Kiss & Control: A Mafia Romance Page 13

  I laugh, shifting on the cot’s thin mattress. “I didn’t kidnap you. Someone else did. You’re lucky, too. You’d be dead if he didn’t. And if it weren’t for me stopping in before the storm really hit, you’d be dead. So watch the insults.”

  “But you’re still a murderer.”

  “Where are you going with this?” I sigh. “You’re cold. Get your ass up here.” I doubt she’ll try anything sketchy to get away. And even if she does, I’m a light sleeper.

  I don’t miss the tiny gasp before she speaks. It’s amusing coming out of Lombardi’s daughter. He has more blood on his hands than any local crew. “So you’ve killed someone?”

  “I’ve killed a lot of things. Just like you’re killing my patience right now.”

  “I don’t want to sleep with you,” she snaps. “I don’t want anything to do with you.”

  Enough of this shit.

  I swing my legs off the bed and cross to her in two long strides. She’s wiggling to get away when I grab her around the waist and haul her over my shoulder. She screams, thrashing like a fucking inchworm with her arms and legs trapped in the sleeping bag.

  “There’s a difference between needs and wants, Eva.”

  It’s a distinction she’s never learned on her mafia throne, but she’ll know it when we end our time together. I’ll be doing her a favor if she wants to survive in this world. Every king’s reign ends, and when Antonio’s does, she’s in for a rude awakening.

  “Fuck off!” she screeches, writhing on my shoulder as I carry her to the cot. As soon as I set her on the stiff mattress, she springs up. “You need to leave me alone if you know what’s good for you.”

  It’s late, I’m exhausted, and I’m not in the fucking mood, so I ignore her ranting and climb onto the cot beside her, clamping my arm across her chest and pressing her flat onto the mattress beside me. She thrashes as I spread the blanket over us, swearing up a storm to rival the one outside. She has fight in her, I’ll give her that, but she doesn’t stand a chance against me.

  Eventually, she stills, her body sagging into the cot. I keep my arm in place, hating how much I like the warm lump under it. I haven’t slept next to a woman in years. None come close to this one, either.

  But the woman beside me belongs to the man that may’ve had Aidan killed. She might even admit it if I roll her over and force the 9mm tucked in my waistband into her mouth.

  I can’t do it.

  She’s at peace, finally. Her breaths coming in and out in a steady rhythm. She deserves one night of rest, at least.

  13

  Eva

  My eyes flutter open and meet the sheen of a sunlit cabin. The glow of morning light almost makes the space seem cozy.

  I’m surprised by the empty cot beside me. The man is gone.

  But once I hear the stream of water in the distance, I know I’m not so lucky. He’s just taking his morning piss. Lovely.

  He’s stupid to leave me in here alone unchained. He thinks he’s got the upper hand, which may be true in the strength department, but he doesn’t know me. I’ve run laps around Papa for years behind his back. This novice will be a walk in the park once I’m back up and running.

  Last night, he thought I fell asleep. I’ve always been good at faking it, so my little act earned a sliver of freedom. He still kept his arm over me all night, but once he thought I was out, he eased up on the death grip and eventually fell asleep.

  I’ve never slept with a man, and honestly, it wasn’t that terrible. He wasn’t a touchy-feely creep, and if I’m being honest, it was nice to have him next to me. The guy runs on hot and functions like a heater. Not only that, but I slept better than I have in days. Before, I’d wake up at every little noise. I didn’t last night. Maybe because I knew the grizzly in my bed could take on anything out in the surrounding forest.

  “Morning, Snoozy Suzie,” he greets, appearing in the bathroom doorway. “Feeling better?”

  Okay, so not only does this man run on hot, but I have to admit, he is hot. A five-o’clock shadow does his angled face good, accentuating the sharp dips of his jaw and cheekbones. And now that he’s standing out in the open wearing a short-sleeved undershirt and dress slacks, I have a new appreciation for the male body. He’s long, lean, and sculpted with strength that comes from hard work, not a gym. Perla would shit a brick over him.

  Perla. The thought brings a knot to my throat. “He didn’t hurt my friend, right?”

