Kiss & Control: A Mafia Romance Read online

  “I know Antonio did it!” Nolan grinds out, clenching his free hand at his side. “I know it. The pieces are there. He’s just paying off lowlifes to cover for him. He always does.”

  I’m about to suggest a walk to cool down when he reaches into his waistband, pulls a gun out, and shoots the junkie in the forehead. Blood and tissue hit the back wall of the container with a thunk, and my ears ring violently from him firing the weapon in an enclosed space.

  “Nolan!” I bellow, throwing my hands over my ears as the man’s body goes limp in the chair, the back half of his skull reduced to a leaking crater. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  Nolan itches his temple with the barrel of a .45, a new toy to his arsenal. “He was lying.”

  “You don’t know that!” I explode. “You can’t go around shooting people here. What the hell?”

  He cocks his head, laughing. “Oh, we can’t? Didn’t you shoot someone? Twice? In the open, no less?”

  “That was different,” I snap, stepping away from the mess he made. The mess I’m not handling. “That man was breaking in. He might’ve had answers. Not this guy.”

  This poor son of a bitch likely didn’t even know where his next meal was coming from. Probably didn’t care, either. Because of us, he was more concerned about his next high.

  Nolan shrugs, indifferent. “I put him out of his misery.”

  “You killed an innocent man.”

  He pops his cigarette back between his lips. “I did society a favor. Made room for a fresh Bratva customer. More money for us.”

  I don’t honor him with a response.

  I leave him with his mess.

  I have a colossal one of my own to deal with far from this.

  18

  Eva

  A pop in the fireplace makes me jump from sleep, the burst of embers floating up the chimney to freedom.

  Tucked in the sleeping bag, I watch the fire crackle. The lick of flames undulating in a steady sway. The glow of the log as the fire consumes it. This one is still going strong from yesterday.

  My days are an endless loop of this. I’m a prisoner to the fireplace, feeding it as needed to prevent the cabin from descending into a winter wonderland.

  But the wood pile is dwindling on the rack, and I don’t know when I’ll see either captor again. I’ve rationed the logs the best I can, along with food. Every time I have to take from either, my heart sinks a little more.

  I don’t know how many days it's been since the man visited last. I tried the front door a few times out of desperation, but it’s locked on the outside. He boarded up the only window I can fit out of too, and while kicking it out is an option, I worry more about what’s waiting outside than in these four depressing walls.

  Two million dollars. People did crazy things for a hundred dollars. Perla licked a bathroom stall at school once for a fifty. I can’t even imagine what someone would do to me for that kind of money. Our shore house was close to that much, and Papa did a lot of terrible deeds to get that ocean view.

  I tug at my sweatshirt, the gift from the man oversized and bunching under me. I don’t want to admit it, but it’s the comfiest damn thing I’ve ever worn. Paired with the leggings, I’m in wardrobe heaven. No bra. No boning. No buttons. Just a bundle of cozy. Mama would hate it.

  She’d hate a lot of things about me right now. The clothes. The state of my hair—wild, wavy, and desperate for shampoo and conditioner. My skin washed with a bar of soap rather than the crate of custom blends she picks out. The lack of makeup. I’m not even sure she’d recognize me now that I’m not molded into a mini version of her.

  But for all her problems, I miss her. I miss her complaining about school. Her pestering me to stop eating sweets. Her planning overpriced vacations that Papa would begrudgingly take us on. I miss when those were the only problems in life I had.

  Crunching outside pulls my eyes from the fireplace to the door, and I say a silent prayer that it’s my usual visitor and not the one from Minerva’s. But I’d rather it be him than someone coming for their two-million dollars.

  Creaking is followed by a key in the handle’s lock. My heart does backflips at the slide of metal. At the turn of the handle. The door squeaking open.

  This is it.

  Someone’s finally going to finish me off. A bullet to the head. A knife to the heart. Something is coming to destroy me.

  But it’s not.

