Kiss & Control: A Mafia Romance Read online

  “I’ll pass. I don’t need another responsibility.” This latest one is proving to be more of a challenge than I imagined. A distraction, too. She’s also sucking up my time. Time that could be spent looking for Aidan’s killer. I can’t let my dick get in the way of that. She’s just a woman. A Lombardi.

  “I saw Antonio at the funeral with his entourage. Scary son of a bitch, huh?”

  I bump up the heat and relax into the seat, partly because the holes in my pant legs let in a chill against my flesh and partly because of Torin’s words. “Yep. Nice wig, by the way.”

  Antonio isn’t someone I want on my bad side, but it’s looking like the rich son of a bitch is determined to stay there. Talking about Pop and recordings on the day of Aidan’s murder is more than suspect.

  “Hey, it’s all I had,” he defends. “I owed it to Aidan to be there. I love that pretty bastard. I hate that I didn’t get a chance to see him over the years. With Shea and all…”

  “I know.”

  Torin’s family. Ma’s his Ma as much as she’s mine. He belongs with us. If Pop wasn’t such a mule of a man, things might be different. But without thing’s changing, Tor’s a lone wolf.

  He doesn’t linger on the subject. He’s seen enough heartache to power through just about anything. Dead mother. Drunken father that deep-throated a shotgun. Every sensitive spot has imploded. It’s all healed and calcified over, making him impenetrable. “So did you get there yet? How’s Lombardi’s little firework? Still popping off?” he asks.

  “Like a goddamn powder keg.”

  “She can be a sweet talker, too,” he chuckles. “Don’t let her wrap you around her little finger, Fal.”

  “No worries about that,” I lie, knowing damn well what a threat she is. She might not be as lethal as her father physically, but there are glimpses of the powers he possesses in her. Anyone else would’ve faced my wrath after the stunt she’d pulled, but one look at those petrified eyes had me swaddling her like a goddamn baby.

  “Well, I wish I was calling with sunshines and rainbows, but I’m not,” he announces flatly. “The kids she went to Minerva’s with are missing. Lombardi had them, but I watched his men release them after the funeral yesterday. Haven’t seen either since.”

  “Maybe they went underground. God knows what he did to them.” Antonio isn’t known for merciful interrogations. There are plenty of rumors of him getting a little creative with dildos and fishhooks in the past. And those were the pleasant stories.

  “I don’t think so, Fal. The girl hasn’t stepped foot back on her own turf. I can’t find a whiff of the man, either. The girl’s father is losing his fucking mind.”

  That still didn’t mean shit. If someone tortured me for close to a week, I’d go off the radar too.

  “Thanks for letting me know he was Irish, by the way,” I bite out. “That was a nice blindside from Pop.”

  He lets out a huff, his breath crackling through the car’s speakers. “He’s not linked to any families, Fal. He’s a bouncer at Minerva’s. Not even a big boy, either. No clue why they hired him.”

  I finger the lapel of my suit coat. “Evangelina overheard Antonio say Shea and something about needing a recording in the same sentence the night you grabbed her. Any idea what that’s about?”

  I don’t know why I’m anxious about revealing what she’d told me. Torin’s my brother. We keep nothing from one another. Aside from the whole escaped and recaptured captive debacle from yesterday. Maybe it’s because he’s an unbiased opinion, one that isn’t blinded by life in the weeds of Tully life. He has the bird’s-eye view and isn’t afraid to tell me what I don’t want to hear.

  “She told you that willingly?” he asks, sounding suspicious.

  “I nicely encouraged it out of her.” I understand his skepticism, but I know the sputtering message was the truth. She gets too much pleasure in twisting a knife in. If it was a lie, she would’ve added more fluffing.

  He sighs. “None of this makes any sense. I can find a trail on anything within a few hours of it happening, but with Aidan, there’s nothing. I’ve wrung this city dry.”

  Coming from him, I know it’s true. People turn to him to eliminate problems. If he can’t fix it, no one can. There’s a reason his services have a six-figure price tag nowadays.

