by Cora Kenborn
Isn’t he?
“Lucky guess.” He tips the bottle back again.
I contemplate ending this game of show and tell right now. Sure, I want the tit for tat Dominic promised, but I’d rather not spill more truth all over the blood I’ve already shed.
But I should’ve known when Dominic McCallum smells blood, he doesn’t back down.
Tipping his head back, he runs his tongue along the back of his teeth. “I’m guessing life on the streets wasn’t all wine and roses.”
“Shockingly, there’s not a lot of opportunity out there for a sixteen-year-old runaway.”
Well, none that are legal, anyway.
I cringe thinking of the dirty alleys I slept in and the garbage I ate just to survive. Always on guard and always on the move, solitude was my only friend until I met Violet. Until the seductive siren call of Hollywood drew us in and then spit us out.
I shake my head. “Eventually, all of us end up at the same place.” I quickly avert my eyes. “I think that’s when I became a true actress. Just to escape from reality, I’d check out and someone else would take over. That’s when Jade Saxton was born.”
“So Last First Kiss—”
I glare up at him. “Was a small supporting role that I earned standing on my own two feet, not lying on my back. My life hasn’t been easy, but dreams come with a price.”
I’m not an idealist. I don’t expect comfort from the man responsible for tearing those dreams to shreds and then tossing them in the air like confetti. But I sure as hell don’t expect a condescending smack in the face, either.
Dominic swings his legs off the chair and leans forward, a smirk playing on his lips as he hooks a finger under my chin. “And thanks to me, you’re still paying it, right?”
As I suspected, this was nothing but a ploy to chip away at my armor while his remains a thick wall of fortified granite. And like an idiot, I fell for it.
I should be furious. I should punch his face until it’s not so damn pretty. Until I can look at it without this stupid flutter and ache and want. Because the only thing I should desire is to unleash twelve months of pent-up anger.
Instead, what am I doing? Leaning into his touch. Remembering the feel of his lips on my skin. Wishing for more from a man I hate.
His grip tightens, and my breath quickens.
Kiss me.
“Angel,” he groans, his eyes dropping to where his thumb traces my bottom lip. The distance between us erases until all that remains is a breath.
I close my eyes and count the seconds. Hating this. Wanting this.
Dominic’s nose dips into my hair, and I take a shuddering breath. “You’re drunk,” I mumble.
“Yeah, but you’re sober,” he whispers in my ear before pulling back. “So I’m not taking advantage of you. If you want me to stop, just get up and leave. But if you don’t”—standing, he swings his leg over my lounger and straddles it, his hand reaching for the button on my shorts—“just enjoy what I probably won’t remember in the morning.”
His twisted logic makes it so easy to justify. If he doesn’t remember, and I never speak of it, then technically, it never happened. While I rationalize a bad decision, Dominic takes my silence as confirmation and has not only undone the button on my shorts, but has pulled down the zipper and shoved his hand inside.
I gasp, throwing my head back as his finger slides in between my folds. “Fuck,” he groans. “Soaking wet, just like I imagined.”
His slow, torturous strokes are going to be the death of me. I know I’ll hate myself for this tomorrow, but right now, I don’t care. Moaning, I grab the back of the lounge chair, anchoring myself as I shift my hips, trying to force more.
“Greedy girl,” he growls, his hand diving deeper. He dips the tip of his index finger in my opening then pulls it out. “How bad do you want it?”
I hold my breath, both anxious and fearful of what he’s going to do to me. The wild look in his eyes is animalistic and primitive. Almost as if his goal is to break me. As his finger sinks into me, I close my eyes, moaning his name as a wave of heat consumes me.
Then a bright light flashes, and both the heat and his finger disappear. I blink just as Dominic swears and shifts back onto his chair, his fists clenched on his thighs. A wall slams over his face, and whatever moment existed between us is now gone.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, scrubbing a hand across his face.
Sorry? That’s it? That’s all he has to say?
My face burns with shame as I button my shorts. Things are so awkward I don’t know what to say or where to look. So, I concentrate on the hand covering his mouth.
I can’t take my eyes off it.
“What’s that?” I blurt out, pointing at the tattoo on top of his hand.
“Nothing.” But the sharp catch in his voice says otherwise.
Ignoring him, I tug on his wrist. “Let me see it.” Cradling his palm in mine, I run a finger across faded lines and foreign script. A jolt of electricity sizzles through me as grainy images flash through my mind. I trace the inked cross, swirling the tip of my finger around the words I don’t understand. “What does this mean?”
“Nothing anymore.”
He doesn’t offer any further explanation, and I don’t ask. Maybe Violet was right. Dominic has made a living out of playing people. Why would I be any different? Ever since he blew into my life, my brain feels like a giant puzzle with missing pieces.
“Angel, you okay?”
On edge, I drop his hand. “I’m fine.” We’ve gone around in circles since I walked out here, so I pull the trigger and go for a direct hit. “Why do you know so much about the Romanov murders?”
His face hardens. “Why do you ask so many questions?”
“Why do you keep deflecting?”
“I’m in the business of uncovering hidden truths, aren’t I?” he slurs, the whiskey hitting him harder. “What’s more hidden than an unsolved murder and a missing kid? Besides, detective work is a hobby of mine.”