  Relief runs through me, tingling every nerve from head to toe. It’s my usual visitor, and he has an armful of bags. Dressed in a leather jacket, black jeans, and boots, he breezes in like he owns the place. I mean, I guess he does. Technically. He should think about selling this dump before it collapses.

  “You’ve been busy,” he notes, shutting the door and locking it with a click that makes my stomach lurch. He scans the room that I spent days scouring with the broom I found under the cot, sweeping, clearing cobwebs, and even attempting to mop using that pot filled with soapy water from the tub. All that hard work barely made it tolerable, but it was better than existing in filth.

  “It smelled like ass, James Dean,” I explain, unable to resist a jab. It’s not much of an insult, though. His face could easily pass for the vintage bad boy’s aside from his dark hair. And I prefer it over the blond, honestly. Gives him a little edge. A little more danger that he doesn’t need. “Someone needed to clean it before the bugs ate me.”

  “Did you clean your mouth out too?” he prods, breezing in to set grocery bags on the counter and a bundle of firewood on the floor beside it. It’s almost domestic to watch. Papa never brought groceries home. But this isn’t home, and this man isn’t anyone I love or care about. He’s providing the bare minimum to keep my heart pumping.

  I slide my legs into the sleeping bag and pull the blanket close, hiding most of my body. I hate how my insides stir whenever he looks at me. It isn’t normal. It isn’t sane, either. Nor are the dreams I have about him. The ones where he’s playing with a lot more than the buttons on my clothing. It’s sick, twisted shit. “Not a fucking chance.”

  I did, though, so excited to see the toothpaste he brought last time that I brushed my teeth with my finger and cried happy tears like a lunatic. It tasted terrible with the water from the tap, but I didn’t care. The simple things gave me a kick now.

  “Thatta girl.” He turns from the counter, smirking. He studies me leisurely, like he has all the time in the world.

  “Any news on who wants to kill me? Or an update in the bidding war on my head?” I ask, squirming under his gaze.

  Maybe it’s reached three-million bucks since the last time he was here. I can’t lie, it makes me feel a little something somewhere deep inside about commanding such a high price tag for my head. Not quite pride, but close. It’s a membership to a club I’m sure few people are part of. I must get that fucked up gene from Papa. The ballsy one that looks danger in the face with a middle finger and a grin. The streak that got me right here in the first place when I strolled into Minerva’s despite Papa’s warning.

  He looks as deflated as I feel when he delivers the news. “Not a peep.”

  I miss my bed. School. Perla. My family. I hate this place.

  I chew on my lower lip, stuffing down the tears that burn my eyes. “I can’t stay here forever. I have a life, Mister.”

  A life that I’ve fought to claw out in a world where I’m expected to be nothing more than a housewife and incubator. I look forward to class. To learning more about the world outside of Papa’s shadow. To learning more about myself and what I’m capable of. I can’t do any of that here, aside from mastering fire building. And if I’m being honest, I’m mediocre.

  He shifts his attention back to the bags, rummaging through one with the care of a toddler after a pinata’s guts. “If you want to keep it, you’ll stay put as long as necessary. It shouldn’t take long.”

  “I’ve been here for weeks, Mister.” I’m not sure how many. More than two. Maybe a little over three. I don’t k
now.

  “And you’re breathing, right? Eating? Drinking? Shitting? Pissing?” he asks, still clawing around the bag. “Where I come from, that’s called living, and it’s a good thing, Eva.”

  A part of me warms that he’s at least still calling me by the name I asked. “What’s your name?”

  “Business,” he mutters.

  “Business?” I echo. “What the hell kind of name is that?” I’m not looking for a code name. I’m looking for a piece of him. Something that makes him more than my keeper.

  He turns with a grin, victorious in his bag pursuit with a plastic food container and a fork. “As in None-of-Your-Goddamn Business. You haven’t heard of it, have you?”

  I want to stab him all over again.

  “Ha-ha, you ass clown.”

  He steps toward me, extending the container and utensil that I could use to take a poke at him if I want, though it won’t do much more than piss him off. “You’re always insulting me, and I’ve been nothing but nice to you.”