  He pushes off the door frame, stepping into the room. It feels a thousand times smaller once he’s fully inside it. “Who and what friend?”

  “The guy who took me,” I clarify, forcing away the memory of his eyes. I always thought mine and Papa’s were dark until that night. The man from Minerva’s were practically onyx. “I was out with a friend that night. Perla.” I tear up just saying her name. If something happened to her because of me, I’ll never forgive myself.

  I hold my breath until he shakes his head. “No. You were the only thing on the agenda. She should be safe. Your father has her and Chuckie.”

  That means nothing if Papa thinks they had something to do with this.

  I lift my eyes to his, the blue-gray reminiscent of the sky after it snows. “Is Chuckie one of your guys?”

  The man shrugs before scratching the back of his neck, the act raising his shirt and revealing the pale, toned flesh low on his belly. It also gives me a good look at the gun tucked in his waistband. “I don’t think so.”

  The gun and his admission make my eyes pop wide. “You don’t know your own operation?”

  “You weren’t exactly on my radar,” he says flatly. He means it differently, but I still take it like a jab about my looks, which is ridiculous. I don’t care what he thinks about me. I hope he finds me repulsive. “You were a surprise thrown into my lap.”

  I roll to my stomach, folding my hands under my chin and batting my eyelashes at him. “You could always let me go.”

  He flashes a deadly smile. “As much as I’d love to dump you on your daddy’s doorstep for all the trouble you’ve caused, it’s in my best interest to keep you alive.”

  Well, that’s good to know.

  “So who’s trying to whack me?” I ask. He’s so hell-bent on it that he must have names. I’m curious which one of Papa’s guys wants to blow my brains out.

  “Still working on that.” He sighs. “Which is precisely why you’re here and not out there. If I knew, I’d just give the name to Antonio and send you packing.”

  I smirk. “Aw, you wouldn’t miss me, big guy?”

  He laughs hoarsely. “You made me ruin a thousand-dollar suit, curse me out every chance you get, and have a mouth on you that makes a howler monkey seem quiet. Not a fucking chance.”

  My smirk stretches into a triumphant smile. “Made you say fuck.”

  He raises a brow. “What?”

  “You wouldn’t say fuck before. You just did.” It’s comical, really, seeing that this big, bad murderer won’t drop an f-bomb.

  “I say it all the time,” he mumbles, stepping over to look out the room’s only window. Like the bathroom’s, it’s laughably small. “I’m just not a walking bleep censor like you.”

  I pull the blanket over my head, forming a hood. My ears are cold now that he’s not next to me like a radiator. “Whatever you say, Eugene.”

  His eyes flick from the falling snow to me. “Eugene?”

  “I don’t know your name,” I explain, shrugging. “You look like a Eugene, so I’ll stick with that.” He didn’t, but if his name is Eugene, I’ll need to rethink the name’s heat level.

  “That’s not my name.”

  “Reginald?” I ask, smiling when he shoots me a hard look that says shut it. “Percy? Virgil? Dick? Douglas?”

  He’s not at all amused. “Keep it up and I’ll lock you in the bathroom.”

  I wave a dismissive hand. “And miss out on this entertainment? Come on, Chester. You know you’d miss me.”

  He’s six feet of glower
ing misery at the window. “Did you annoy your father’s men like this? Maybe that’s why one decided that enough’s enough.” He means it as playful—I hope so, at least—but his words still sting on impact.

  “I don’t know why someone wants to kill me,” I admit, pulling my eyes away from him. “I’m nothing but nice to them. I make sure everyone gets birthday cookies and Christmas gifts. It’s the least I can do. They’ve kept me safe from people like you since I was born.”

  “People like me?” he scoffs.

  I clutch at the blanket, my hands suddenly clammy. “Kidnappers. The Irish, you know?”

  “Irish?”

  I chew on my lip for a second, steeling my nerves. “Your buddy has an accent. Not that hard to put two and two together. And if you were Russian, you would’ve already forced me to fuck a busload of old guys.”

  I know the Irish as foes to avoid, but the Russian gang’s arrival in Philly came with a stern lecture from Papa. I know they run girls up and down I-95, selling their bodies and raking in the money. This man didn't look at me in a tub because I asked. He’s not one of them. He’s got some morals somewhere in there.