I give him a side-eyed glance. “You carry around a picture of her. I’d say that’s more than a hobby.”
“Angel, I—” Dominic flinches as another quick succession of flashes goes off just over the green wall. His jaw clenches, his anger palpable. “Fucking parasites,” he grumbles under his breath while rising to his feet. He’s still drunk, but the sudden rush of adrenaline pumping through his veins dilutes the alcohol, making him more coherent.
Paparazzi.
I arch an eyebrow. “Aren’t you one of those fucking parasites?”
Grumbling out an intelligible response, he wraps a hand around my upper arm and drags me to my feet. “Inside, now.”
I want to protest, but his voice takes on that commanding tone that causes me to lose control of my common sense. As soon as we’re back inside, Dominic slams the glass door and closes the vertical blinds, the scowl sinking deeper into his chiseled features.
“I forgot how relentless those assholes can be.”
For the first time since putting this whole ruse in motion, he looks exhausted. There are dark circles under his eyes and days-worth of stubble surround the lines around his mouth. And it’s not just the alcohol; it’s as if he hasn’t rested in months.
“Are you okay?”
He nods, barely saying two words to me as he shows me to the guest room. I risk a quick glance up at him, noticing some of the earlier tension has faded from his face. I shouldn’t say anything. I promised myself I wouldn’t. But this is eating away at me.
“Dominic, what happened out there—”
“Can’t happen again.”
I blink. “What?”
He leans against the door frame, folding his arms across his chest, a distant look in his eyes. “Until that million-dollar check is cashed and cleared, we can’t give anyone a reason to question you. Besides, this is a temporary business arrangement, nothing more.”
There.
Right there is the man I built Dominic McCallum up to be in
my head. The asshole behind the computer. The monster wielding a pen in one hand and a sword in the other, but at the end of the day, they’re both the same.
“Right,” I say flatly. “Nothing more.”
He nods, his dark hair falling over his forehead. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life, Alexandra Romanov.”
My stomach roils at the way that sounds.
Dominic slips away without another word, which is just as well. My mind is already preoccupied with what tomorrow will bring.
More paparazzi. More questions. More lies.
By the time I finally drift off to sleep, it’s anything but restful.
Pennies.
I smell pennies.
Lowering my arm, I blink, staring at the floor and adjusting my blurry eyes to the darkness. I’m not alone. A pair of dark boots shuffle as they move toward me.
One step. Two steps. Three steps. Four steps. Five steps.
The scent of pennies grows stronger the closer the boots come. When they’re right in front of me, they stop, and I stare, knowing my choices will end in consequences.
“It’s time to go, little one. Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life.”
A strangled gasp tears from my throat as I sit straight up in bed.
Chapter Sixteen
Dominic
Slamming the car door, I squint as the sun flips a middle finger and smacks me right in the face. Mornings are not my friend, but this one is extra shitty for multiple reasons. One of them being the raging hangover that’s stabbing into my brain with a rusty icepick.
I admit, downing half a bottle of whiskey last night wasn’t the brightest idea. With a lawn-full of paparazzi foaming at the mouth, I should have kept my wits about me. I should have kept Angel inside and contained. I should have kept an eye on her while keeping my distance.
I should’ve kept my hands to myself.
I don’t know what I was thinking. Actually, that’s just it—I wasn’t thinking. At least not with the head that mattered. Thankfully, the paparazzi were still fucking around on the front lawn, or who knows what might have happened.
Not true. I know damn well what would’ve happened. I would’ve had her bent over that lounge chair screaming my name until she was hoarse.
There’s something about her that gets under my skin. For some fucked up reason, I have this insane need to protect her as I exploit her. Even though she’s determined to hate me almost as much as I’m determined not to care.
News flash. It’s not working.
Sometimes determination lands you right back where you started—swimming in a pile of shit.
And that’s where I am right now—standing outside a giant pile of shit. A half green, half white painted building I swore I’d never step foot in again, much less be summoned to like a goddamn servant.
Yet here I am.
Dominic McCallum, at your service.
I glance up, gritting my teeth as Monty’s Auto Body Repair Shop glares back at me in big, block letters. One of LA’s finest full-service garages. Guaranteed to tune your car in the front and wash your money in the back.
Grimacing, I squint again, pressing my thumb against my temple to counteract the incessant drilling in the side of my head. I should’ve expected this. The minute my phone rang last night, I knew who was calling. Not because he gave a shit, but because the bastard still thinks I owe him. Because he’s concerned about his own ass. Or maybe because he read the blast and dollar signs shot out of his ass faster than a two-dollar taco.
Letting out a breath, I open the door, wincing at the obnoxiously loud jingle. Walking into the muted yellow office feels strange and familiar at the same time. It’s like visiting your childhood home and seeing a new family playing in the front yard. A part of you belongs to it, but it no longer belongs to you.
That’s some deep shit I don’t care to delve into with a hangover.
“Dominic, what a surprise.” Sofia’s red lips curve in a forced smile as she stares up at me over her computer.
