasn’t predicated on the city staying together. All I needed to do was remain married, and I’d get paid.
That was all I wanted, all I cared about.
Reid didn’t matter. I couldn’t let myself give a damn.
He lingered in the doorway for a few more seconds without moving. I felt the urge to scream at him to leave. I wanted to be left alone to sulk in the tub, to sink into the memories of my dead friend, but he wouldn’t let me.
“Why do you hate the family so much?” His words were gruff, like he found it hard to say them.
Laughter bubbled up from my chest. I didn’t mean to, but I couldn’t help it. “You try growing up with my father and you’ll understand.”
“That’s it then? You’re mad at daddy for being a dick.”
I sat forward, forgetting for a second that I was naked. I got onto my knees and leaned over the tub. “Fuck. You. Reid.”
He looked back at me and there was a smile on his lips.
Oh, god, that asshole. He knew what he was doing and he knew how I’d react—or at least he hoped I’d react that way. I knelt there and let him look at me, because fuck him and fuck his stupid handsome smile, and fuck this crazy fake marriage. I let him look at my breasts as they dripped water into the tub, let him look at my wet hair slicked back, at my bruised lip from—I’m not sure from what.
He turned and moved toward me. Water sloshed as I reacted, half moved back, but didn’t cover myself. He stooped down and I felt the cold of the tile on my back as I pressed myself against the wall, but he kept coming.
His lips found mine again. Another kiss.
But this one wasn’t to snap me out of my frozen confusion
This was something else—this was because he wanted it.
I kissed him back and felt his fingers move down my cheeks, down my throat, down toward my wet breasts and dripping nipples. He cupped them, teased them—made me moan.
God, he made me moan into his mouth and I hated him for it.
I pushed him away and splashed water in his face. “Get out,” I said, half shouting it.
He looked at me, not smiling, mouth open. I knew that look and I felt it, I shared that look deep inside, between my legs, in the places I hadn’t let myself feel for a very long time—I knew that look and wanted it.
I splashed him again. Water soaked his shirt, dripped down his pants. “Get out, you asshole.”
He turned and left without a word.
I sank back down into the water and stared up at the ceiling. My heart raced as I remembered that first kiss, up on the altar. Then the second, while a swam of angry bullets hissed around us.
And that third one, while I was naked in the tub, vulnerable and weak and there for the taking.
All three made me wild with stupid lust and need—and I hated myself for it.
That was weakness, and I couldn’t be weak, not with a man like Reid.
It didn’t matter how handsome he was, how muscular his arms were, how chiseled his jaw and his chest looked. I couldn’t give in to that temptation, because once I did then he’d have me, and he’d never let me go.
I’d never escape them, the bastards, the fakes, the violent monsters.
I had to remember who and what I was.
Even if I really, really didn’t want to.
7
Reid
The light was low in the Smoker’s Daughter as a stream of curses came from the back kitchen. Marlon, the bartender, his long, dark hair pulled back in a pony-tail, his brown eyes wide and smiling, uncorked a bottle of ancient white wine and poured some into Cora’s glass then gave her a wink. He wore a button-down Western shirt and a pair of dark jeans and could’ve been twenty or could’ve been eighty—I was never sure with him. The Daughter wasn’t the type of place people came to drink wine—it was more of a vodka and whiskey kind of bar, with sticky floors, peeling laminate on the tables, soot-and-spot stains on the walls, and the constant stink of old beer permeating the air. Another string of curses cut through the evening and Cora leaned toward me with a frown as she looked toward the back door.
“What’s going on in there?”
I shrugged. “Cook gets annoyed.”
“He sounds like someone’s trying to kill him.”
“Really annoyed.” I leaned my elbows on the bar and craned my neck, trying to catch a glimpse through the small window that looked into the kitchen, but only saw the flash of stainless steel appliances and a glimpse of a fat man in a wife beater.
Cora sipped her wine, made a face, but went back for more. Marlon returned with my whiskey, placed it down in front of me, and nodded as he returned to wiping glasses. The crowd was sparse for a weekday evening after six, but a few old-timers lingered over pints at a table and grunted in Russian at each other. I sipped my drink then placed it down and felt the condensation from the ice roll down my fingertips.
“You still haven’t told me why we’re here.”
I shrugged. “Wanted to show you the place.”
She made a face. “It’s really nice.”
“Smoker’s Daughter was the first business I ever bought.”
“You actually own it?”
“Sure do. My name’s not on the lease, but I own it.”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course.”
“You know how these things go.”
“Unfortunately, I do.”
“Daughter’s got a kinda special place in my heart.”
Another string of curses then a bell rang. A platter of fries appeared in the window. Marlon grabbed the plate and brought it over, placing it down in front of Cora. He gave her a tight smile and went back to wiping glasses.
She ate a fry and let out a sigh. “At least it’s good.”