  He doesn’t give me an inch, crossing his arms instead and staying silent. God, he’s a broody son of a bitch.

  “Look, we’re stuck together because of the snow. Maybe I know something that’ll help you figure out who this son of a bitch is and get me out of your hair.” I’m desperate. I’ve lived off bottled water and gas station food for close to a week. I would do despicable things for a hot meal and a decent shower with soap.

  His eyes finally wander over after a moment, but he doesn’t look entirely convinced. “Are there any new men on your father’s crew?”

  “Not at the house. I don’t meet anyone until they’ve worked with him for years. His best men have been with us since before I was born.” Sal, Vinny, Berto. They’ve known Papa longer than he’s been with Mama. They’re practically my uncles.

  I feel like a traitor for revealing anything to this man, but it’s nothing that could get anyone hurt. Besides, I doubt I know enough to get anyone into trouble.

  “Has your pop gone off on anyone lately? Given them a reason to want to hurt him?”

  I laugh bitterly. “It’s not the Lombardi house if Papa isn’t yelling at someone.”

  “Anyone the night you went out? The night Tor-” he asks before stopping himself. He almost slipped with something. It’s all over his face. “The night you went to Minerva’s.”

  “We went into lockdown that afternoon,” I explain, wringing my hands. “He gave me money to go shopping when I woke up. When I got home, he was all wound up and said I had to stay in.”

  I wish I’d bought that ring. At least I’d be wearing something of my own. Instead, I'm wrapped in this stranger’s clothing, my thong discarded with my tattered bra during my bath last night after deciding I’d rather go commando than wash the thing every day.

  “But you went to Minerva’s anyway?” he asks, his brows pinched.

  “I snuck out,” I admit. It sounds ridiculous when I say it aloud. Especially given the current circumstances. “Then your friend snatched me like a penny off the sidewalk.”

  “He wasn’t yelling at anyone around the house?” he pushes.

  I shake my head before pausing, remembering Papa on the back porch when I was on the roof. “He was angry on the phone talking about someone named Shea. Asking if there was a recording or something.”

  Without warning, he explodes from the window toward me, sending me scrambling across the cot until my back presses against the wall. His hand hooks my ankle through the sleeping bag and hauls my body across the mattress. He flings a leg over my hips, pinning me to the cot with his thigh, looming above like a fallen angel. “What exactly did he say? Word for word.”

  “I told you what he said!” I cry out, his weight squeezing the air out of me. “He told the person he needed Shea’s words on a recording! That’s all I heard; I swear!”

  The man above me is nothing like the one I thought I knew. He’s ruthless. Cruel. It burns in his eyes. I’m nothing more than a job to him. A means to an end. He’s worse than the man from Minerva’s. He’s a chameleon with a hidden switch that brings out his true identity. A ticking time bomb.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, shielding myself from what’s coming. If he’s going to hit me, I’d rather it be a surprise.

  “What other names did he say, Eva?” His voice dips, coaxing for answers I don’t have.

  “None. I swear.” I wish I had the pieces he needs to let me go. To let me go back to a world where I’m in my bubble, blissfully ignorant of this part of Papa’s life. I don’t want to live in a world where bad things happen to good people.

  His fingertips trace my cheek, outlining the bruise from Papa’s hand. “Who hit you?”

  I keep my eyes closed, forcing down the knot in my throat. “My father.”

  Circling the tender flesh, his skin warms mine. “Why?”

  I ignore the stinging behind my closed lids, the warning that tears are on the horizon. “I got mouthy in front of one of his men.”

  A husky laugh rumbles through him. “Imagine that.”

  Hot. Cold. Hot. Cold. This man is a thermostat on the fritz, and I want no parts of it.

  “I’ve seen men killed for hitting a woman.” His weight shifts, easing off of my hips. He leans into the mattress, his upper body hovering over mine. Heat comes off him like a furnace, penetrating the blanket and sleeping bag between us. “Tell me about Chuckie.”

