Kiss & Control: A Mafia Romance Read online

  She takes the towel and pulls away, rubbing at the tears and flour. “Find a good woman, Fally, and make a nest far from here where trouble can’t follow. Maybe someday I can come enjoy the sunshine with you.”

  “You’re talking crazy,” I mutter, not recognizing the woman in front of me. Ma always kept us together. Formed the bind we desperately needed. And she was unraveling. I offer her a grin, trying not to get too caught up in her words. This is the sorrow speaking. The regret and constant battle of would’ve, could’ve, should’ve. Grief brings it out in everyone. “Trouble follows us everywhere. We’re Tullys.”

  And it’s the truth. I can run forever from my name, but I’d forever be a Tully.

  Pop walks in at 10AM on the dot. He’s already flush in the cheeks, a telltale sign that he’s been drinking. He’s in a foul mood, kissing Ma on the cheek and scowling at the baking supplies strewn about the kitchen.

  “You’re making a huge fucking mess,” he scolds, reaching into his pocket for a cigar and lighter. “I’m not hiring a housekeeper, Deirdre, and I’m not living in filth, either. Clean this shit up. You think I want to come home to this?”

  Ma’s up to her elbows in her next project: pumpkin bread pudding. She frowns, gesturing at the bowl in front of her. “I’m making your favorite, Shea.”

  He lights up and blows a puff of smoke right in her face. “I don’t care if you’re cooking for the goddamn pope. You’re making a mess of my fucking house. I don’t like it.”

  I itch to punch that cigar down his throat, but Nolan interrupts, stepping in from the hall. “Fal, let’s go. We need to check on the docks. I’ll drive.”

  Annoyed, I stay anchored to my spot propped against the wall. I don’t particularly want to go with him, but I also don’t want to break Pop’s jaw and end up in a world of trouble here, either. Honestly, I long to be back in the woods where I’m tucked in a protective shell of heaven and hell.

  “What are you waiting for?” Pop barks after a moment, flicking his head toward Nolan with his eyes burning into me. “Get moving. This isn’t a cooking show. Get the fuck out of my house.”

  Ma’s eyes are pleading behind him, so I don’t argue, leaving to trail behind Nolan outside without a word. There’s no sense making her time alone with him harder. If we’re all lucky, he’ll take a bottle into his office and drink himself to sleep.

  “How’d the morning go?” I ask as we near Nolan’s coupe, begrudgingly trying for small talk.

  Disgusting jokes and questionable decisions at the docks aside, he’s my brother. My twin. The only one I have left. That, and I need the information. Apparently Pop isn’t doing morning rundowns anymore. Not with me included, at least.

  “Shit.” Nolan storms to the driver’s side door, yanking it open. Judging by his treatment of his precious wheels, it must’ve been extra shitty.

  I lower into the passenger seat, grabbing the lever to slide it back when my knees knock against the dashboard. I have to fold myself like a damn accordion to fit comfortably, and my hair brushes against the roof. One hit and I’ll be the smashed tuna Brian enjoyed earlier. “Lombardi? Bratva? Another fuckhead?”

  Nolan starts the car, tossing his cell phone in the center console. The screen is cracked, unsurprisingly. He goes through about a phone a month. “Bratva. The lying scum deny flashing pieces at us over the last few weeks and are making claims on Polish turf.”

  Uh, duh. We knew there’d be a vacuum there after our dustup over the summer. Aidan and I’d rallied for the Armenians to fill the void, but they weren’t interested in moving any closer to the Russians, and Pop didn’t want to spare the men to patrol it. It was a matter of fucking time before Bratva moved in on it.

  “Are you really surprised?” I ask, eyeing the rosary dangling from his rear-view mirror that swings when he accelerates. Its beads are black crystals, reflecting the sun in a thousand little spiders of light around the car. I grip the crucifix between my fingers. “Getting back to your roots?”

  The only thing Nolan hates more than conflict is Mass.

  He laughs, lighting a cigarette that’s going to make me reek the rest of the day. “I need the big guy on my side. Dealing with Pop sucks a world of dicks.”

