by Blake York
As if he knows this, he steps back, allowing me a foot in the door.
“My name is Rossi.”
His eyes flare wider. One is pinched on the corner, swollen from a recent beating. “Rossi.”
I give him a nod.
“Come in.” He opens the door to allow me by him, and I let my broad shoulder brush his as I pass. Intimidation factors into everything in this life. I learned young that you can never let a chance to show your dominance slip by.
The scent of cooking onions reaches me, and I stop breathing through my nose. The odor seems to be taking over everything. I wonder how much money’s left for these people to live on. The mother’s surely blown through it on heroin, and the uncle is lower than low from what I’ve learned. He’ll stoop to any depth to get what he wants, without a hint of honor left in the man, if it was ever there in the first place.
We Rossis are dirty fighters. But we only hurt those who deserve it.
The security guy points at a chair. “Sit there. I’ll get Mr. Gallo.”
After the guy leaves the room, I swipe a fingertip over the dusty seat of the wood chair in the foyer. I was right—there can’t be much money left. They can’t even afford a maid.
I opt not to sit and stroll around the high-ceilinged space, noting how the mirror is streaked with grime. The floors dulled with dust and dirt. There’s nothing in the space to show me who lives here. No photos of the young girls who once occupied this space.
I can’t imagine much laughter and joy went on here, knowing what I do about Gallo’s underhanded dealings. It’s a wonder he didn’t die long before he did.
The man appears again. “Follow me.”
I do, staying a half step behind him, looming over his shoulder and prepared for a takedown if he came at me with a knife or weapon. But he does neither as he leads me to a dim office with shabby furnishings.
I come face to face with Johnny Gallo. His eyes narrow on me, and I damn near laugh. He thinks he can size me up, he’s wrong. Nobody knows what a Rossi is or what we’re capable of.
“Which one are you?” he demands from behind the cheap laminate desk.
“Warrick. I’m here on business.”
“What kind of business?”
The door quietly closes as the security thug leaves us. I face Gallo and size him up in a blink.
I know his kind. A power-hungry turd is still just a turd.
I drag up a chair and sink to it as if I own the joint. “I’d like to have Mrs. Gallo in on the conversation.”
“Angela?”
I nod.
“She’s unavailable.”
“Unavailable as if she’s upstairs cookin’?” I use the term for preparing heroin to shoot up.
He stares at me.
“Get the bitch. Now.”
I see his jaw work and know he wants to push back at me, but finally he realizes he’s outranked and he goes to the door. After speaking quietly to the security guard, he returns to his seat behind the desk.
“She’ll join us in a minute. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
I only smile to indicate I’d rather wait. Seconds later, a woman is shoved into the room.
She’s deadly thin and twitchy as fuck. She’s jonesing, but I’ll give her what she wants in a second—if she agrees.
“Angela, this is Warrick Rossi,” Gallo introduces me.
I wave a hand for her to sit. She crumples to the seat, her limbs like twigs that will snap under her slight weight.
“I won’t beat around the bush,” I say. “I’m here to ask for the hand of Everly Gallo.”
They both gape at me.
“Everly?” her mother whispers.
“What the fuck do you mean, her hand?” Gallo bursts.
“I want to marry her. Don’t get me wrong—I don’t need permission. I could have already had her. But I’m here to do things right with a contract.”
Gallo stares at me for so long I wonder if he’s having withdrawals too.
“The contract will mean you have no part of her life. You can never touch her or make contact with her again,” I convey.
Gallo sits back in his chair, understanding. The mom? She’s a lost cause, a bag of clothes and with a one-track mind like a child screaming for a bottle.
“Someone has already claimed her.” Gallo offers me a smile of nasty teeth.
I cross my legs, settling in for the negotiation. “Is that so? Moretti?”
Gallo nods.
I look around. It doesn’t take much to see they need money, bad. People like this wouldn’t hesitate to get it any way they can.
I stare Gallo in the eyes. “What’s she going for?”
“Half a million,” Angela blurts out.
I see from her face that she’s lying, trying to extort more for her daughter than what Moretti is promising.
I reach into my jacket and pull out a thick wad of strapped bills and toss it on the desk. “This is a retainer. I’ll give you a million.”
Their jaws drop. Angela reaches for the cash, but Gallo plucks it off the desk and pockets it before she gets her hands on it.
I stand and walk to the door. “The rest will be delivered to you by the end of the day, along with a contract. Sign it and give it to the delivery person,” I toss out over my shoulder.
I need to get the hell out of here and take a shower to wash away the filth of people like this. I fucking hate rubbing elbows with junkies and low-lifes.
The security guard sees me out, and I drag in a deep breath of fetid air. A million dollars is nothing to my family.
And I just know my new wife will be worth it.
Everly
The warm, homey scent of bread fills my bakery. I draw in a deep breath as I open the oven to pull out the tray of yeast rolls and nearly swoon with hunger.
I’m a bread whore. If I wasn’t afraid for my waistline, I’d bake a fresh batch daily. But today I’m giving in to temptation. No matter how I had to do it, I just paid off my little sister’s tuition bill. It’s cause for celebration.
