by JL Mac
“Bet that happened in college, right?” She simply nods and I can see the resolve in her green eyes. She’s refusing to feel insecure about it. She’s fiery as fuck, this one.
“I like that,” I whisper, tugging her roughly to me. My cock pressed against her stomach. “Wanna know how much your sister sold for? Bein’ a virgin and all?” Her eyes grow wide but it’s unclear to me what emotion swims there in those emerald pools. There’s a lot I have to learn about Ena Devlin. It’s a damn good thing I’ve got all the fuckin’ time in the world. “Two-hundred-seventy-eight grand, Ena.”
She swallows hard, looking pale, her eyes are impossibly wide and round like a cat. She clutches at me like she may fall over. I walk her backward, holding her to me until her back meets the tiled wall. I pin her there and grind my cock into her soft flesh. “Thank you, Carrick,” she says it with reverence. Her eyes closed. The evil fuck in me can’t have her thinking she’s got me wrapped around her finger. Women are fucking monsters when they know they can manipulate the men in their lives to do their bidding.
“Don’t thank me, baby. This is a deal remember? I own you. I fully intend on getting my money’s worth out of you.” I say darkly stepping away from her. She sways but recovers, squaring her shoulders.
“Right.” She takes a deep breath in through her nose, her nostrils flaring slightly. “I intend to pay my debts,” she says confidently then sinks to her knees in front of me, her willful stubbornness and resolve to survive surprising me yet again.
Ever the warrior.
As requested, Murph has had Teeny held at the crew apartment. Mo, Chip, Rick and Mikey are here too. Mikey being the stubborn fucker that he is, insists that he’s fine and that Doc can handle him here if the need for help should arise. The guys are lingering around, waiting to see how things develop with the Italians and Russians today.
“Teeny, Teeny, Teeny,” I click my tongue as I shrug out of my jacket, draping it over the back of a dining table. The guys are sitting around the sectional sofa watching the show. I can’t blame them. Detective Santini looks like pure regurgitated hell. His hair is greasy, his eyes are dull and his skin has a filmy appearance, likely a symptom of the amount of alcohol he’s been tossing down lately. He sags pathetically into the folding chair he’s zip tied to. “Teeny, you won’t believe my Friday night. Guess where I went?” I say with mock exuberance. Teeny doesn’t respond, just waits for me to go on. He knows the drill. “I went shopping. Spent a whack of cash. Guess what I bought?” I smirk at him, enjoying the nervous glint in his dull brown eyes. “Women. Two women in particular. I bought a lovely Italian girl and an all American type girl from right here in Boston,” I say feigning shock and awe. “But you know what I found out after speaking with the two ladies I spent well over a quarter of a mill on?” I ask, arching my brows. I pluck my cuff links from my sleeves and casually roll my sleeves up, one and then the other. Teeny remains silent, the deer caught in the headlights look plastered on his face. I revel in the quivering of his bottom lip and chin.
“No guess? Okay, I’ll just tell you. They both told me that you took them. Now, Kevin, it’s obvious to me why you snatched the Princessa. I get it. You wanted to see a war unfold in hopes we’d all get at each other’s throats. Maybe a few of us would end up in the harbor and you’d… what? Ride off into the sunset, your tremendous debt forgotten in the slaughter? Washed away by all the blood?” I drag a chair noisily against the floor, positioning it close to the chair Teeny has been secured to.
Our knees are so close to touching you’d be lucky to get a sheet of paper between us. I cross one leg and lean back casually. “I must admit, you’re plan was fairly impressive and the truth is, you succeeded. At least partially. We have been warring. Bullets have flown. I’ve had guys hurt. One of my men died,” I growl jumping forward to get in his haggard face. “But you know none of that surprises me. I get you taking the Princessa. What I gotta know is what the fuck you were thinkin’ sellin’ the daughter of your murdered partner? Remember that guy? Haven’t you done enough to that family, Teeny? Don’t you have enough blood on your hands in that arena?”
His head hangs and his shoulders slump forward. Goddamn spineless. Ena has more balls in her pinky finger at any given time than this sack of dog shit could muster up in a lifetime.