  “Not true,” I retort, taking the offering like a hungry zoo animal. I’m not proud to be so reliant on him, but he’s turned me into a beast. I rationed cashews, chips, and beef jerky over my days alone. I’m not exactly running on full. That could explain the overwhelming urge to kiss him with gratitude when I flip the lid open and see chicken piccata staring back at me with a lump of a dinner roll. It could explain why the words fly out of my face, too. “I could kiss you right now.”

  He backs away like I’m diseased. “Down, tiger.”

  “I wouldn’t really kiss you,” I grumble, stabbing at the pasta with all the grace of a hyena with a fresh kill. “You’d be a terrible kisser.”

  This argument is beyond stupid to be having with him, and I know it, but right now I don’t care. I’m just grateful to have food, and I can’t suck noodles into my mouth fast enough.

  “Judging by how you eat, I can say the same about you,” he scoffs. “Though you probably made the football team happy.”

  I choke on my mouthful of pasta, hard enough that he comes over to whack on my back to dislodge the angel hair from my throat. It does the trick, and the glob lands square in the center of the container’s lid.

  “But you're rusty,” he cracks once I stop gasping for air. “Might need to practice on the broom while you’re alone so they still recognize you when you get back.”

  “You’re an asshole,” I snarl before biting my tongue to keep from smiling. He's a funny son of a bitch. At least I got a kidnapper with a sense of humor and not one that wants to wear me like a skin dress.

  He retreats to the counter, putting plenty of space between us like I might bite. “Takes one to know one.”

  “You missed me?” I ask, twirling another cluster of noodles around the flimsy fork. I like whatever this rapport is. It beats the hell out of the other guy that looked like he was ready to chop me into pieces. This guy might be up and down like Mama off her meds, but he has a lot more hot in that six-foot body than cold.

  “Let’s see. I haven’t had to chase any feral women across the woods, slept in my bed rather than a cot, and no one’s mouthed off to me. So, no.”

  I splay a hand over my chest dramatically. “I’m hurt, Savior Sucks-a-lot.”

  I missed him, but only because of the imminent threat of hunger or freezing to death. And maybe because I enjoy the company. Someone to talk to other than myself. Even if we were just poking and prodding like two kids in the backseat of a car on a road trip.

  He isn’t amused by my nickname. “If I told you I had the chef tea bag the sauce, what would you say?”

  I roll my eyes, attempting to cut off a hunk of chicken with the side of my fork. “Needs more salt.”

  “You’re salty enough.” He shakes his head, and the red hue to his dark hair is even more noticeable as it shines in the fire’s glow. I always dreamed I’d end up with someone with inky hair like most guys in the neighborhood, but I like the blaze hiding in his tumble of waves. A little too long on top to be professional, but otherwise neat. I wouldn’t mind finding a suitor with hair like his.

  I’ll get Perla to help. She’s good at man-hunting. She could give classes on finding a guy.

  Damn, I miss her.

  I miss waking up to her texts about making out with so-and-so or finding her in my room after class waiting to dish on the latest neighborhood gossip. She’s every bit the sister I need in Nikki but will never get.

  Rather than cry, I eat my feelings, shoveling in food. Mama’s not here to yell at me about calories or carbs, so I really go to town on it, ready to clear the whole dish in one sitting.

  “How are your legs?” the man asks after watching me eat for a solid five minutes. I don’t enjoy having an audience, but I’m so hungry that I don’t care.

  “Hairy,” I grumble. The bastard could’ve left me with a razor. I’m halfway toward transforming into Chewbacca now. Thank God he gave me leggings or the friction might cause a forest fire.

  He massages his temples like he’s trying to soothe away a headache. “The cuts, smartass.”

  “They’re fine.” Some are scabbed while others are nearly gone, faded into dim pink lines. It’s not the prettiest sight down there, but at least the spiky leg hair disguises most of the damage.

  His hands fall into his jacket’s pockets. “How are you feeling?”

  I stab at a caper. I swear I could eat a hundred of these dishes and never get full. “Like I want to go home.”

