Kiss & Control: A Mafia Romance Page 2

  Ma rolls her eyes, unmoved. “What good is having sons if they don’t carry on the family name? Tullys are practically an endangered species.”

  Correction: Tullys are an endangered species. But then again, so is everyone else. Time is temporary. More so in a realm where you can catch a bullet for looking at a man wrong.

  “We’re good for manual labor.”

  Her thin lips curl, betraying her stern expression with a smirk. “When’s the last time you did any manual labor, Fally?”

  It was worth a try. “You’ve got me there.”

  I’ve cleared enough hurdles to push the crap jobs off my plate after years of blistered hands and back-breaking labor. I swear Pop left the fat fucks for me to bury back in the day. Now it’s mainly a little of this and a little of that, usually involving a well-timed threat, neighborhood patrols, or good old-fashioned hand-to-mouth respect lessons.

  She sighs, her narrow shoulders slumping. “Give Siobhan a call, will you? Take her to New York and show her a good time.”

  I ignore her, heading to the home’s paneled kitchen to set my mug in the sink. Siobhan sucks dick like an Olympic sport, but unfortunately, she does the same for half the neighborhood, too. Not only that, but she’s as independent as a parasite. I don’t do clingy. I don’t do anything, really. Not much more than a quick fuck. No strings, no problems.

  “Let me die a happy woman, Fallon. Please. Siobhan would be a doll of a daughter-in-law, and I’d love grandkiddies to spoil.” Ma follows close behind, never one to let anything go without a fight. I can never figure out if I got my stubbornness from her or from Pop. Or maybe I inherited it from both, and that’s why I refuse to take no for an answer.

  I roll my shoulders, the squeeze of a tension headache building at the base of my skull. This nagging isn’t helping. “Enough. You’re not dying anytime soon, and I’m not dating Siobhan.” I’d sooner stick my dick in a panini press.

  She huffs and plants her clenched fists on her hips. “What’s the matter? Is she not good enough for you? I’ll have you know that Siobhan…”

  “Siobhan’s got Titanic tits!” Nolan finishes Ma’s rant as he steps into the kitchen in a rumpled bomber jacket and jeans, looking every part the hungover asshole he is with bloodshot eyes and a busted mouth. “And she’s sucked a lot of pipe.”

  Ma whirls to face my twin with her jaw dropped. “No!”

  Well, there goes that secret.

  Nolan pulls her into a hug and fires off a wink above her head. “I’ve taken a ride, but so has everyone else. She’s got a lot of miles on her, Ma. Wait until Fallon finds a newer model. You don’t want his muffler to fall off.”

  I was the first Tully to bed Siobhan, but Nolan was quick to follow, not even waiting a day before saddling up my sloppy seconds. But there aren’t any hard feelings. Our romp was courtesy of alcohol—not genuine interest. I wish she would’ve fallen in love with him that night. At least then she’d leave me the hell alone.

  “I could have gone the rest of my life without knowing that!” Ma squawks, swatting his chest. “Are you trying to put me in an early grave?”

  Still laughing, he moves to hug me with the stale scent of cigarettes clinging to his coat. “Honesty is the best policy, right, Fally?”

  I turn my head to the side to avoid the smell as we hug. He’s a walking ashtray like Pop, delivering a hefty dose of secondhand smoke everywhere he goes. “There’s such a thing as selective sharing, Nole.”

  If he wants to be viewed as an asset instead of a liability, he’ll learn it sooner rather than later. Explaining away his fuckery to Pop is getting old. A little self control wouldn’t kill him.

  His smile widens at my advice, letting it go in one ear and out the other as usual. “Where’s Aidan?”

  I move to lean against the counter. “With Pop, probably.”

  There’s a meet in the north with the Lombardis. Pop handles them on Monday mornings while we sit with Ma. The 9mm in my waistband and .357 dangling from my shoulder holster aren’t for fun. Likewise, Nolan is strapped.

  Aidan’s always with Pop for meets. He’s more of a diplomat than a soldier. In time, he’ll take over as the head of the family while Nolan and I run the troops. We share a knack for the grittier side of the business that seems to have skipped Aidan.

  Nolan’s split lips twist as he makes a beeline for breakfast on the stove. “I must’ve missed that chat. I was a little out of it last night, sorry.”

