Kiss & Control: A Mafia Romance Page 21

  The hour-long drive left a lot of time for destructive thinking, but it also meant nearly every pharmaceutical in my veins has dulled to where I want to say Hail Marys until my left shoulder detaches from my body. What I thought was pain before turns out to be a paper cut compared to this.

  I lead the way in the back door, nodding at Ollie and Ike who look uneasily at Torin following close behind. They’re relatively new to the Tully fold, so they don’t know who he is or what he means to our family. They might also stare because he’s a scary motherfucker with eyes so dark you could drown in them if you look into them too long.

  The kitchen’s quiet. Brian’s waiting by the container of cat food cans, letting out a raspy meow when he sees me. The stench of burned coffee hangs in the air, the coffee pot Pop refuses to part with still churning out liquid magma.

  “Hasn’t changed.” Torin sighs, shaking his head as he settles into the space. He hasn’t been in the house since he and Pop had their blowup, an argument over sports dissolving into Pop shooting him like a fucking maniac.

  Brian eyes Tor, scurrying away when he wanders too close. Smart cat.

  Ma’s perfume drifts in before she does, the flowery scent matching the rose-patterned wrap dress she’s wearing. She’s oblivious to our presence, hurrying into the kitchen with an armful of dishes that she immediately drops when her eyes fall on Torin. The pieces shatter, but she doesn’t bat an eyelash.

  “Oh, dear God!” She looks between us, focusing on my arm sling. She steps over the mess, her eyes drowning in tears when she reaches for Tor, hauling him in for a hug. “My boy!”

  I’m a little miffed that neither Ollie nor Ike comes in to investigate the shattered glass. Pop, too. I don’t care if we’re here. They’re assigned to protect, not ignore.

  Ma pulls her head away from Tor’s chest for a moment to study me. “What happened to you?”

  Memories of Nolan shooting me play on a loop, followed immediately by him laying on the floor, gasping his dying breaths. I shake them away. “We need to have a talk. Where’s Pop?”

  She nods toward his office. “He’s on a call. Miserable this morning.”

  Torin laughs, stepping away. “When isn’t he?”

  Ma’s eyes dart between us again, and she stiffens, crossing her arms over her chest. “Where’s Nolan?”

  Torin’s the only one in the room who knows the exact answer, but he doesn’t voice it. Instead, he threads his fingers in hers, squeezing gently, and throws Ma a ball she can’t resist chasing. “Do you have any of that tea you used to always make?”

  The bait works, and Ma moves to prep tea while Torin and I head to the office.

  Pop’s still on the phone when we walk in, and the moment his eyes hit the doorway and see the two of us standing there, they practically roll back in his head. “I need to go,” he says, hanging up and throwing his cell phone to the desktop. “Make it fast and make sure your mother doesn’t find me.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m not here to hurt you, you old bastard. I need to talk with you about Aidan.”

  “Nolan did it,” Pop grumbles, and I have to grab the seat in front of me for support. “I knew the moment I saw Aidan laying in that bed. It was a coward’s move.”

  My fingers sink into the leather, and I want to slam the chair into the floor until it splinters into a thousand pieces. “If you knew, why didn’t you…”

  He blows out a ragged breath. “Keeping him liquored up here is easier than doing what needs to be done.”

  “It’s done,” I say solemnly, and Pop’s eyes flick to mine.

  “It’s done?” he repeats, spitting the words like they’re a language he’s never heard before. He looks to the family photo that sits on his desk, frowning. I’m honestly offended that that’s all the sympathy he has for Nole. He committed unforgivable sins, but I still have a crater-sized hole in my chest over his loss. “When?”

  I gesture at my pair of battle scars. “Last night. He put a slug in my shoulder and tried to take my head off with another. It had to be done.”

  I expect him to yell. Scream. Pull a gun and start firing. But he doesn’t. He studies me for a long moment, his thick, graying brows almost touching. “You had the Lombardi girl the whole time, didn’t you?”

  I flick my head toward Torin. “Courtesy of this guy, yes. She’s safe and back with Antonio.”