“Cook hates doing his job but he’s good at it.”
“Why do you keep calling him Cook?”
“That’s actually his last name, believe it or not.”
She gave a fry one dubious smile then popped it in her mouth. “All right, fair enough.”
I sipped my whiskey and craned my head toward the front door as it opened and two guys walked inside. The first one was tall and rail thin with a busy head of messy straw-colored hair and a lopsided smile. The guy behind him was half his height and built like a bulldog: huge jaw, huge muscles, bald hair, pissed-off glare.
I waved them over. The tall guy sat next to me and leaned onto the bar with one elbow. “How’s it going, boss?”
“Enrico, Aldrik. Thanks for coming.”
“You tell us to jump, we jump,” Aldrik grunted and ran a hand over his smooth head. “This your wife?”
“Boys, meet Cora.”
Cora held up a fry. “Nice to meet you both.”
“She doesn’t mean that,” I said.
Enrico laughed. “Aw, what, we’re not your favorites anymore?”
I nodded at Aldrik. “Sit down, you’re making me nervous.”
He barked a laugh and sat on the other side of Enrico. Marlon came over with beers for each of them and the boys dropped cash on the table as a tip. Me and my guys didn’t pay
for drinks in the Daughter, but I made sure they took care of the staff.
“I’m guessing you two know about what happened.”
Aldrik leaned over Enrico. “You want us to hunt them down, boss?”
“Easy there.” I smiled at him, sipped my whiskey.
Enrico pushed Aldrik back. “He’s got a point. We can’t let that stand.”
“I agree with you both, but we need to do a few things first.”
“Like what?” Enrico asked.
“I need you to find where Jarvis has been holed up these last few years.”
“I heard rumors,” Enrico said. “Not sure how good they are, but apparently he’s putting together a crew out west. All Irish guys, you know what I mean? Some white power shit.”
I rolled my eyes. “The Jarvis I knew didn’t go for that sort of shit.”
“Hey, boss, just telling you what I hear.”
“Regardless, I want to know where he’s dealing, who he’s selling to, everything. He came at me hard and I’m not going to hold back.”
“We can do that,” Aldrik said. “No problem. How many guys you want on it?”
“As many as we can spare, but don’t stop selling to do it. I don’t want the city to think we’re gearing up for war.”
The guys went silent and looked at each other. I could read their expressions and I felt my jaw clench. They looked confused, like I just said something stupid.
The dumb bastards. They thought like every other asshole in this city. Every time there was a little hint of violence between gangs, suddenly that meant a war was about to break out—but I wanted to avoid war at all costs. That didn’t mean we weren’t going to mount an offensive and punish Jarvis for what he did, but we didn’t have to be obnoxious about it.
I’d make sure Jarvis burned. There was no doubt in my mind that he’d pay for hurting Cora like that—I wasn’t about to let the city freak out about it though.
“Ain’t that what we’re doing?” Aldrik asked. “I mean, he tried to kill you.”
“You’re right, but it’s not war, not yet.”
“Uh. Right, okay, boss.” Enrico frowned and shook his head.
I reached out and grabbed his arm, squeezing tight. His eyes went wide and he flinched back. I couldn’t let them think I was going soft, not right now. Men like Enrico and Aldrik responded to brutality and strength, and even if I had a good reason to take it easy and go slow, they wouldn’t quite understand.
They weren’t the brightest men in the world, but they were ruthless, efficient, and effective. I kept them around for a reason.
“Don’t misunderstand me,” I said, my voice a low growl. “We’re going to gut Jarvis and piss on his intestines. But I don’t want a full-blown war, not right now. Do you understand?”
“Sure, boss.”
I squeezed his arm hard, fingers digging into his muscle. I wanted to rip it off and beat him bloody—but realized I was projecting my anger onto the wrong person. I released him and picked up my whiskey, slamming it back in one go as he rubbed the spot where I’d grabbed.
“We don’t have time for a war right now,” I said. “The city’s on the edge and if we push it over in the wrong direction, things might go to shit. Trust me when I say that it’s better if we take care of this as fast and as quietly as we can.”
“All right, I got it,” Enrico said, looking at Aldrik.
“I can do fast and quiet.” Aldrik chugged half his beer and burped.
“That’s how you do all the girls,” Enrico said. “Fast and quiet, you fucking prick.”
Aldrik laughed and punched Enrico in the arm. “Shut up, you needle-dicked cocksucker.”
“You two can flirt somewhere else,” I snapped, feeling my mood darken. “Get out there and find me Jarvis. Don’t make any other moves, only find him and get a feel for his crew. You understand?”
“Roger that.” Enrico hopped up, his beer untouched. “We’ll start tonight.”
“Sure, boss.” Aldrik burped and followed Enrico out to the door.