“She saw me outside the club, just down the street,” he offers weakly. “She could have caused problems—n-not just for me but you know—for all of us—I was just trying to cover all of our asses.”
“Are you fuckin tellin’ me she was a casualty? An unfortunate coincidence?” Rage bubbles up, wrapping around my neck and snaking through my chest cavity. Anger and rage because of the woman I’ve claimed as mine, sitting in my home as I speak to this motherfucker.
“I—I was there to talk to Murphy about a fixed game. I knew he’d been dealing with the same bookmaker before. I owe money. I—I was on my phone with the bookie on the sidewalk and she was comin’ toward me. She saw me. She heard me—on the phone. I—I… ” he trails off too cowardly to spit the truth out.
“You owed the Bratva fucks a whack of cash and you saw a chance to pay the debt,” I conclude, nodding my head as I rub the coarse stubble on my jaw. “You stole the Princessa knowing it would stir the fuckin’ pot and implicate High Knoll. You wanted to distract from what you’d done. You wanted to start a war. Alana was just a little bonus on top,” I pace in front of him, talking aloud, putting the puzzle pieces together.
He begins to whimper and whine making my lip curl in disgust. “It’s going be nice seeing you die,” I lean down whispering into his ear. “Keep him here,” I order. “Alive,” I point a finger at the guys, amending my order. “You got it, boss,” Mo chirps, a lascivious grin in place. As I speed away from the apartment I have the brilliant and extremely strong urge to tell Ena how things went down and permit her five minutes with Teeny.
She’d kill him in two. Of that I am certain.
“Fifty percent of your territory,” I demand, casually picking lint off my silk tie. I would settle for less but why not aim high while I have him by the balls. The Capo agreed to a roundtable meeting, his inner circle and mine in attendance. No guns, no aggression, old school roundtable talks between less than law abiding citizens who happen to share the underground of Boston.
“Not happening,” the old Capo says with a shake of his head. Liver spots have formed on his face and scalp. His skin is tinted an odd yellow shade and I wonder how long he has. The fucker is half in the grave but like Orin, he’s not to be fucked with. Ruthless and unmatched in experience he’s a worthy opponent in every aspect aside from hand-to-hand fighting.
“Well, how do you expect to repay me?” I ask darkly, cocking my head, challenging him to try me. “You gimme, fifty percent, the cash back, eliminate the Bratva threat alongside High Knoll and I give you your Princessa and the fuck that sold her dies. He set us up over debt. He dies at your hand or mine, or perhaps we make that happen together. Take it or leave it but understand this, Boss,” I growl. “You comply, we make a nice deal benefitting both of us or we take the ugly road to nowhere and you bathe in blood, your Princessa goes back to the auction block, I handle her kidnapper how I see fit and I still win in the end. Your choice.” I lean against the leather at my back and play my hand with the calmest expression I can muster up. In truth, no matter how this fleshes out, I feel like I have already won. Check mate.
Because Ena is mine.
“I need proof,” he grits out through thin lips after a weighty stretch of silence. I watch his expression shift, reluctantly accepting the fact he has no choice in this matter and it’s a reasonable deal given the position he finds himself in. “Your girl,” I announce flicking the play button on the screen of my cell phone. She sniffles, sitting atop the bed Murphy provided for her and Alana in his personal home. She begins rattling off Italian, animatedly explaining she’d been taken by a man named Kevin and that she’d been recovered by the Irish, that’d be us, and we have
kept her safe but she desperately wants to come home.
“She’s fed, clean, clothed, untouched, respected, and has been attended to by our personal Doc,” I add, slipping my cell phone back into my breast pocket. Capo’s chest expands and caves with obvious relief and concession.
“When do you plan to strike The Russians?”
“Just as soon as you agree to my terms and our men can jointly formulate a plan.”
“Very well,” he concedes shaking my hand, sealing a very, very lucrative deal for High Knoll. On my way to Orin’s place I call Murph to let him know he needs to get the Italian girl ready.
“How’s Ena’s sister?”
“Quiet. She won’t speak, won’t eat… nothin’. She’s a ghost,” he says sounding… like something which is weird for Murphy. Murphy sounds like an answering machine on most days.