  This new position feels dirty rather than scary, and despite the yoyoing of his mood, I don’t mind it at all. I like the hum that buzzes through me. The sudden spike of electricity between my legs. It’s a reminder I’m alive. Still breathing. Still fighting. “He’s some Irish guy that works the door at Minerva’s—Perla’s flavor of the week. Nice guy. Freckles.”

  His fingers find my hair, sinking in the waves. “Did you know him before that night?”

  “No.” I keep my eyes closed, leaning into his touch. If I don’t look, I can pretend this isn’t absolutely fucking insane. I can pretend he’s someone else and enjoy this closeness. The conversation. “I didn’t see him other than at the door.”

  His hands drop from my hair to the buttons of my shirt. His shirt.

  My heart practically beats out of my chest, and I know if he unhooks a button, I’m done for. I’ll let him touch me and hate myself forever. But I want him to. I want his hands on my bare flesh, touching me in places no one ever has.

  He thumbs the button for a moment before rolling off of me, taking his heat with him. “It’s a goddamn shame you’re a Lombardi.”

  14

  Fallon

  I avoid any more dances with the devil the rest of the morning, keeping temptation away like my life depends on it.

  Because it does.

  If I touch Evangelina Lombardi, all bets are off: I’m a dead man.

  But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to.

  It also doesn’t mean that I don’t jack off in the bathroom while she takes a nap, picturing her bent over the tub in front of me, taking every thrust with that big fucking mouth of hers crying out so loudly you can practically hear her in Atlantic City—and come harder than I have in ages.

  By afternoon, I cuff her in the bathroom, her body wrapped in the blanket and my button-down. I check every square inch for anything she can try to pick the cuffs with first, and once I’m sure Houdini can’t wiggle free, I leave. I can’t stay trapped in this cabin a moment longer. I need air.

  The walk to my car is worse than usual. The snow switched from powder to the heavy stuff overnight, and I’m not convinced I’ll be able to drive out whenever I get there.

  But with the grace of god, a truckload of colorful swears, and an ice scraper, I do.

  Using the GPS, I find a general store that’s less than an hour away, navigate the barely touched roads there, wander the aisles, and spend too much money on random shit to stal
l driving back. Antiseptics. Ibuprofen. A family pack of Band-Aids. Toothpaste. Soap. I even grab a pair of cheap leggings and a frumpy sweatshirt that says wooder—the way the locals pronounce water. I don’t have a goddamn clue if either will fit her, but it’s better than looking at her wearing my clothes any longer.

  Seeing a woman wrapped up in pieces of me stirred nothing before, but those women weren’t Eva. She’s unlike any woman I’ve met, a fire-breathing beauty with a spirit that I don’t want to break. I crave more of it. I feel alive when I’m with her, volleying insults and seeing what makes her bite.

  As I pull out of the pharmacy’s parking lot, my phone rings.

  I’m surprised no one’s called sooner, considering how things went yesterday at the docks. I half-expected Pop to call me to the house to rip me a new asshole over shooting the trespasser. He might’ve privately fumed that he wanted us to do just that, but now that I was the one who pulled the trigger, I know he’ll reconsider.

  “Hey,” I answer, driving slowly as I scan the names of old, weathered storefronts. The rural strip of buildings are a mishmash of clashing colors: red, yellow, green, gray. I passed a hardware shop somewhere along it on the way into town, and I need to stop in and grab firewood and supplies to keep my escape artist better contained.

  “Are you alone?” It’s Torin, once-again speaking his native tongue rather than English.

  “Yeah. I’m in Jersey.” I spy the familiar peeling sign of Cedar Hardware. I ease to a stop and flick on my turn signal to pull in the lot, relieved the small-town road is plowed better than near the farm. That shit gave my all-wheel drive a fucking workout.

  “Checking on the princess?” he asks, a hint of humor to his voice.

  I grip the wheel a little tighter than necessary as I pull into a parking slip. “I had to make sure she didn’t transform into a snow cone.”

  He laughs, and I hear his turn signal going in the background too. “Aw, you’re getting attached, Fal? Remember, we can’t keep her. If you’re a good boy, I’ll buy you a puppy.”