  “Pop and Lombardi had a meeting Monday. Pop came back pissed off but didn’t give up any specifics, just that they had an understanding about territory. Aidan was supposed to go but texted Pop bowing out the night before.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out,” Torin grunts, though he doesn’t sound thrilled at the lack of specifics. “This is a clusterfuck.”

  “Tell me about it,” I breathe. “And heads up: I shot one of Lombardi’s guys yesterday after the funeral. Twice.”

  He explodes. “Jesus fuck, Fal. What the hell? Where?”

  “He was trying to break in at the docks. He’s fine. Just flesh wounds.” The last part isn’t exactly true. I don’t know what his wounds are, but they can’t be that bad. Painful, but not deadly. “Nole and Lorcan cleaned up.” I can only hope they put a bullet in the fucker’s head.

  “Goddammit,” he groans. “You were supposed to keep quiet.”

  I smile, reliving the thrill of watching the bastard squirm in his own blood. “Hey, he came to me. I didn’t go in search of him.”

  He lets out a stream of curses under his breath. “I didn’t hear shit about it. At least they did a thorough cleanup.”

  I wave at an elderly couple as they shuffle by my window, heading into the hardware store. “I know the truth is going to be ugly, Tor. I feel it.”

  “All we can do is keep moving ahead. One foot in front of the other. We can’t get reckless now.”

  I eye the holes in my pant legs and shake my head, relieved he isn’t here to witness the shitshow I’ve become. “I know.”

  Eva’s right where I left her.

  Like every other time, she’s scared shitless and trying to hide it when I walk in the bathroom, her chin tilted high and shoulders back like she’s ready to tear me from limb to limb.

  I test that, tugging the blanket to the side to inspect her wounds. She screeches like a hawk at first before settling in to let me examine the series of scratches and punctures painted across her flesh like a bloody night sky. Most are superficial, and a few swipes of antiseptic wipes have them looking pink rather than fire engine red.

  She watches me intently, her eyes wide as saucers. Still wearing my button-down, the hem rests against her thighs. The buttons fasten to her throat, covering nearly every delicious curve she has on her petite frame, but it’s still the hottest thing I’ve seen in ages. She’s swimming in me. Smells like my cologne. Breathes me in with every breath.

  God, what I’d give for a chance to taste that smart mouth.

  I try to ignore the burn of her eyes, running my hands along her skin from knee to foot on each leg, checking for signs of tenderness or infection setting in. I find neither, thankfully. A hospital isn’t an option for complications, and neither is any crooked doctor on my radar. They all pocket cash from Pop or Lombardi, and two-million dollars is a nice incentive to blow my cover.

  “Good news, patient. No need for amputation.” I give her foot a squeeze.

  She yanks it out of my grasp just as quickly and tucks it back under the blanket. “Very funny, Doctor Doom.”

  “We could still amputate if you insist,” I offer, shrugging. Needling her is my new favorite form of stress relief.

  She pulls the blanket close, hiding everything but her face in the forest green fabric. “You might not have to. The cold will take care of it in no time.”

  “About that…” I trail, eyeing the chain that leads to the bathtub. The current setup isn’t practical as the days inch toward winter. I can’t be around as much. Not with the shit swirling in Philly. “You’re about to get some more slack.”

  I took care of the secondary measures on the way in, installing a barrel bolt and chai
n lock outside of the front door before coming inside. I grabbed them along with tools, firewood, and other odds and ends. I had to get a little creative at the small town store, but the result would do its job. I’m especially proud of the boarded up front window.

  She shifts her body upright at the news, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Slack?”

  “No chain,” I explain, lifting and jingling the one attached to her cuffs buried under the blanket. “Handcuffs only. Free roam of the cabin so you can sit by the fire.”

  It’s the only way to prevent her from freezing to death. The windchill tonight is supposed to be negative three according to my phone. She’d be a goner if I left her in the bathroom, and I need to get the hell out of here.

  She blinks. “What’s the catch?”

  “None,” I answer, sitting back on my heels. “Well, I guess you should know that my buddy who owns this place will patrol the woods with his dogs. He has orders to shoot anyone on sight, so I’d recommend staying in here if you don’t want a chest full of buckshot.” I’m painfully full of shit, but I couldn’t care less. Fear works better than physical binds, and as her lip trembles, I know it does the trick.