  He grabs a plate and spoons hash onto it—our Sunday dinner transformed into breakfast. Ma worked like a dog in the kitchen preparing the turkey and sides, and good ole Nole thanked her by making a drunken ass of himself. Luckily for him, Pop was in high spirits, so he only got a punch to the mouth for his antics.

  “Don’t apologize to me,” I mutter, tilting my head toward Ma. She still hasn’t recovered from the Siobhan bombshell he hurled her way judging by her bugged-out eyes. A sorry might put a tiny bandage on the gaping hole in her future plans for me.

  Nolan shoves a spoonful of hash into his mouth, missing the cue. “Fine. Don’t say I didn’t, dick.”

  Sitting around with a full stomach is the shit I daydream about while running jobs. Nolan always paces, eager to get out of the house and back into the action, but I cherish the time. We’re technically working, but it’s nice to relax, even if we’re ready to blow a motherfucker’s head off at a moment’s notice.

  My parents’ old brick colonial offers a rare respite from reality. It’s almost as if we’re normal within its walls, just a family enjoying one another’s company—not a band of smugglers with blood on our hands.

  Pop arrives at 10:00 AM sharp, never one to deviate from schedule. He kisses Ma hard on the mouth before heading to the study, Nolan and I following as Ollie and Ike take over our posts in the living room. The pair usually run security at the house, but for meets, they travel with Pop.

  “Antonio Lombardi is a greedy son of a bitch.” Pop doesn’t wait for the door to shut entirely before spewing the words. He shrugs out of his jacket and throws it in the general direction of the coat rack. It lands on the leather loveseat instead before sliding to the floor. “He won’t stop until he owns the entire tri-state.”

  “Get him his medicine,” I order, my eyes flicking to Nolan, who stands closest to the liquor cabinet. We have a sliver of time to work with before he’s too far gone.

  “I take it the meeting didn’t go well?” Nolan cocks a brow at Pop while opening a fresh bottle of rye.

  “Fuck no. That cocksucker is relentless. He’s too goddamn grabby.” Pop plops into his chair behind the desk, a scowl deepening the craters in his face. He looks a hell of a lot older than fifty-eight, with wrinkled skin and mostly silver hair, only a few strands of dark auburn remaining. Hopefully Aidan’s got his beauty regimen ironed out. Otherwise Pretty Boy might be in for a rude awakening once he takes over. “You know that fucker’s got black eyes, right? Soulless. Dead. No life to ‘em.”

  Antonio’s the head of the Lombardi family, an Italian crew we’ve never seen eye to eye with. Maintaining a healthy distance is always the chosen route, but with the government squeeze coming from all sides thanks to sloppy Russian drug running, Philly is a pressure pot forcing us within biting distance of one another.

  “No explanation of why I ran off five of his men at the docks last week?” I ask, gesturing for Nolan to hurry with the drink.

  If Lombardi’s crew keeps up their shit, the wrong person will start shooting, and the result won’t be pretty for either side. We’re strong, but not enough to withstand an all-out war with the Lombardis. Antonio has money and men out the ass. Not to mention half of the police in his pocket and even more politicians from here to DC.

  Pop shakes his head and accepts the drink from Nolan, downing it like water. “That asshole is up to something. It’s too convenient that he wanted to have a check-in with all the bullshit going on. I’m not offering any more passes to that prick. The next bastard snooping around g
ets a bullet to the knee.”

  I lean against the door and cross my arms, the .357 snub nose hard in its shoulder holster beneath. “Lombardi’s never given a rat’s ass about our business, so why is he poking around now? He’s got plenty of shit to keep him busy.”

  The Lombardis usually stick to the prettier parts of the city that suit their business model, where gambling, corruption, and money laundering flourish. Center City. South Philly. The outlying casinos.

  “He’s power-hungry,” Pop snarls. “He’s always quick to jump into everyone else’s shit. The Bratva assholes crept in with their dope and hookers, and we let them slide to keep the peace. The greedy fuck wants in too.”

  Letting them slide isn’t exactly true. We receive reimbursement from the Russians, though I’d prefer to go without it and not have needles littering our streets. But it’s Pop’s call, not mine.