  To lie in a bed that doesn’t make me feel like I’m eighty by morning. To shower in water that doesn’t smell like a lumberjack’s swamp ass. To apologize to Papa and beg for forgiveness, hoping like hell that Dario was misplaced in a windstorm or something.

  “Besides that.” He rolls his eyes, adjusting his long legs to cross as he leans against the cabinet. I’m surprised the crumbling piece holds under his weight.

  “Like one of those puppies on the sad Sarah McLachlan commercials,” I offer, shrugging. “Hungry. Cold. Lonely.”

  He lets out a low whistle, and the sound sends goosebumps across my skin. “Do you give your father this much grief?”

  I nod. “It typically gets me what I want.”

  His eyes find mine as I set my empty container down and plop the fork inside. “And what’s that?”

  I answer honestly, “Freedom.”

  It’s the most honest I’ve been with him. Anyone, really. I put on a good front for Perla to keep her in line, but my entire life, I’ve wanted nothing more than to just run away screaming and never look back. From the name. The money. The expectations.

  He lifts a brow, and I know he sees the response for what it is. Maybe he’s in a similar boat. “Even at home?”

  My fingers sink in the blanket, pulling it closer. I feel exposed, but I can’t shut up now. It feels like a boulder just rolled off my chest. Someone is listening. “Yeah. And to finish school. Maybe go for my masters someday.”

  Pushing for a bachelor’s degree was hard enough. A master's degree is crazy talk with Papa. He’d laugh me out of his office.

  The man is hooked on my words, waiting for the next one. “And then what?”

  “I want to work.” And make honest money of my own. Build a life of my own. One outside of the Lombardi bubble where I’m more than a mobster’s daughter. But he doesn’t care about all that. People think happiness comes with power and money, but that’s a crock of shit. All that is is control. Control over me. My decisions. My every move. And I hate it.

  I expect him to laugh, but he doesn’t. “Where?”

  I swallow, the sudden dryness to my throat either brought on by nervousness or the copious amount of sodium I just downed. “Somewhere that I can work without someone breathing down my neck. Maybe my own accounting firm.”

  His lips twist. “That’ll be hard with your father. You might get tangled into his messes.” He doesn’t wield the truth as a weapon, rather nudging me into sensible waters where I won’t catch a prison sentence.
<
br />   I tilt my chin high. “Not if I refuse to handle his blood money.”

  He grins. “Blood money?”

  “I know he makes the Delaware run red if someone crosses him like you do.”

  I’m not naïve enough to think Papa’s never killed anyone. It may not be in my face, but I can read and I have two eyes. His trials have dragged the family through hell. The crime scene photos are seared in my mind forever. A slit throat ear to ear so deep you could see the man’s spinal column. His tongue cut clean out of his mouth. Mama brought Nikki and I every day and made us look at things I knew Papa did in my heart. All to put on a united front. I love him, but Papa’s a murderer. His money is dirty, and I don't want people to die for me to have nice things.

  The man eyes me, frowning. “I don’t make the Delaware run red.”

  “Bullshit.” I saw the blood on him. He’s just like Papa.

  He shrugs. “I don’t.”

  “What do you do with them, then? Bury them?” I push. “Murder is murder, buddy.”

  He feigns innocence, smiling. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Look, you can’t bullshit me. Just like I can’t bullshit you. We speak the same language, even if it’s a little different in our circles.”

  “I’m not sure that we do.” He won’t give me a damn inch.

  “Okay.” Two can play at this game. He wants to poke and prod and find my soft spots. Hell, maybe getting to know me makes this easier on his conscience. Who knows? Who cares? But I’m not playing anymore. This is a tug of war. There’s give and take. Currently, I’m giving a lot more than he is.

  “Just okay? No insult or follow-up?” he presses.

  I ignore him, sticking to my guns. He needs to give a little, dammit.

  “So let me get this straight: a mafioso’s daughter wants to run honest books at her own business…” he trails, tapping an index finger on his stubbled chin. “How does she make that happen in a world where her father promises her pussy to the highest bidder? Does the husband wave the wand of approval or Papa Bear?”