I set the tray down on the rack to cool and pull off my oven mitts. Leaning over the tray, I breathe in the yeasty, buttery scent like it’s my own personal calming essential oils.
“A few more minutes, and then I’m going to eat one of you.” Yes, I talk to my baked goods. All good bakers do.
The tinkle of the bell over the door alerts me that I’ve got a customer. When I turn from the oven, I stop dead in my tracks.
Nick Moretti’s in my store for the third time this week.
“Get the hell out.” I bite the words off, hoping that this time he takes the hint and doesn’t make me take action against him. I can have him banned from my bakery and served with orders to stay away from me and Melody.
I’m not a fighter at heart. The only time I tried to take control of my life, somebody shot and murdered my father before I got the chance.
Nick leans on the counter as if settling in for a long chat. He slicks a hand through his hair, drawing furrows through the oiled strands. He’s in street clothes again, all black, with fat knuckle rings that tell me he’s doing well with my daddy’s business.
“Why would I leave when I have such a pretty view?” His compliments sicken me.
“Get. Out,” I say in a stronger voice.
“Aww, c’mon, Everly. Do you know how many years I’ve waited for the day when I’d make you my bride?”
Ice jams in my veins, making it impossible for my blood to flow normally. I flex my frigid fingers and get ready to call the cops to get rid of him.
“I’m not marrying you. So you can stop wasting your time.” I reach toward my back pocket for my phone.
In a move so fast that he’s a blur, he leaps over the counter, grabs me by the throat and shoves me against the back counter where my yeast rolls are cooling. My hunger’s long gone, replaced by frantic terror.
I weigh my chances of escape. I can smash the hot tray across his face and make a run for
it, but it won’t stop him from returning tomorrow and the next day and the next.
Unless somebody walks through that door right this minute, I’m alone with Nick.
Panic bubbles in my throat, but I manage to gulp it back down.
“I’m never marrying you. You better leave Detroit.”
“Or what?” He laughs, so close to my face that his hot, smelly breath washes into my nose.
“Or I’ll get my friends to drive you out.”
He starts to laugh. “Friends? I’ve been watching you for weeks, Everly. You don’t leave this place. You sleep in the back room.”
My stomach bottoms out at the thought that he’s broken into my room or spied on me through the window facing the alley.
“You’re wrong.” I push all my bravado into my voice. “I have friends, and you’re going to be sorry when they teach you a lesson.”
I’m lying through my teeth, and I hope he doesn’t know it. His fingers stretch along my neck, squeezing lightly. If he chooses to choke the life out of me, I doubt I’m strong enough to put up much of a fight.
Oh god. Melody. What will become of her?
My heart’s thumping so hard and fast that dizziness strikes in a wave, pulling me under. His big body traps my hands between us, and I can’t even reach for my phone.
I can’t just stand here, though.
A scream rips from my lips. I flail and buck, managing to smash my forehead off his mouth.
A bellow of rage bursts from him right before he slams his mouth over mine. The salt and copper of his blood make my stomach heave.
Suddenly, a thump sounds and next thing I know, Nick crumples to the floor.
Stunned with confusion and fear, I star down at him but see no reason why he dropped.
Then a big, warm, callused finger strokes along my cheek. I snap my gaze up into a set of coal black eyes.
“You!” I manage to whisper.
“You all right, Gallo?” The guy from the party is standing in my bakery, behind the counter with me. He’s the reason why Nick’s not getting up.
“Did you kill him?” I look from the body of the man on the floor and back to the other standing like an avenging angel before me.
My savior.
My mind’s quick to jump to conclusions, but I can’t be sure this guy’s not standing in line to attack me next.
He cocks a dark brow at me. “You want me to kill him?”
My mouth works, my jaw snapping shut and dropping open again.
He takes me by the arm and leads me out from around the counter. When he stops, I lean heavily against the glass case filled with scones and buns with beautiful decorations on top.
“Breathe, Everly.”
“How—how do you know my first name?”
“It’s pretty easy if you know where to look.”
“I-I don’t know who you are.” I wrap my arms around my middle and study his face.
He’s dark and dangerous, I know from one look.
Yet he’s saved me twice now. What does that say about his character?
“I’m Warrick Rossi.”
Rossi. As in the son of the biggest mobster in Chicago. Right here in my bakery, and I know he’s not here to pay me thousands of dollars for my cookies.
“What do you want? I want nothing to do with that life anymore. It died with my father.” I resist the urge to spit at his memory.
“I’m not here because of your family—I’m here for you.”
I blink up at him. He’s tall. Taller than any of my other boyfriends. And I can’t see his muscles under the leather coat and black shirt he sports, but I just know his entire body is stacked with lean, sinewy muscle.
“I don’t understand.” My statement comes out too hoarse. I don’t like him knowing that his presence scares the hell out of me.
“Of course you don’t.” His tone’s almost soothing. He moves his hand, and I brace myself for his touch again. I still feel the scald from the stroke of his finger over the crest of my cheek. My whole face feels on fire.
Instead, he reaches into his leather and pulls out a folded paper. He opens it up and lays it on the glass top of the case.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“A contract.”