I’d roll my eyes, but it’d aggravate my headache, and this bitch isn’t worth the ibuprofen. “Where is he?” I ask. Forget it. I’m fresh out of fucks to give, so I don’t wait for an invitation. I’m around her desk and headed down the long hallway toward the office at the end. The one with the permanently closed door. To enter requires an invitation, and to exit, well, sometimes that depends on the mood of the man sitting behind the desk.
“Asshole!” Sofia yells at my back.
I flip my middle finger over my shoulder and keep walking.
By the time I get to his door, my irritation morphs into something darker and it boils over as I walk in without knocking.
A cardinal sin in his world.
In an instant, the pungent, peppery smell of cigar smoke hits me. For some odd reason, Angel’s voice comes barreling back. “California smoking ordinance states you have to be twenty feet away from a building to light up, champ.”
True. But ordinances are laws.
And laws don’t apply to Luciano Ricci.
Hearing the unmistakable clicks, I slide my gaze from his left to his right where I’m staring down the barrels of two guns. I’m not surprised—annoyed, but not surprised.
“If you wanted to shoot me, Luciano, you could’ve at least done it out there and saved me from having to deal with Sofia.”
“Ay!” Carlo pipes up, his eyebrows pinched together. “That’s my daughter you’re talking about!”
Luciano raises his hand, unfazed at Carlo’s outburst. “Leave us.”
No one questions him. Both men lower their guns, glaring at me as they walk out the door. Once we’re alone, Luciano regards me quietly. I assume he’s assessing if I barged into his office armed.
Of course, I did.
You don’t run with wolves and then walk into the forest without a flashlight.
He leans forward, tucking the cigar in between his teeth as he rests his elbows on the desk. “Entering a room without knocking first is disrespectful.”
Even through the puff of smoke I see his confident smirk. The man has a forbidding presence that dominates a room. From his swept-back silver hair to his gray double-breasted Italian suit, to his silk tie, Luciano Ricci commands attention. Unlike most, he enjoys the spotlight, choosing not to conceal himself from the public eye, but rather embrace his celebrity gangster persona. A choice that the boss of the Vitoli family doesn’t necessarily agree with.
Not that it matters. Luciano has had as many trials as hair plugs, but the FBI never manages to make anything stick. The media will tell you it’s because of insufficient evidence.
Bullshit.
It’s because he pays off the FBI, fucks their sisters, and eats dinner at their mothers’ houses on Sundays. And once upon a time, I sat next to him at the table.
Holding his stare, I cross the office. His fingers scissor around that damn cigar, but he doesn’t say a word until I sink into the leather chair in front of his desk and rap my knuckles on it three times. “There, I knocked. Happy?”
He barely blinks. “Boy, do you have a death wish?”
I shrug. “Maybe I do.”
Luciano smiles. It’s not pleasant. It’s because he gets off on the chase more than the kill. A demented hunter who prefers to play with his food before he devours it. He may have me in his crosshairs, but I’ll be damned if I’ll dance around while he pulls the trigger.
“I told you seventeen years ago, you keep fucking with the wrong people and someday you’ll get your wish.”
“Let me guess, today’s the day.”
His smile fades. “It’s coming sooner than you think if you keep pulling shit like you did last night.”
“What does it matter to you, Luciano?”
“You know damn well why it matters to me!” he roars, slamming his fist onto the desk. “Don’t push me, Dominic. I love you like a son, but if you act like a traitor, I’ll treat you like one.”
“
For the good of the family, right?”
“Yes, for the good of the family. We have enough to worry about without you creating an international shitstorm.” His brow creases. “What the hell are you thinking, passing off some cocktail waitress as a dead heiress? Do you know what kind of unnecessary attention you could cause us?”
I roll my eyes. “Give me a fucking break. You live for attention. If you had your way, you’d strap a mirror to Carlo’s back and make him walk in front of you so you can admire yourself.”
“That’s the second time you’ve disrespected me. Don’t let there be a third, son.”
“I’m not your fucking son. You made that perfectly clear when Greg Rosten sued my ass, and you slammed the door in my face.”
“I told you not to write the damn expose. You didn’t listen.”
“And you didn’t give me a good enough reason not to.”
“Because—”
“Because ‘he owns Hollywood’ doesn’t cut it, Luciano,” I say, cutting him off. Grabbing the edge of his desk, I jab my finger onto the sleek wood. “That man is the reason my mother doesn’t know who the hell she is half the time. Because of him, I spent my childhood begging strangers for change. And thanks to him half of Hollywood thinks auditions should come with a complimentary blowjob.” I fling myself back into the chair. “He’s an overrated producer, not God.”
“You want to talk about God, boy?” he snaps, spitting the words at me. “What about you playing God with your mother’s life?”
Bastard. She’s exactly the reason I came crawling to him in the first place. The fact he dares to use her as a pawn makes me twist my fingers around the arms of the chair just to keep from reaching across the desk and strangling him with his own tie.
“Say what you have to say, Luciano. I have a busy day ahead of me.”
He narrows his gaze. “And what is it you think I have to say?”
“That you want a piece of the action. But no risk means no reward. Which also means if you think you’re getting a dime of that money, you can suck my dick.”