I watched them go, frowning. Those idiots might screw this up. Maybe I should’ve called someone else, someone smarter and more discreet, but those two were my best street guys, my most violent and dependable men. They were loyal to a fault and if something went bad, it wouldn’t be because they didn’t care—if anything, they cared way too much.
“What do you think of all this?” I asked, keeping my voice low as Marlon refreshed my drink.
Cora raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you’re asking me?”
“Yeah, I’m asking you.”
“I didn’t realize you cared what I thought.”
“Now you’re being dramatic.”
She snorted. “I don’t think I am, but okay, sure.”
“So? What do you think?”
“I think you’re right to take it slow.”
I grunted and tossed back half my drink. “But?”
“Those two didn’t seem happy about it.”
“Those two would sooner kill you than shake your hand.”
“They sound like real gentlemen.”
“They’re more or less monsters, but that’s the sort of man I need around me in times like this.”
She swirled her wine and stared at the bottles lining the wall across from us. A couple more people came in through the door, an older woman with tattoos on her arms and her husband in baggy faded denim.
“Are you sure about that?” She ate another French fry then nudged the plate in my direction.
I took one and swallowed it down. It tasted like grease and salt though I wasn’t much in the mood for eating.
“The whole point of our marriage was to keep the city from freaking out about Hedeon taking over the Volkov family. We’re supposed to show that we’re stable and not interested in violence.”
“And yet here we are.” She took a fry and twirled it in the air. “Not doing such a good job.”
I gave her a look. “What do you suggest we do?”
“Negotiate.”
I shook my head. “Fuck that.”
“Why not?”
“They tried to kill us.”
“Yes, they did.”
“And they stole money from me.”
“They sure did.”
“So why in the seven fucks would I ever negotiate with them?”
“Because what else can you do?”
I shook my head. She didn’t get it. In her world, negotiating was a possibility, but that wasn’t something that happened in mine. When a man shot you, you didn’t turn around and talk to him the next day. No, you shot back, and you made sure you didn’t miss. That was how it worked on the street.
Except in this instance, that was exactly what I didn’t want. Dropping more bodies after what happened yesterday would be a nightmare. I was already in deep shit with Hedeon and waiting for the axe to drop there—his silence was as deafening as those gunshots. I couldn’t start shooting back and risk making another scene. That might set the whole damn city on fire.
“I can’t negotiate,” I said. “But maybe there’s another way.”
“He came after you for the money, right?”
“Jarvis has always dreamed big.”
“So for money and to make himself stronger. That’s not something you can back down from, but maybe you can offer him something that’ll make him happy and at least leave you alone for a while.”
“I doubt that exists.” I shook my head. “Sorry to say it, little wife, but I can’t take half measures here.”
Before she could argue, her cell began to ring. She took it from her bag, frowned at the screen, and turned it to me.
It said VINCENT.
“Answer,” I said.
She held the phone up to her ear. “Hello?” She silently listened and her frown got deeper and deeper. I felt anxious, shifting in my seat. Vincent would be as mad as Hedeon, if not even worse, and I could only imagine what he was saying to her. Probably telling her to divorce me right now and
bail out before shit got worse.
She hung up the phone without saying another word. “He wants to see us.”
“See us?” I raised an eyebrow. “What’d he have to say?”
“Just that he wants to see us.”
“You were listening for a while. I kind of doubt that’s all he said.”
She glared at me. “He might’ve been reminding me what I have at stake in this little marriage.”
I barked a laugh. “Already threatening you. Smart man.”
“Fuck off.” She shoved a bunch of fries in her mouth and swallowed them with wine like a fist-full of pills then got up. “Come on. He wants to see us right now.”
“And if I’ve got something better to do?”
She rolled her eyes. “Let’s go.”
I watched her ass sway across the bar in those tight jeans before getting up to follow. I might as well see this thing through, even if going to see the Leone family boss was about the last thing I wanted in the entire world.
8
Cora
I hated coming back to the Leone family mansion.
It was a huge building that dominated an entire city block. From the outside, it looked as though it was a normal row of brick-front houses, each with its own stoop and front door—but anyone that knew anything about the Leones knew that it was all a facade, a front, a fake. There was one door that actually worked, and the rest were barricaded from the inside.
The mansion was enormous and it hid right in plain sight. Only people in the know ever realized that a mafia owned such a large section of Philly real estate and used it as a home and clubhouse. It was one of the most extravagant things about the Leone family—and they weren’t a family known for being modest.
Reid parked out front and stepped onto the curb. I marched up the stoop in front of him and knocked on the door. He said nothing, only lingered on the street with his arms crossed, a look of mild annoyance on his face. The door swung open—and Dante stared out at me, a crooked grin on his lips.
Dante was the second in command of the Leone family left in Philly. He was a tall man, handsome, dark hair, dark eyes, and a killer through and through. He was my cousin’s closest friend and I’d known him for a very long time—but we never quite got along.