“For cookies?”
He issues a low laugh that warms me in other places. With a shake of his head, a strand of hair shifts into his blazing black eye.
“I have no need for cookies. I’m here for something sweeter.”
A groan sounds from behind the counter as Nick starts to rouse. Panic strikes me, and I snatch up the paper and read the first line.
Contract for Agreement of Marriage
I don’t get further before I toss the sheet on the floor. “I’m not marrying Nick! If you’re here to back him up in scaring me—intimidating me—then you’re wrong! I refuse to marry that man!”
Warrick Rossi waves a hand as if the man on the floor is a cockroach worthy of no thought. “Not him. Me. I’m going to take you away from this life of scrabbling for money to make rent and pimping enough rolls to pay your sister’s school tuition.”
My mouth falls open. “How do you know about that?”
“Like I said, it’s easy to find if you know where to look. Listen, Everly. I need a wife, and you need protection.”
I stare at him. Do I need protection? Until Nick showed up a few days ago, it didn’t cross my mind. My father’s dead, after all. My mother doesn’t give a damn if her daughters are alive. Then there’s my uncle… I shudder to think of that evil, twisted man and what might have happened to me at his hands if he’d actually gained custody of us over my grandmother.
“Know that any fight you put up, Everly, is futile. The contract doesn’t need your signature to be valid.”
“What?” I peer at the ink scrawled on the lines.
My blood turns from ice to boiling lava.
“My mother signed this? And my uncle?” My scream fully wakes Nick, and he sits up, rubbing his hand over his head. Then he looks down at the wet spot formed on the crotch of his pants.
Whatever means Warrick Rossi used to knock Nick out rendered him incontinent.
Warrick heaves a heavy sigh as if he’s put out by this asshole waking up. “Just a minute,” he tells me. Then he reaches over the counter, fists Nick’s shirt front and yanks him over the top.
He lands with a thump and a loud grunt but doesn’t move again.
Warrick steps around him and returns to me. This time he touches my cheek, he’s looking into my eyes with an expression that steals any protest off my lips.
“If you marry me, you have the Rossi name. And protection for the rest of your days.”
“And if I don’t?” I resist the urge to lean into the touch of his warm fingertip.
He stares deep into my eyes. “You can’t refuse. I paid for you.”
“P…” I blink. “Paid? Money?”
“A million dollars, baby. Now pick up that paper and I’ll take out this trash.” He looks down at the man folded in half, passed out, and shakes his head with disgust.
I snatch the paper and bring it to my eyes again, skim-reading the text there in legal terms that I don’t fully understand but can get the gist of from signing papers for the bakery lease and business loan.
Warrick drags Nick’s limp body across the blue and white checkered tile to the door. He kicks it open and throws him out onto the street.
Then he turns to me.
“A million dollars is a lot of money,” I say.
His lips twist into what might be the closest he ever comes to a smile. “Then you’d better be worth it.”
Chapter IV
Everly
I don’t know how it all happened, but suddenly I’m standing in a beautiful bedroom in the Rossi mansion, stepping into a vintage lace wedding gown.
None of this can be real. It’s not my life.
Yesterday I was a mafia daughter making her humble way with a bakery on the corner, singlehanded
ly supporting my little sister. Then in walks this gorgeous man claiming he’s the son of the crime family in Chicago. The top dogs, head honchos.
And he’s paid good money for me.
How am I supposed to react to that? Of course I’m furious.
Why do I keep returning to the memory of him reaching out and stroking his finger over my cheek? That fingertip seemed to touch something deep in me. Deeper than anyone’s ever touched before.
I was afraid of my reaction to Warrick, but I couldn’t move. He pinned me in place with those dark, broody eyes.
I never thought of myself as weak, but I am. God help me, I want to end the fear of not having enough money for my business overhead or to put food in my little sister’s belly. To pay rent on my shop and keep the meager one-room apartment on the back of the bakery as a roof over my head.
And I’m weak enough that I crave Warrick’s touch again.
Something inside me knew deep down that I’d never truly be free of this life. I tried to fight. But Nick found me easy enough. He preyed upon my weakness and made me offers I couldn’t turn down.
I’m just relieved that Warrick Rossi made me a better offer.
Is it really an offer to me? I was bought and sold, like a cow at auction.
In about five minutes, I’m going to become the wife of the man who paid for me.
Like I said, I’m weak. I grabbed at his promise of protection from Warrick, even knowing he will only break me in all ways. I need protection for Gabrielle too, so she doesn’t suffer the same fate someday.
A maid shimmies the lace gown over my curves. I slip my arms into the thin rhinestone straps and face the mirror as she zips me into the gown.
As soon as I see my reflection, I gasp. I’m surrounded by candlelight that would be romantic if not for the reason I’m here.
A single tear glides down my cheek, cutting through the powder makeup the maid applied.
She clucks her tongue and fixes it. When I’m powdered once more, I gather my short train and turn for the door of the suite.
Descending the sweeping staircase makes me feel even more disconnected from my life. This can’t be me. I’m watching a silent film of a woman in a wedding dress going downstairs to meet her groom.