“Hmm,” I hum wondering how to handle that particular issue. It would be a shame to have her die now after so much was sacrificed in her name. “I’ll ask Doc about it. Stay with them until I iron out the drop off plans with the Capo.”
“Got it.”
I hang up as I am pulling into Orin’s place. He has always lived in the same house. I think it’s too difficult for him to imagine leaving the four walls that hold so many memories. He has no use for the five spare bedrooms but I doubt he will ever leave the place. I press the button on the intercom.
“Come on in,” Kathy, his housekeeper says through the speaker, the bolted front doors clicking, signaling she’s pressed the button to let me in. By the time I make it through the foyer, Kathy meets me, hugging me like I suppose a grandmother would. “He’s in the back,” she says over her shoulder leading me toward Orin’s rose garden at the rear of his home. He is shit at gardening but he loves it. I’ve spent countless hours out here with him toiling away with his roses. The first good memory I can recall after he took me in was in this very place, amongst these very same rose bushes. I’d been delivered to his house, dirty, hungry and scared. He’d been screwing around with the roses, cutting and clipping and attaching supports to the weak lower branches.
Carrick, 15 years old…
The two men shuffling my toward the backyard of this house make it impossible to run. The guns in their waistbands are definitely a big problem. I’m fifteen and fast but not faster than bullets. Would they really shoot me in Orin McCrae’s house? It’d make a huge mess.
They take me to a nice looking porch and nudge me onto the bricked floor of the area. I step out of the house and see a man—Orin—trimming bushes. I frown wondering what in the world Orin McCrae is doing work for. He has more money than God. He could pay a thousand guys to keep his yard nice.
“Boy,” he says waving me over.
“Mr. M—McCrae,” I nod. My heart is beating out of my chest. He doesn’t look scary but I know who he is—what he does.
“You can call me Orin,” he says, turning back to his work. “You like roses? I love roses,” he says. It confuses me. Is this a trick?
“I don’t know if I like roses,” I say choosing to be honest and just speak out loud. He stops what he’s doing and jerks his head, motioning for me to come to him. I swallow and check for the guys at my back. They are still there. I decide to be a man and go to him.
“Smell,” he demands, bending a rose stem forward. I glance at him and do as I’m told. “Sweetest flower, despite the thorns,” he says grabbing my finger and pricking the tip of it against a sharp thorn. I don’t flinch, I don’t jerk away. Pain is something I know. It can’t be used against me. Orin narrows his eyes at me and nods seeming to decide something.
“You will live here now,” he declares getting back to his roses. “Your father abandoned you without explanation. You never knew your mother. You will go to school. You will find a hobby to get involved in. You will do as you are told, you will keep your honor and loyalty to High Knoll and me and you will be just fine. Welcome to our family. Welcome home,” he says nodding.
“Y—yes sir, Or, I mean,” I stutter not sure what to say. I’ve never been glad or thankful that my dad was an employee of Orin McCrae the mob boss. I am now. I’ll fit in okay I think.
“Or,” I say gaining his attention. He shuffles around depositing his pruning sheers and gloves on the outdoor dining table under the awning covering his outdoor space. He prefers being outside when the weather is nice. He eats outdoors sometimes, even when the weather is shit. It’s something I picked up from him, I guess.
“Ah. Just in time,” he says shaking my hand and giving me a clap on the back. “Want to have an afternoon sip with me?”
It’s not truly a question. He doesn’t wait for a response either. He strides past me, headed in the direction of his office. We walk down the hall where framed pictures dot the walls. I’ve seen them but I’ve never really looked at them. Pictures of me. Of me in the ring at different times in my career. Of me standing beside my first car. Of us at my thirtieth birthday in Vegas. A warm feeling spreads in my chest and it makes me uncomfortable. It’s Ena’s fault. She has my head all screwed up. She makes me feel things.
“I’ll get it,” I offer wanting to busy myself with a distraction from the tightness in my chest.
What the fuck is my problem?
Orin flops back stiffly in the Queen Anne chair in front of his desk, grunting like old men do. I grab two glasses from the whiskey bar behind his desk and pour us both two fingers worth.