  “You’d know that,” I taunt, letting go and watching Jesus spin like a figure skater. “But what’s the rub with the Russians? We knew all that. Bratva fucks lie, cheat, and steal every step of the way. No such thing as honor. They kill one another left and right.” Viciously, too. I’ve never seen a more cannibalistic organization.

  “I can’t shake the feeling that they know more about Aidan.” He takes a long draw from his cigarette, studying the traffic ahead as we merge onto the highway. “I feel like Lombardi paid them off, but I can’t find proof.”

  “Hard to do that when you’re trashed.” I want to hold back the criticism, but I can’t. He has balls pretending he’s done jack shit over the last week.

  He grips the wheel, fuming. “Oh really? I didn’t see you out this morning with Pop. I didn’t see you at the house with our parents over the last week trying to help them through the hardest time of their life.”

  “Drinking is helping? Getting shit-faced every fucking day while the clock ticks by finds answers?” I ask. I knew this was a mistake. I should’ve taken my vehicle. “And I wasn’t there this morning because you are the one taking over for Aidan and eventually, Pop. I’m the best man left to protect Ma.”

  “What’s your solution? Running around shooting Lombardi’s men?” he snarls. “Thanks to you, I spent all weekend cleaning up that mess while you dicked off in who-the-fuck-knows-where because you’re the king of secrets now.”

  “You’re welcome to ride along with me through the city,” I shoot back. He’s got a lot of fucking nerve. He’s the fuckup. He’s the one always making the problems for others to deal with. Bar fights. Public intoxication. Indecent exposure. His list of messes are a mile long. “And what did you do with him?”

  I’m curious how my darling brother handled his first real challenge since filling in for Aidan. This week will tell how his plans for increasing intake works out. Likely disastrous, like everything else he touches.

  The vein in his neck bulges. “He’s disposed of. We all better hope that Lombardi doesn’t start sniffing around about it.”

  I turn to face him. “You killed him?” Nole might throw hands without hesitation, but he cried for a week after his first kill—a Greek wannabe gangster with an uzi and a bad attitude. Ever since, he takes every kill personally.

  He nods, tossing his half-smoked cigarette out the window. “It was the only option. If he went running back to Antonio with two gunshots and a broken nose, we’d be fucked. I need dirt on that bastard before we can do anything. Something to justify an attack so the other families back us and not him.”

  “There’s nothing, Nole,” I say, staring out at the wall of traffic ahead. Monday rush hour is still going strong on I-95. “Nothing on him. Nothing on the girl. I’ve looked.”

  “I want a bullet in her fucking head if she’s still alive,” he grinds out. “Her little disappearing act is causing us all a goddamn headache. You know that bastard practically accused me at the funeral? Me? Like I give a shit about his kid. You couldn’t give me Nikki with a million-dollar check. What makes him think I want his other cum drop?”

  I itch to correct him. Eva is stunning. Even with days-old grime and dirty hair, she’s light years beyond any girl either of us ever had. Fresh out of the tub? Fuck. She’s an angel. But I’m also struck with the overwhelming urge to rearrange his face for threatening her. She may have a mouth on her, but she’s nothing like her father. She has feelings in her eyes. Feeling in her voice. She’s a Lombardi by name, but nothing else.

  “You can’t kill a woman,” I say finally, the need to go check on her washing over me in a downpour. I shake it off just as quickly. She’s secured, and she’s my captive, nothing more. I don’t need to dote on her. I’m losing my goddamn mind. “We don
’t operate like that.”

  He clenches his jaw. “What if Antonio killed Aidan?”

  I brush at my thigh, a smudge of flour leaving a white line across my pant leg. “Then we take him out.”

  He shakes his head. “No, we kill every Lombardi. Otherwise, they retaliate.”

  “He has a wife and two daughters, Nole. He’s not married to the fucking Terminator.”

  He honks at the vehicle in front of us before snaking into the left lane, flipping the balding man in the plumbing truck the bird as he passes. “Why are you so hard for this chick, Fal? Is she sucking your dick? Paying your rent?”

  “I’m not hard for anyone. I’m not a monster. We don’t do that, Nole. That’s not how we function.”

  Except I am hard for her. Incredibly. I’ve made that abundantly clear with my hand twice more since returning to my apartment yesterday. It’s precisely the reason to stay the fuck away. Lust is a sneaky bitch, and I won’t let her ruin me.