  “Did you tell him to fuck off?” Nolan asks, reaching into his coat pocket to grab a pack of smokes.

  “We have an understanding.” Pop lights a cigar before extending the lighter toward Nolan, who lights up. “But that doesn’t mean shit. That bastard sold his own daughter’s pussy for port access.”

  Nolan coughs back a laugh as he pulls away and takes a drag from his cigarette. “Well, Pop, Nikki wasn’t exactly worth much. He made out like a bandit with the trade.”

  I grin, dipping to the side to avoid a direct hit of Nolan’s smoke. “Come on, Nole, you wouldn’t have a go?”

  His face twists in disgust with his cigarette dangling from his lips. “She’s practically Antonio with tits and heels.”

  Pop raises a brow. “Have we ever seen them together in the same place? Maybe he moonlights as Nikki to give the Russians some competition.”

  The two Tullys roar with laughs, but unease permeates through me.

  Something big had to come from the meeting of two patriarchs. Otherwise, it’d be a waste, and Pop wastes nothing. “Have you heard anything from the docks?”

  Pop shakes his head. “Business as usual. No fucks creeping around overnight either. They have orders to shoot on sight. Not to kill—but maim. I want Lombardi to see what happens when you fuck with me.”

  Son of a bitch.

  “Fuck that—shoot to kill!” Nolan exhales a cloud with a smile. The room looks like a goddamn casino floor with all the smoke in the air. “He’ll start listening when his men disappear.”

  “We don’t need that kind of heat right now. We can’t afford to lose men either.” The headache from earlier booms, the blood flow roaring in my ears. This is the last pile of shit I need to dig out of today.

  Our crew is still rebuilding from the last clash, a shootout with a Polish street gang over the summer taking out two of our men and downing another five with injuries. Even at our strongest, we couldn’t take on Lombardi. Trying now would be a suicide mission.

  “We don’t kill,” Pop concedes, looking between us. “Yet.”

  I push off the door and step forward, feeling more like a lion tamer than Pop’s son. “Behaving before a meet’s expected, but they’ll be back. We need to have a plan in place to deter but keep quiet.”

  I refuse to doom an operation that took years to build. Once bullets start flying, we’ll lose all the ground we’ve gained and it’ll all fall back on me and Aidan to clean up. It always does.

  “Aidan can handle it.” Pop waves at the bottle of rye, which Nolan once again tilts to his glass.

  I rub my temple, the vein beneath throbbing as the headache spreads. “What did he think of it all?”

  There’s no way Aidan would okay shooting near our spot. He’s the reason the cops finally stopped patrolling the area, even after the shootout. No one believes that handsome mug is up to anything illegal. He’s too damn pretty.

  Pop shrugs, closing the cigar box in front of him with a clap. “You second-guessing me, kid?”

  Anger nips at my collar. Withholding details from our men is one thing, but we’re his sons. Every decision affects our future. This business is a long game, and he doesn’t always keep that in mind. It’s why we liquor him up when his temper flares. The once-accelerant to his rage now placates the aging tyrant, preventing the brush fires he’s caused in the past with other crews.

  “He didn’t speak up in the car?” I press, trying another angle. Aidan never keeps his opinion to himself. I’m not stupid. He’s as pushy as Ma, if not worse.

  Pop’s free hand moves to white-knuckle the edge of the desk. “He was too busy playing patty-cake at the docks to bother coming.”

  Shit. Here it goes.

  “Pop…” I say, aiming to de-escalate, but as soon as I meet his eyes, I clamp my mouth shut. I’d like to keep all my teeth, so there’s no sense pushing him further.

  “Hey… hey… tempers, guys, tempers!” Nolan interjects, flicking ash in the overflowing tray at the corner of Pop’s desk. “We can handle anything Lombardi throws at us. He’s nudging. If we hold our ground, we’re good. Let’s remind them who they’re fucking with, okay? No killing. No shooting.”

  Pop’s eyes stay hard and fixed on me. “Lombardi knows who he’s fucking with, but it seems your little brother forgot.”

  I hold up my hands, exposing the palms in surrender. “I’m not fucking with anyone. I’m just trying to get the details.” Trying and failing miserably.

  “You have what you need,” Pop barks before sucking down another drink. “Now get the fuck out of my sight.”