  Her jaw drops. “You wouldn’t! You said you need me alive!”

  I nod solemnly. “I don’t want to, but it’s better than what they’re planning on doing to you.”

  Her throat bobs with a nervous swallow. “Who?”

  This is sick. It feels like I’m kicking a puppy and cussing out my grandma all in one. But it needs to be done.

  “There’s a two-million dollar bounty on your head, kid. Higher if you suffer. Sick bastards.”

  The pink vanishes from her cheeks. “Why?”

  “Working on that,” I answer. Until now, I’ve tried to stick to the truth with her. Not because I’m opposed to a white lie here and there, but because it makes my life easier. Less moving pieces to track. Fewer stories to keep in a row. Liars always get sniffed out. Not really my scene. But I’ll lie if it keeps her alive and the heat off my ass. “You need to stay hidden.”

  Her hands fly from beneath the blanket, waving at the bathroom surrounding us. “I’m a sitting duck here!”

  “A living, breathing duck,” I correct, hooking a finger under her chin to force her to look at me. “As long as you’re in here, you’re alive. You go out there, you’re done.”

  And the longer I’m here, the closer I inch toward the grave.

  15

  Fallon

  “Fally, can you get Brian a can of food?” Ma asks, her hands too busy kneading pie dough to fuss with the cat.

  She’s buzzed around the kitchen since I got here at seven, a little too wired in this morning for my liking. But it’s better than watching her wallow in tears with family movies, so I’ll take this new side of her. Especially if it comes with sweets.

  She looks good today, almost back to her usual self with glowing pink cheeks and her hair fastened in its usual updo. She’s wearing an emerald blouse with a skirt and heels, slipping right back into her routine of being Pop’s put-together plus one. A week out from Aidan’s murder, and she’s the parent on the mend. Meanwhile, Pop barely got out the door for his weekly rounds of meetings this morning, taking Nolan with him for the first time.

  I grab a can of tuna surprise from the case she keeps by the backdoor and peel back the lid. I’m hit in the nose with its fish stink before sliding it in front of the waiting cat. The fat bastard hunches over it like a kill he plucked from the sea, giving a little growl when I’m too slow to stand and throw the lid away.

  “Ferocious fatty,” I mutter, dropping the lid in the trash can.

  Ma waves me off. “He’s a growing boy.”

  I move to stand against the wall, watching her work the dough into a ball. “He looks like a blimp, Ma.”

  “It’s just baby fat,” she grumbles, rolling the dough extra hard. “He’ll grow into it.”

  I smirk. “Ma, he’s seven. That’s middle-aged in cat years. With a comb-over and glasses, he’d pass for Uncle Dickie.” And like Ma’s brother, he’s also a ginger, so I’m not that far off. “Maybe we should see if he wants to open a CPA firm in Miami, too.”

  She frowns, grabbing the rolling pin and a pinch of flour that she dusts over her work station. “Leave him alone. It makes him happy. He likes food, I like baking, you like… I don’t know what you like anymore.”

  “I don’t know either,” I admit. Other than poking at a certain Lombardi, I draw a blank. I feel like a puzzle piece that’s soaked up a little too much bullshit and refuses to fit in the same hole again.

  Ma rolls out the dough into a thin sheet, working methodically. “I saw Siobhan at the funeral.”

  “Yep.” I don’t have anything to offer about the matter won’t step over the line in front of Ma.

  With Siobhan, what you see is what you get, and at the funeral in her getup, I saw a woman desperate for attention. A woman only interested in me for my lifestyle. If we were together, she wouldn’t care if I took a bullet to the head tomorrow. She’d suck up the attention like a sponge and be onto the next criminal tomorrow. She has a mob wife fantasy rooted in reality television.

  “I’m glad you’re not with her.” Ma sighs, lifting the sheet of dough and stretching it over a pie dish. “I’m sorry I pushed her down your throat. I want you with someone you love. Someone who makes you want to move mountains and part the sea. We need that in this family.”