  Nole rubs at his hair, agitated. “Look, we need to do things differently if we want a fighting chance. People aren’t playing by the rules. Why should we be at a disadvantage?” A car next to us blasts its horn, and he returns the favor by reaching into his waistband and waving his 9mm out the window.

  “Nole, what the fuck?” I shout, grabbing his arm and hauling him toward me, trying to prevent yet another headache. I can’t juggle bailing him out again. I have enough plates whirling in the air.

  He turns, meeting me with furious eyes. “We kill them all, Fal. Every last motherfucker.”

  16

  Eva

  Lips skim my throat, trailing the bare flesh to flutter down to my collarbone. A scrape of stubble follows each gentle caress, forming an intoxicating rhythm. They drift to the valley between my breasts, savoring the skin that’s never felt the touch of another, let alone a man.

  An enemy.

  His mouth grazes my nipple and I cry out, glancing down and locking eyes with him, his thick lashes resting lazily over the stormy blues as he watches me here before him exposed.

  My skin burns, craving the next delicious brush of contact.

  I shouldn’t want this, but I do.

  I want everything he has to offer. His heat. His body. His sins.

  As different as we are, we’re meant for one another.

  Innocence and evil.

  Darkness to light.

  Without the other, we can’t exist.

  In the end, only one of us will win. The other will lose themselves. He’ll tarnish me, or I’ll purify him.

  But now... together, none of it matters.

  His hands skim my bare stomach toward my most sacred of places and his mouth lowers to my breast, proving it.

  I jerk awake, drenched in sweat despite the cold, stagnant air.

  The fire’s out again. The third time tonight. The captor made it look easy all those days ago, but I’m terrible at building a lasting blaze.

  The captor. My captor.

  I can still feel his mouth on me. Smell his cologne on my body. Taste his lips on mine.

  I shift, the heat between my thighs lingering from the dream. A recurring nightmare, really. Insanity-fueled delusions of him on me. In me.

  This cabin is driving me crazy. The nothingness has stolen the fleeting bits of hope, leaving me longing for milestones I may never see outside of these walls, courtesy of the two-million-dollar bounty on my head. Why else would I want him? Why would my body long for his touch?

  I nestle into the blanket, grateful that the sleeping bag beneath seals out the worst of the cold. It’s frigid in here, but warmer than it was yesterday. Maybe even the day before that. I can’t be sure. The days are blending into one another with the lack of sunlight, and it feels like he was both here days earlier and weeks ago.

  His visits have spread further apart since he stayed overnight through the storm. He practically threw supplies inside and ran out the last few times, not even sparing a second glance. Treating me like a caged animal. Unwanted. Unneeded.

  How fucked is it that I miss him? That not having him here for longer than a minute or two leaves a void? Not one that another could fill, either. I want him here with his highs, lows, and everything in between. I want that hum between us. The one that makes me feel like I’m at the apex of a coaster, ready to plummet to earth. Scared. Excited. Curious for what’s ahead.

  It’s a silly crush rooted in danger. I never thought I’d see the day, yet here I am pining after an Irishman. A man whose name I’ll never know. I’m no better than Perlie. Not that I’ll admit any of this to her when I get home. She’d never let me live it down.

  But recognizing that doesn’t quell the ache rooted within me. Nor does it cool the warmth or ward off the tingle that runs up my spine at the tiniest hint of friction when I adjust beneath the covers, desperate for relief.

  I want him.

  I want his hands against my skin. Rough on smooth. Hard on soft.

  I want that gritty voice in my ear. His breath hot on my skin. Those snarls sending shivers through me, promising a mix of pleasure and pain—just as he has every night in my dreams.

  My cuffed hands have a mind of their own, following the same path as his in those sordid fantasies. They dip under the waistband of my leggings, brushing against the delicate flesh. I gasp at the contact, squeezing my eyes closed and pretending they’re his fingers rather than mine.

  The imagination is a wicked place. That mere switch in identity awakens a beast in me, egging the fingers on to move faster, to apply pressure where I need it most. I’ve touched myself before, but nothing like this. Nothing as ravenous. This isn’t curiosity fueling the fire inside. This is instinct. Lust.