  “Good job poking the bear, numb nuts.”

  I shoot Nolan the middle finger over my shoulder on the walk down our parents’ sloped driveway toward our vehicles. As the usual antagonist to Pop’s nerves, he can’t resist rubbing it in that I’m higher on his shit list for once.

  “Come on, on what planet was that a good idea?” He follows behind, dragging his steel-toed boots along the concrete. “You’re lucky he didn’t pop you in the mouth too.”

  I roll my eyes as I reach my SUV, the blacked-out vehicle a behemoth next to his sport coupe. “Not a chance. I asked too many questions; you got drunk at his table and disrespected him.”

  He stops, pointing at his scabbed lips. Pop’s fist did a number last night, leaving an ugly diagonal gash that stretches to opposite corners. “This is what you get for giving too much lip to Shea Tully, yet you still have that baby-soft mouth. You’re lucky you’re the favorite, Fal.”

  I snort back a laugh. Favorite? More like the avoided. Our relationship hasn’t been the same since my gun met his face as a kid. We’ve never spoken of that night, and we’re never alone together, either. The writing’s on the wall. He trusts me as much as a duct-taped parachute. I’m tolerated. Hardly the favorite.

  I open my driver’s side door. “No, that’s what you get when you’re a belligerent asshole.”

  “I deserve a punch in the face for having fun?”

  I clasp the top of the door, not in the mood to rehash last night. If I think about it too long, I might start swinging. He’d yet again proven he hasn’t grown up. That he can’t rise to the plate. “You were a loudmouth idiot. You can’t go around singing about clits and tits at the table.”

  He’s lucky that all he got was a fist to the kisser. Had our men been there, Pop would’ve taken a bat to him like old times. If that were the case, he’d have a lot more than a split lip to worry about.

  He frowns. “You’d bloody your brother? Your twin?”

  A fresh tide of annoyance rushes in, warming my chest. “Really, Nole? I have enough butt-hurt fucks on my plate.” Pop. Ma. Half of our men. He needs to grab a number and get in line. I can’t make everyone happy.

  “I’m not butt-hurt.” He shrinks back on his heels, a beta when pressed. Not much has changed since we were kids. He still hates confrontation. With family, at least. He doesn’t mind bar fights one fucking bit, apparently. I’ve spent a few grand bailing his ass out this year alone, and I’ll never see that money again.

  “Then what do you call it?” I snap. “In case you nee
d a refresher, we have a crew on the verge of leaving us for an operation that can offer more. We don’t have time for this bullshit.”

  He’s too busy trying to get his dick wet to notice the cracks in our foundation. We may feel the Tully tie to the bone, but others aren’t wired the same. Taking a bullet scares them. They see every drop of their blood shed as one too many, while Tully-born see it as blood spilled for their own. An honor. We all have our share of scars, but carrying them with pride is another beast entirely.

  “I… I…” he sputters, taken aback. For once, the quick-witted fuck is speechless.

  I step into him, chest to chest with my mirror image. “Shooting blindly is foolish.” It would also seal our fate. He knew damn well what he was doing when he egged Pop on in his office. He knows how hard it is to reel him back when he goes off the rails. He’s just too childish to see the long-term consequences.

  His features sharpen. “What do you want to do about it then, big shot? Sit back and let them run recon on us unchecked? That’s weak.”

  I lock eyes with those as wild and blue as mine, lowering my voice before we attract Pop’s attention in the house or worse—our men overhear. A few of them are always on the property, a suburban sprawl we left the old neighborhood for when Pop took over the helm from his father. “I want to talk to Aidan and get the truth about what happened today.”

  There has to be a reason he opted out of going to a Lombardi meet. Pop is never a man of few words, so something has to be lurking in the weeds and is likely poised to bite.

  Nolan swallows hard, his throat bobbing as he studies me. “Pop wouldn’t keep anything from…”

  I dip in close, cutting him off. “We need to figure out what we’re facing. Anything to keep control before this all goes to shit.”

  We drive in tandem to the docks, though a vehicular pissing contest breaks out within a few blocks. Nolan, being the dick he is, hugs my bumper in his sports car and I, forever an asshole, brake-check him nonstop. It’s Tully for exchanging I’m sorry in a family where apologies come as frequently as Halley’s Comet.