  Her fingers press the dough in place, pinching the corners with precision. Everything Ma does is done with love. Care. Expertise. She’s the only Tully wired that way, and that’s probably only because she married into this bloodbath. She doesn’t have the same dysfunction running through her veins.

  I watch her work, chewing over her words with a pecan I swipe from the counter. “How did you meet Pop?”

  She’s shared a lot of stories about growing up in Fishtown with its crazy collection of characters, but she’s never mentioned a peep about her and Pop’s fucked-up love affair. About how someone kind-hearted ended up with a bastard so bitter to the world. A choir girl with a killer.

  “It was a different time back then,” she says, reaching for the bowl of pecan mixture. “Our parents thought we’d hit it off and set up a date.”

  That makes about as much sense as Antonio hooking me up with Eva. Ma’s father was a police captain and her mother a Sunday school teacher. Ciaran Tully ran the Tully crime family and his wife, Irene, marinated in Mint Juleps and daytime soaps. They didn’t exactly run in the same circles.

  “A blind date?” I quirk a brow.

  “A wedding,” she corrects, spooning the first scoop of pecan sweetness into the pie shell. “I met your father on our wedding day at St. Michael’s.”

  “You didn’t want to marry him?” I feel the heat hit my face before the knot in my stomach registers. An arranged marriage. She isn’t with Pop because she loves him. She’s with him because it’s what’s expected of her. My entire existence is a sham. My family. My life.

  She laughs, adding another spoonful to the dish and spreading it out. “At first, no. He’s a grouch, but under all that vinegar, he’s a good man. He loves me and loves being a father.”

  I try to hold back a laugh of my own, but it plows through the barricades. She’s going to need to work harder at selling this train wreck than this.

  “I’m serious, Fal. He’s made a lot of mistakes—we all have—but he tries.”

  I cross my arms over my chest, unimpressed. “Is this you trying to talk me into letting you pick a wife for me? Because it isn’t working.”

  She and Pop are hardly examples of marital bliss. Sure, they do the hand-holding and lip-locking, but she isn’t allowed to know about the family business or work on her own outside of the house. She can’t travel without a guard. Tolerates his drinking. Ignores his meltdowns. I don’t know what the hell I want or if I even want any of this someday. But I know I don’t want that.

  She shakes her head, still f
ussing around with her pie construction. “Not at all. I want my boys to do things differently.” She sets down the spoon and takes a shaky breath. “Watching Aidan lower into that hole… I knew things needed to change. You don’t want to hear it, and I’m not allowed to say it, but I never wanted this life for you, Fally. Not for you, not for Aidan, not for Nolan…” She crumbles before she can finish.

  My irritation over the subject dissolves, and I cross the room to pull her into a hug, offering the comfort she’s given me so many times before. Here I thought… fuck, I don’t know what I thought. Maybe that we shielded her from most of it. Kept the bad men out. Kept the money coming in. She never complained. Until someone slipped between the cracks and robbed us of the magic curtain. Exposed the world we really live in.

  “I wish I’d left, Fally,” she whispers, rubbing at her tears furiously with flour-coated hands. “I wish I’d been strong enough to save my boys. Now Aidan’s gone.”

  I rub a hand along her back, glancing at the clock. Pop and Nolan should be back any minute, and if Pop overhears any of this, I don’t know what he’ll do to her. But I know I’ll end up in a jail cell or worse if he tries anything. “Ma, none of this is your fault. Aidan. Pop. Me. Nole. We’re all adults. We made our choices.”

  I don’t know which led to Aidan’s death, but I’m working on it. I’m doing a lot more listening. Eavesdropping. Listening to actions, too. And no one’s said a goddamn thing to me about shooting Lombardi’s guy at the docks on Saturday. And no one checked in, either. Or bothered to make sure I didn’t drive across town that day and slaughter them all. I hear the bullshit loud and fucking clear.

  “It cost me my family,” she says through tears, her shoulders rocking with a jumpy whimper. “He was my baby, Fal. A piece of my heart. No one can tell me why. No one can tell me anything.”

  I reach for a kitchen towel and use it to wipe off a streak of flour high on her cheek. “Because we don’t know anything, Ma. If we did, they’d be dead.”