  I pull the leggings down to my knees and my legs part, giving the fingers more freedom to work, following the orders floating in my head. Filthy things the man’s only ever said in my dreams.

  The pressure builds at a torturous pace as my fingers circle the sensitive nub, a fantasy of him watching me bringing a tidal wave with it.

  Would he watch in silence? Encourage me? Push my hands aside and show me how to do it better?

  God, I hope the latter.

  It isn’t long until I’m crying out, my hips lifting from the cot and eyes popping wide as an orgasm runs through me. “Oh, fuck!”

  But as I stare into the darkness, it hits me he’s not here.

  He won’t be, either.

  He shouldn’t be.

  This is nothing more than a fantasy.

  That’s all it can ever be.

  17

  Fallon

  Does a villain wake up one day realizing that he’s a monster? Or does he think he's the hero till the very end?

  Because right now, in this moment, surrounded by blood, vomit, and suffering, I’m pretty fucking sure I’m the villain. It’s taken days of carnage, but this puts me over the edge. I’m losing control.

  I slam the hammer down, disgust rolling through me as the sound of bones shattering fills the air.

  “Who killed Aidan?” I demand, glaring at the junkie who’s screaming bloody murder and staring at his decimated hand, tied to a chair and completely at my mercy. I wield the hammer, waiting for an answer.

  Nolan found him tweaking out on a sidewalk in the old neighborhood this morning, jabbering on about Tullys and bad guys. Something about Lombardis too, but he hasn’t said shit about Antonio since I showed up.

  “I don’t know who that is!” The junkie’s blubbering over his hand like he needs it for anything beyond shooting up. Like I’m not saving him from killing himself with his next needle. Track marks line his arms, a few of the scabs oozing with infection. His face has the telltale signs of dope: sunken cheeks, red splotches, droopy eyes.

  Bratva did this to him. Bratva are ruining our city, flooding our streets with poison. Turning the old neighborhood into a land of chemical zombies. The very men we let slide in for a fee. We’re doing this to our people. Selling them off to the highest bidder and turning a
blind eye. This shit needs to end.

  The man’s losing his fucking mind with fear. Tears flood his cheeks. Piss stains the jeans that hide a skeleton of a man. The work light beaming on him exposes everything he’s got, and he’s got nothing but agony.

  “Nole,” I say, moving to stand. “He ain’t it.”

  Nolan shakes his head, flicking ash from his cigarette. “He knows something. Get it out of him.” He’s wearing a suit like Pop does for meets, his gray rather than Pop’s usual black. There’s no need for it. No meets today. None tomorrow. Everything’s on hold until we find out who killed Aidan.

  I drop the hammer, letting it clatter against the shipping container’s floor. “I can’t. He’s got nothing for us. He needs to detox.” Even then, I’m not sure he’ll live. He looks like someone stretched skin over the Crypt Keeper. A stone’s throw from rigor mortis.

  My twin isn’t backing down, sucking in a mouthful of smoke. “He’s talking, or I’ll start shooting. He knows who killed Aidan. He’s the piece that leads to Antonio.”

  “He’s off his fucking rocker, Nole. Dopeheads talk crazy all the time. Maybe when he sobers up, he’ll remember where he heard what he’s parroting. He needs a doctor.”

  I’m not wasting time on a dead end. I still need to get to Jersey to restock the cabin. It’s been a week since my last trip. Eva’s likely running on fumes and cussing up a storm out there. I kinda miss my little pain in the ass. Dropping in less with shorter visits has me fiending for more of her. Something I can’t have.

  Nolan pushes off the side of the shipping container, pacing back and forth while he billows smoke. Sucking and blowing. Sucking and blowing. Rinse, wash, repeat.

  The junkie watches, his sniffling slowing while he looks between us, a power play between twins playing out for his entertainment.

  We’ve butted heads constantly about one thing or another. The struggles over keeping up with the increase in hot materials. Who does what when at the docks. Who reports to who. It’s nonstop, and Pop’s making us work it out between ourselves, which is a fucking joke. Nole would rather drink than talk, and I’d prefer to punch him in the mouth.