Kiss & Control: A Mafia Romance

  Kiss & Control

  Karina Light

  Copyright © 2020 by Karina Light

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design

  Cassie Chapman at Opulent Designs

  Editing

  Magnolia Author Services

  For anyone who needs an escape

  ♡

  Contents

  Introduction

  Fallon

  1. Fallon

  2. Eva

  3. Fallon

  4. Eva

  5. Fallon

  6. Eva

  7. Fallon

  8. Fallon

  9. Eva

  10. Fallon

  11. Eva

  12. Fallon

  13. Eva

  14. Fallon

  15. Fallon

  16. Eva

  17. Fallon

  18. Eva

  19. Fallon

  20. Eva

  21. Fallon

  22. Eva

  23. Fallon

  24. Eva

  25. Fallon

  26. Fallon

  27. Eva

  28. Fallon

  Eva

  Untitled

  Untitled

  Thank you

  About the Author

  Life is about control.

  Of your friends.

  Your family.

  Your enemies.

  And I’ve lost it.

  We’re teetering on war with the Lombardis.

  Fighting off Russian encroachment.

  And now, battling a threat from within.

  A threat with Eva Lombardi at its center.

  Young. Beautiful. Innocent.

  It’s a shame she’s marked for death.

  If she weren’t a sworn enemy, I might consider keeping her.

  But for now, I have to keep her alive while I sort this out.

  Blood is spilling on Tully soil.

  Blood of our enemies.

  Blood of our own.

  Blood of mine.

  Friends turn to enemies.

  Enemies to friends.

  In the end, I will regain control.

  I promise you that.

  Fallon

  Age 10.

  “You call that a grip?”

  The baton hit to my knuckles that follows Pop’s question almost knocks the gun from my hands.

  Almost.

  Clenching my jaw through the pulsing sting, I hold firm and aim at the bottle-lined woodpile, desperate to avoid what’ll happen if the metal falls to the snow.

  I can’t take the bat. Not again. Definitely not with whiskey in Pop’s veins and an audience for him to entertain. They’re gas on a raging inferno. He’ll break more than a few ribs this time.

  “High and tight!” Pop brings the rod down again, forcing my teeth into my bottom lip to keep from crying out. “No space between your fingers and the trigger guard.”

  I scramble to correct my grip around the weapon. The hunk of metal is still foreign in my hands. Heavy. Clunky. Nothing like the toy ones I play with, firing off imaginary shots with my twin, Nolan, until Ma cracks us for running in the house. One misstep and I can kill somebody.

  Beside me, Nolan also has his own weapon outstretched, but unlike my ever growing collection of red welts, his fingers are pristine. He mastered the grip the first time Pop showed us, taking to it like a natural.

  That’s usually how it is with us. He acts; I hesitate. At school, caution is praised, but at home it’s a weakness. Stupidity, even. Act first, think later. Life won’t wait for you to work out the puzzle.

  Pop staggers, unsteady in the work boots he yanked on earlier, their tongues out and laces dangling unevenly. He’s at least half of a whiskey bottle into the night, and no one knows what’s waiting at the bottom of the second half. Likely nothing good.

  I swear hours have passed since he herded us into the yard with our gifts from under the tree; a pair of matching handguns wrapped in blue paper. He said this would be a fun target practice—not that we would be his targets. But I should have known better.

  Snow spirals in the wind as I aim ahead; the white Christmas Ma hoped for arriving on schedule to blanket the yard in white. Knowing Pop, he probably threatened the man upstairs for it. He got it, too. Not that it’s a surprise. Shea Tully always gets what he wants. No one says no to him—not God, Santa, or the Devil himself.

  My new pajamas do little to soften winter’s bite, even with the puffy Eagles coat over them. The flannel sleep bottoms are stiff to the knees with snow, and icy chunks invade my slippers, jabbing at my sock-sheathed toes.

  My fingers ache, but I keep my arms out and stare at the woodpile over the gun’s sight instead of Pop. Desperate to focus on the task at hand rather than the pangs of disappointment in my gut. I hate when he’s drunk. The jokes and laughter go out the window and he’d rather yell and break things. Or people.

  “Lock in that grip, or…” he warns, trailing the baton knuckle by knuckle before striking again, connecting the plastic rod with the swollen flesh. “Boom! You’re dead!”

  His men roar with laughter; the group I consider uncles standing around enjoying the show with beers in hand. Trevor’s beady eyes, Craig’s jack-o-lantern smile, Lorcan’s sneer—they all light up at my pain. This is nothing more than a spectator sport to them. A replacement for the football they bet on and trade punches over.

  The only ones in the half-circle who aren’t laughing are my eldest brother, Aidan, who’s looking off into the cemetery beyond the house—his blackened eye a souvenir from one of Pop’s lessons—and Torin, my friend bearing every battered mark of a Tully son except for the name with a cast on his right arm.