  Pop blows out a ragged breath and a smile teases on his lips. “Well, fuck. That earned us a hell of a get out of jail free card.”

  “No.”

  He cocks his head. “No? He still wants you dead after that? Fuck.”

  “We don’t fuck with the Lombardis, period.”

  We can’t waste it.

  I might need that get out of jail free card someday.

  26

  Fallon

  Nolan’s buried without fanfare two days later.

  No fancy casket. No flowers. No throngs of mourners.

  He’s cremated, stuffed in an urn, and placed at the far corner of the family plot in an eternal timeout. At least that’s what Ma calls it.

  She went a little overboard with the exorcism and holy water, but I did as she asked, making sure both the priest and Lord’s liquid were on hand during the grave-side service that lasted all of five minutes. Torin had a field day with the holy water, making a sizzling sound when Ma sprinkled some on Nole’s urn. She smacked the shit out of him in front of the priest for that.

  Just the four of us went: me, Torin, Ma, and Pop. And the four of us returned to the house a short time ago, trading stories about when us boys were kids, even ones with Nolan. Pop wants to ban his name from the house and business, but I can’t do it, and I don’t expect anyone else to, either. What’s done is done, and not talking about him won’t bring Aidan back. It’ll only kill his memory, and despite the way things ended, I don’t want to forget Nole. He’s my twin. I’ll always carry that connection.

  A few of our men are on the way over to discuss plans going forward, and when Brian darts from surveying Torin on the couch, I know they’re here.

  Lorcan walks in the front door flanked by Barry and Trevor. Their faces carry a somber tone, the crew’s morale hitting rock bottom after Pop shared the news about Nolan and what he’d done to earn my bullet to the heart.

  But Torin isn’t one to let a sour mood linger, so he takes one look at Lorcan and grimaces. “Good Lord, you aged like an avocado.”

  Lorcan, a gruff old son of a bitch who’s likely never seen—possibly never even heard of—an avocado scans the room with a scowl before lighting up with a smile. “Torin fucking Byrne?”

  “Lorcan fucking Mulligan,” Torin echoes, pushing to stand.

  The two men exchange a stiff hug before our other men join in; our group reunited for the first time in ages. I don’t know how long it’ll last, but having us all in one place feels right. I don’t want it to end, and if I have my way, it won’t. Torin belongs here, with us, even if he’s not working with us.

  Barry sits next to me on the sofa, his massive frame invading my space as the behemoth settles in, and that’s with him scrunching his knees toward his chest to be considerate.

  “Any news from the docks?” I ask, curious how things are going now that Lombardi has Eva back. I imagine his men will finally fuck off and stop the snooping they started before this clusterfuck all started. If not, I might have to call Antonio myself and remind him that Tullys saved his daughter. Well, a Tully and Torin.

  Barry grins. “Not a fucking peep.”

  I brush a clump of Brian's hair from my suit pants. “That’s good.”

  It’s all good. The family. The business. Shit with the Lombardis. So good that I should sit back with a cold one and toast to better days ahead. But I’m not happy.

  It isn’t the loss of Nolan or the near-constant drama of the past month stealing my joy. Nor is the sudden responsibility thrust on me since Pop’s now openly flirting with retirement. It’s Eva.

  Two days have passed since I’
ve seen her, and it might as well be a lifetime. She’s alive and kicking out there somewhere, probably mouthing off to whoever she’s with, but she’s not mouthing off to me, and she’ll never do it again. Nolan took her from me that night, even if it was indirect.

  She’s texted me at least a dozen times already, not that I have a fucking clue how she got my number. Everything from I miss you to please wait for me to a four-part critique of my captive-keeping performance. Every message hurts more than the last to ignore, especially that last one.

  This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. She should hate my guts. Hate that her friend is dead and that I’m breathing. Telling her myself should’ve pushed her away, not made her pine after me like a lovesick puppy. But this is how it is, and I have to pretend not to care. This isn’t about how I feel. It’s about what’s best for Eva.