“Thank ya, my boyo,” he says taking his glass. “So what’s new, son?” He takes a long sip of the single malt I bought him for his birthday and hums his approval of the aged whiskey.
“Things are looking good for us.”
“For me, you, or the crew?”
“All of us,” I affirm.
“Capo cooperatin’ for you?”
“Didn’t give him much choice.”
“Good man,” he praises me then takes a long sip of his whiskey, humming his appreciation for the expensive shit again. “And your lady Frieda’s been lookin’ after?”
“What about her?”
Orin cocks his head squinting one eye challengingly—a lot like I do, I think absently. “Don’t play coy with me son. What is this and what’s your end game?”
“I made her a deal. She belongs to me. She sacrificed herself for the girl Teeny sold along with the Princessa. That’s another issue. Teeny’s gotta go.”
“You know,” he says plucking up a grainy picture sitting in a frame from the coffee table between us. “It’s a very different thing, owning a woman versus possessing her,” he says eyeing me, completely ignoring everything aside from the topic of Ena. He runs his hand across the top of the frame, wiping away invisible dust. It’s a folding frame that holds two pictures. Brass and stamped with a design along the edges. It’s ugly as fuck and outdated—an artifact from the late eighties no doubt.
I’ve seen the picture housed in it a thousand times. Still, he turns the frame so that I can see the picture of his late wife on one side of the frame. She was young, a teenager. It had to be maybe a year or two before she married Orin. On the other side is the child they never had the chance to know. It’s a photo of Orin in the hospital, holding the newborn to his chest, his hand clasped gently at the base of the baby’s skull. I always thought the red birthmark on the back of her neck was weird but Orin said they’d just known it meant the baby was a good luck charm. A promise that his unfortunate affair with the Italian girl that had resulted in a lot of trouble was over and things were looking up. That was all bullshit of course.
All notions of good luck evaporated when the baby had been abducted right out of the hospital nursery and was murdered by the Italians. His wife sank into despair at the loss. She never forgave him for his affair anyway and the marriage being one of convenience didn’t stand a chance. They had been on shaky ground since she was promised to him. Orin has told me before she didn’t truly love him the way you should love someone. Distraught, and suffering from depression, she slit her wrists and t
ook a bath that she had no intentions of getting out of.
“Owning a woman is a lie. Possessing her—all of her—her mind, her body, and her heart? That’s downright holy, Carrick. Figure out the difference, son and you’ll be onto something.” He smiles at me. “But don’t worry about what this washed up old fart has to say. You’re a clever boy. I would not have raised a foolish, blind man.”
So Orin has taken a shine to Ena. Yeah, well, me too.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ena
I hear noise from out in the open concept living room of Beast’s penthouse and I push the red button on the screen causing the treadmill to immediate slow down and stop. I hop off, hoping Beast won’t be pissed that I’ve helped myself to his gym. If it does piss him off then he will have to do a better fucking job at outlining my duties and restrictions and his expectations of me. I’ve never been someone’s personal slave before. I make my way down the short hall that lets out into the main area of his amazing home and find him digging food out of the massive commercial size refrigerator in his kitchen.
“Frieda cooked already,” I announce from the other side of the kitchen island. “Lasagna.”
He turns deliciously slow with an evil grin tilting his sinful lips up. I instinctively want to run but I refuse to give him the satisfaction. I squint my eyes at him.
“What’re you doing?” I ask suspiciously watching him prowl around the corner of the island. Now I step to the side, edging away from him.
“I’m hungry, Ena,” he says like it’s a warning, a threat, a promise. He stops as though he’s prepared to launch himself at me. “You should run,” he says with a playful glimmer in his dark eyes. I can’t help the smile tugging at my lips. He’s in a good mood, which can only mean that he’s really ruined someone else’s day… or life. I smile fully and pretend to dismiss his suggestion just to whirl on my heels and split. I run fast, grateful that my muscles are still loose and warm from the treadmill and that my hair is piled high on my head in a bun. It would probably be the first thing he would grab for if I had it down, whipping around behind me as I make my getaway. I run around the other side of the island, bracing my palms on top, prepared to cut either direction to avoid him.