  Aidan’s only thirteen but almost taller than Pop, with broad shoulders and a mane of red curls that hang to his shoulders. He’s got Ma’s piercing blue eyes and ivory skin, fully earning the Pretty Boy nickname everyone’s called him for as long as I can remember. He’s already running jobs and carries a gun in his waistband like the rest of Pop's men. He’s a glimpse into my future, and I’m not sure that I like what I see.

  Torin’s shorter, with close-cropped dark hair and even darker eyes. He’s run jobs for a while now despite being my age, but Pop says it’s because he has street smarts. He’s not wrong. Tor’s already stealing cars, and he doesn’t put up with anyone’s crap at school. He’s busted three noses since moving in, but he’s always let off the hook when Ma brings up that he’s an orphan and all.

  “And why’s that, Fallon? Why are you a dead boy?” Pop eyes me with a slow smile, proud of his handiwork as the latest welt rises from my index finger. His auburn hair stands on end and his cheeks have a thick coating of stubble—night and day from the clean-cut businessman the rest of the city sees by day. The one who brings us fishing and throws around a baseball when he’s not working at the car lot. The all-American dad who keeps this drunk demon in the shadows with the rest of his sins.

  My fingers sting as I force them together, but I adjust my grip again. The cold will numb them. At least I hope so. I need to get this right. It’s the only way to make him stop. “Control is everything, sir.”

  It’s seared in my brain like the Lord’s Prayer. A commandment in our house, and I know its truth better than my own name. Those without control always do.

  Pop’s fist meets my back. “Say it loud enough for your Ma to hear inside, boy!”

  Breathing through the pain, I imitate the soldiers I’ve seen on t
elevision with a shout, “Control is everything, sir!”

  Even if Ma hears, she can’t help. She cleans up what Pop leaves behind, whether it’s my broken ribs or Aidan’s swollen eye. She always says that armor grows from pain. If that’s true, by the time Pop finishes with us, we’ll have full coats of it to defend his kingdom.

  Pop leans in close, his breath hot against my cheek with booze and ash. “That’s right, Fallon. And who has control?”

  My stomach churns with waves of anger. At him. His men. Ma. Why can’t someone tell him he’s had enough to drink and send him to bed already? They know he’ll only get worse.

  I scan the yard, catching the thumbs up that Torin offers against his belt. He’s the only one cheering me on anymore. Like he knows I’m ready to give up.

  I grit my teeth, glancing back at Pop. “You do, sir.”

  Another harsh snap bites into my flesh as he connects the baton with my lower back. “What do Tully men do, Fallon?”

  My coat barely cushions the blow, and my answer comes in rasps as pain ricochets through my torso, waking the past aches. “We maintain control, sir. At all times.”

  I look to Nolan, who mouths sorry with tears shimmering in his eyes. He always apologizes, but he shouldn’t. It’s my fault, not his. I should’ve figured out the grip on the first try. I know the consequences.

  Pop delivers a punch to my ribs, robbing the air from my lungs. He knows they’re still tender from the bat last week. But it doesn’t matter. Even with all the right answers to his questions, the hits keep coming. And they’ll keep coming until he grows bored with toying with me and moves onto something else.

  Or someone.

  I long to take the baton. To hit him with the same force and show him how little control he really has. Whiskey steers him. We’re all just along for the ride.

  Nolan stays silent as Pop pummels my side, but his hands shake his gun and his eyes close, squeezing so tightly that his entire face puckers.

  If Pop notices, he’s done for. Cowardice is a mortal sin in his eyes.

  As if he’s read my mind, Pop’s attention drifts from me to Nolan, and his smile fades. The hits finally stop, but his target merely shifts rather than disappears.

  Nolan is oblivious, his eyes still sealing out the world. He always does when Pop starts. He hates yelling and practically bruises if you look at him wrong. Pop says that’s the pussy gene kicking in from Ma’s side. But Nole’s just sensitive.

  “Nole, you’re a baby bitch now?” Pop taunts while seesawing the baton between his calloused fingers.

  What little color remains in Nolan’s pale cheeks drains and fresh tears well in his eyes as they pop wide open. He knows it’s his turn.

  I can take a beating, but I can’t watch him suffer. He’ll crack like an egg and Pop won’t stop until he shatters every piece.

  Pop steps toward him, and a switch inside of me flips.

  I won’t watch this.

  This needs to stop. Now.

  Tullys maintain control at all times.

  Spinning from the woodpile, I aim the gun at Pop. The pain in my fingers disappears as I squeeze the metal, meeting his bloodshot eyes over the nickel-plated barrel. “Enough.”

  His face flushes, and the teetering baton freezes between his fingers like I pulled a brake lever on a runaway train.

  I have control.

  I catch a smile on Torin’s lips as a hush falls over the crowd of men around us. Pop’s men. No one’s laughing now. No one knows what to do. No one ever stands up to Pop. But I am.

  Several tense heartbeats pass before Pop finally speaks up with a laugh. A wild, cackling laugh that bounces across the yard to freedom beyond the fence line, the open fields of the dead giving it room to spread its wings.

  He bends, touching the barrel to his leathery cheek like it’s nothing more than a toy. “Very good, Fallon. A Tully maintains control.”