  Lorcan leans on the arm of the sofa, a beer cradled in his hands. “Did Lombardi mention that guy Nolan took care of after...?” he trails, likely unsure of who exactly in this circle knows what about the matter.

  “He didn’t, and none of us will either until it comes up in conversation.” I’m not looking forward to telling Antonio that I shot one of his men for snooping, or that Nole disposed of him. “Where did you guys put him in case he wants him back?”

  His brows furrow. “I thought Nolan told you. He said you were going to help him bury him later as punishment.”

  “Didn’t happen.” Shit. That corpse could be anywhere, and Lombardi will lose his fucking mind if he ever finds out about it. “He left a dead body out in the open?”

  Lorcan snorts up a ball of phlegm that he swallows animatedly. “Hell if I know. That big bastard was alive and moaning when I left. Nole sent me to get a fuck ton of ice melt to make sure no snow stuck to the area.”

  I rub at my temple. Knowing Nole, he probably dumped the asshole on Lombardi’s turf with my business card in his pocket. “Well, I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

  And hopefully that get out of jail free card is still valid when we do.

  27

  Eva

  Life’s a box of crazy when someone on your father’s payroll wants to kill you.

  Rather than take me home, Papa sets me up in a swanky hotel in Center City that doubles as a jail cell while he sorts out the matter. Plainclothes armed guards patrol the hall. Hired help bring in supplies instead of me going out. Food. Physical therapists. A psychologist. A doctor. It’s a revolving door of people I don’t want to see.

  Unfortunately, with my mobility limited by crutches for four to six weeks, I can’t run off and find the one person I’d like to see. That leaves me with time. A lot of time. And pain, both physical and emotional.

  I’m only allowed to attend Perla’s funeral, which rips me apart.

  Missing the rest of the semester devours my dreams.

  Watching people through the hotel’s windows live rather than exist below scavenges what I have left.

  The holidays blow through with life still limited to within these four walls. No family visits. Not even Papa. The suite’s essentially a nicer version of the cabin, except this prison has no one I can really talk to. No one who isn’t paid to listen. No Perla. No Fallon.

  He never reaches out. Not for Thanksgiving. Not for Christmas.

  But I try, at least.

  I text every cell phone number ever registered to Fallon Tully that I can find online. He’s the only person who understands what happened that night at the cabin. The only one who smelled the blood. Felt the pain. Heard my screams. I just need to see him. Know that he’s okay. Then I’ll know that I’m okay, too. That this heaviness will pass.

  When my doctor finally gives me the okay to go crutch-free, I know what I have to do when she cuts it away. I’m no one’s prisoner.

  I smile and walk her out, going through the motions as we chatter on the way to the elevator. The guards don’t react when I step outside the suite. I don’t look like I’m up to anything in a ridiculously oversized cardigan, leggings, and knit slippers. It’s New Year’s Eve, and it's snowing. I’m not dressed to watch the ball drop at a club. All I’m missing is a cat and a book and my homebody look will be complete.

  But when the elevator door opens, I slip inside, pressing the close door button rapidly.

  The pearl-wearing prima donna of a doctor looks at me with shocked, blue eyes. Papa pays her a lot of money to come here, so she knows I’m not supposed to wander out. “What are you doing?”

  “I need to visit a friend,” I say with a shrug. I’ve had his address memorized for weeks now after finding it online.

  The guards come charging, but the doors shut before they reach us, and the floors chime by one by one. There’s a good chance that some are waiting in the lobby, but now that my leg isn’t wrapped in a cast, I might have a fighting chance at outrunning them.

  The elevator doors open to the art déco lobby and I can’t get out fast enough, darting toward the exit. My leg aches, but I ignore the pain and keep running. I have one chance at this. If I slow down, Papa’s paid muscle will haul me inside and stand watch at my door.

  This is a spur-of-the-moment escape, so I don’t have a taxi waiting, but as I jog down the front steps and into the crowd of bundled-up patrons dawdling along the sidewalk, I slip my phone out of my cardigan pocket and order a ride share with a pickup location that’s two blocks down.