  I press the weapon into his skin, my hands no longer trembling as the metal finds a home in his flesh. My body hums with power, and I dig the barrel in more when his throat bobs with a swallow.

  So this is what it feels like to be him, to hold the winning hand in every round of life. To fear nothing and no one alike.

  “We maintain control at all times,” I correct, hovering a finger over the trigger.

  If I pull the trigger now, it’ll all be over. No more bat. No more beatings. No more yelling.

  Something flashes in his eyes, and I’m not sure what, exactly. I’ve never seen Pop scared, but this says fear. I’ve only ever seen it in the eyes of everyone around him.

  Maybe not fear of the gun in his face—he’s seen worse—but fear of facing what he’s created.

  I am his son.

  The same fire within him exists in me—only he’s battered and controlled mine every step of the way.

  And I’ve set it free.

  1

  Fallon

  Twenty Years Later

  “Aw, Brian loves you, Fally,” Ma coos, scratching the chin of her favorite child on the sofa. He’s sprawled in her arms with his eyes narrowed, purring loud enough to pass for a lawnmower. “You never say hi to the baby boy.”

  “If I talk to cats, I’ll be in the looney bin with Uncle Rory before dinner.” I pick a cluster of his orange fur from my jacket, only to spy another higher on the sleeve.

  “Nah, you’d need to gouge your eye out with a pocketknife for that,” Ma says with a slow shake of her head. That’s all the sympathy she can muster for her batshit crazy sibling. Poor bastard. “But Brian’s your baby brother.”

  I nod toward the painting hanging above the mantle. “No, those are my brothers.”

  Ma smiles and studies the canvas of us as kids, back when Aidan’s curls were long, and she still forced Nolan and me into matching outfits for every family portrait. “But Brian is your baby brother. He needs love too. He’s not as handsome as Aidan, but he’s a lot easier to handle than Nolan.”

  Ain’t that the fucking truth. Few men are as handsome as the eldest Tully son, but few are as rambunctious as the middle one either.

  I look away from the painting. “Nole’s getting better.”

  “You’re lying to me,” she mutters, dropping Brian to the oak floor where the fat tabby lands with a thud. “But thank you. I need some peace of mind about that boy. He’s behind my first gray hair, you know?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me.” If she knew half the shit my twin’s done, she’d have a full head of gray ringlets rather than red. Throw in what I’ve done, and she’d join Uncle Rory in the Twilight Zone.

  “He’s late, too,” she grumbles, glancing at the cherry grandfather clock with a sour expression. Her eyes follow the pendulum for a few swings. “He needs to shape up. Tullys are never tardy.”

  “That one is.” I down an acrid sip of coffee from my post against the living room wall, hoping to kill the conversation.

  Nolan will figure it out in time. He’s still busy chasing ass and boozing it up. Once he has his fill, he’ll get in line. He has no other choice.

  “Pop hasn’t gone soft on him, has he?” Just as soon as the words leave Ma’s lips, she bows her head and tucks a curl behind her ear. “Don’t answer that. I’m sorry.”

  I nod, forgiving the slip-up. I agree with the sentiment, regardless of how out of line it is for her to voice it.

  The room’s air falls thick as we dance around the obvious. We’re still her children. Boys that she’s birthed, raised, and cared for more than life itself, yet she had no say in most of our lives. Doesn’t know what we do in a day. Will never know the depths of our depravity. If she did, we wouldn’t be her precious baby boys anymore.

  Brian meows and paws at the backdoor, beckoning Ma over. She does as the cat commands, letting the fat bastard free into the yard before she turns back with a mischievous grin. “So have you talked to Siobhan lately?”

  Motherfucker.

  Unfortunately, while business matters are strictly off-limits, my personal
life is fair game and Ma’s always looking for an opportunity to pry her way in. It’s a shame I can’t weld it shut. Permanently.

  “I’ve been busy, Ma.”

  Siobhan Walsh has the nicest knockers in Philly, but there are more pressing matters at the moment, like the Russian prick who flashed a piece at me on the way over this morning, and the Italian fucks poking around the docks. Pussy can wait, and that one specifically is a mistake I want to forget—not revisit.

  Ma stalks over and meets my six-foot frame with an angry poke to the chest. Her floral fit and flare dress might hint at a gentle housewife, but she matches Pop’s ferocity in her own right. “By your age, I had three sons, a husband, and a house to look after. It’s time to settle down and plant roots, dammit.”

  No, thank you. That’s more of a life sentence than anything a judge could throw at me.

  “I’m not a rogue one,” I defend, eyeing the painting again as a lifeline. I’d rather deal with a hail of bullets than Ma’s nagging. “None of us have time for that.”

  The moment any of us slow, enemies will swarm. Weddings expose weakness. Some strengthen bonds between aligned families, but all bring vulnerabilities for the wolves to feed on. The scene is too hot to risk a stray ember, and rain is only getting more scarce as the Feds sniff around. We need to keep a lid on the sparks. Control the fire before it swallows us all.