  The walk flat-out sucks. It’s freezing, I’m not dressed for the weather, and my leg hurts like hell, but I push ahead, knowing this is my chance to see Fallon. The moment I’ve dreamed of since he left me in the hospital alone.

  A woman in a green Toyota picks me up, her backseat crowded by a baby seat and duffel bag. I slide in, lean back, and take a deep, shaky breath.

  “You okay back there?” the driver asks, eyeing me nervously in the rearview mirror.

  “Yeah, sorry. I had to take the stairs.” Lying shouldn’t be this easy, but it is. All I care about is that she put as much space between me and the hotel as possible right now. I’ll deal with the consequences later.

  The ride is stop and go with heavy traffic that only gets worse because of the snow, and Papa blows my phone up with texts and calls that I reply to with a simple be back soon before shutting it off. I can’t risk him tracking me.

  We arrive at the apartment complex just outside of the city in a little under an hour. I step out into its parking lot that could use better plowing, taking in the whitewashed brick exterior of the series of two-story rectangles as the car pulls away. They fit Fallon. Simple. To the point. No frills.

  As my legs carry me toward apartment 233A, the nerves kick in. The ones that scream that what I’m doing is insane. I’m dropping in on my kidnapper. Who the hell am I? What is wrong with me?

  But it’s too late to back out now. I’ve come too far. I’m desperate to see Fallon again. Desperate to kiss him again. Desperate to see if that one explosion between us was all in my head. If what I felt then came out of loneliness or if he’s someone special. Someone that breaks every mold of what I thought I’d want. What I’m supposed to want. Just like Perla said.

  That curious hunger helps me knock on his door when I start to chicken out. It keeps me planted there waiting when my instincts tell me to run the other direction, that I’m playing with fire when I’m dripping in gasoline.

  The silence is deafening.

  There’s no television blaring inside. No radio. No moaning that would most definitely break my heart in half.

  It’s a holiday, and a little after six o’clock, so there’s a good chance he’s having dinner somewhere. Or with someone. But I don’t want to think about that. I’ve risked so much to get here. Probably jacked up my leg too.

  Tears are threatening my eyes when I hear a click and the knob turns. The door inches open, and my breath hitches in my throat.

  Fallon’s here.

  He’s really here.

  And the same bolt of electricity runs through me as every other t
ime I’ve seen him.

  His tumble of auburn waves rebel every which way, the sides just as long as the top now. Emotive brows above the gray-blue eyes that turn my knees to jelly when they scan me over. A stubbled face that’s all hard lines and defined planes. The bullet graze to his cheek’s faded to a pale pink like the matching one on my arm, and his mouth—the one I’ve dreamt of—sits in a firm frown.

  He’s not happy to see me.

  The sight slaps me across the face.

  I made a terrible err in judgment. Maybe Papa was right. Maybe I am insane. Maybe this was all in my head.

  He peeks his head out and scans the parking lot behind me before pulling me into his apartment by the wrist. He’s not wearing his sling, though he still winces when he uses that arm to close the door behind us and flip the lock. “What are you doing here?”

  The space is dark, but he turns a light on, revealing a simple sitting area with a brown leather couch and chair facing a television and a kitchen with basic oak cabinets and a fridge that begs for photos and magnets. The air is thick with his cologne, its warmth stirring feelings I haven’t had in weeks.

  “I missed you.”

  He lets out a shaky breath, releasing my wrist and looking me over like he’s checking for blood. “You what?”

  “You didn’t miss me?” I bite the inside of my cheek, refusing to cry in front of him out of sheer embarrassment. I can’t believe I’m here. I can’t believe this is happening.

  He studies me for a second before his hand drifts out, his fingers running along my cheek. “No one’s cursed me out in a while,” he breathes, dipping his eyes to my mouth. “Everyone’s usually afraid of me.”

  I crack a smile. “I don’t know why. You can’t fight for shit.”

  He lets out a husky laugh, and I feel every gritty flutter pulse through me. “I take it Antonio doesn’t know you’re here?”

  I grab his wrist when he reaches toward a cell phone on an end table. “Don’t call him. Please. I needed to see you. Why haven’t you visited me?”