Kiss & Control: A Mafia Romance Page 3

  The path is the same we’ve taken a million times, but I scrutinize the streets with fresh eyes. Any car that slips behind us can be a tail. Every delay ahead purposeful. Lombardi is a pushy son of a bitch, and if he wants in on our operation, he’ll make a path.

  When we pull onto the pier, our guards tug the gate wide, and we ease behind the barbed wire fencing. The area is light with men, our next delivery not due until Wednesday. With straight cars onsite, we don’t need as much heat around. Heavy forces are only on hand when the cargo’s hot. As one of the top weapon smugglers in the region, our merchandise has a lot of eyes on it and not everyone wants to pay.

  I park near the receiving building’s entrance, surprised not to see Aidan’s red Cadillac here already. He always takes the first slot to avoid getting his Balenciagas dirty. He keeps those boots shinier than his damn car.

  Seagulls shriek with frantic calls as I slide out from behind the wheel, scanning the lot for the Cadillac and scrunching my nose at the stench. The port always smells like day-old fish and truck exhaust, and regardless of the steady breeze off the river, it doesn’t disappoint this morning.

  “You’re a real cocksucker.” Nolan hurls the insult as he adjusts the 9mm in his waistband, a twin to the one nestled in mine. “I almost hit you on I-95.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t ram your head up my ass,” I suggest with a shrug. “You spent nine months nestled up to it. That wasn’t enough for you?”

  He clenches his jaw, sliding his sunglasses on top of his head. “What would you have done if I hit you?”

  “I would’ve left you and your piece of shit where you fell.” I cross to the building’s entrance, our operation’s resident giant, Barry, manning the door.

  “That’s not funny, dickhead.”

  “Really?” I venture, waving at his import laden with aftermarket trash. He wastes more money fixing the lemon than it would cost to buy a brand new, fully loaded vehicle. “You shouldn’t pick fights you can’t win.”

  He pats the side of his coupe. “I can smoke you in a race any day.”

  I grin and exchange raised brows with Barry. “What good is speed if a car breaks down if you look at it wrong?”

  Nolan’s nostrils flare at the barb and he charges over with clenched fists, ready to defend his car’s honor with a punch. “It hasn’t broken down in…”

  I pat his shoulder, his body tense beneath my fingers. “Relax. I’m fucking with you, Nole. It’s a joke, not a dick. Don’t take it so hard.”

  Barry hoots, the six-foot-nine giant’s laughs coming out like thunder from above before Nolan finally cools enough to follow me inside.

  “Everything good here?” I ask, studying the crop of cars lining the warehouse from the doorway. The mix of sedans are nothing special, but they’re mid-level movers and keep the dock and car lot looking busy between real shipments. Every new vehicle undergoes processing and detailing onsite, making it easy to strip the hardware from hot receipts unnoticed.

  Barry’s smile melts into its typical hard line beneath his handlebar mustache. He’s a jovial son of a bitch, but with business, he’s lethal. “Yeah. Quiet as hell. Nothing on the patrol last night or on the cameras.”

  “Good.” Nolan reaches into his pocket for a cigarette. “Where’s Pretty Boy?”

  “He’ll get you for that,” I crack. I might’ve thought it, but I never utter Aidan’s nickname aloud around our men. I’m scrappier, but once he takes over for Pop, I don’t want to get stuck with the shit jobs again.

  “Fuck him,” Nolan laughs, undeterred.

  At least I can count on him to always be the first in line on Aidan’s shit list, too.

  Barry shrugs, rubbing his hand over fresh ink on his forearm, a topless zombie mermaid that fits in with the rest of the undead body art that decorates him from head to toe. “I thought he was with Shea.”

  “He’s not here?” I freeze to survey the inventory of cars, keeping a tight leash on the worry pulling at my gut. There’s a simple explanation. There has to be.

  Barry shakes his head, grimacing as a fresh helping of port air invades the open shipping bay facing the Delaware River. “I haven’t seen him all day.”

  Nolan’s hand stops halfway to his mouth for the next drag of his cigarette, his eyes shining with the concern burning a hole in my chest.

  I reach for my phone, holding up a hand in a pause before all hell breaks loose. Aidan’s reliable, sure, but he’s not a saint. Maybe he’s banging a chick and didn’t feel like dealing with Pop. We’ve all been there.

  I select his name from my contact list and press the phone to my ear, studying the men shuffling around the building while waiting for the call to connect. The service down here is a little sketchy, much like the characters that frequent the area.

  But the phone doesn’t ring, bouncing directly to voicemail instead.

  “Hello. You’ve reached Aidan Tully. For all business inquiries, please direct your calls to Tully Automotive, otherwise leave a message after the tone. Thanks.”

  I drop my hand, and Nolan moves with me in sync to leave. There’s no need to speak. He knows. We’ve always been able to communicate with a look.

  If Aidan is dicking around with his phone off, I’ll take a bat to him myself. We might not be as regimented as other crews, but our system works. All phones must be on at all times, even if left on silent. It’s a lifeline between Tullys. Severing it is as forbidden as ratting.

  Once outside, Nolan looks to me, genuine fear painted across his face. “Why would he tell Pop he’s at the docks?” His voice is low, keeping the pertinent details between us.

  My mind whirls with impossible scenarios, none of which make any sense. No matter how it looks, Aidan isn’t the type to fuck around off the radar. “Would Pop lie?”

  My question floats between us, and Nolan’s shoulders slouch. “I don’t know,” he admits. “But I don’t know why he would. Unless Pop has him working a line out there.”

  I don’t want to consider it. If I can’t trust my father, I can’t trust anyone. For all his failures as a parent, he’s never lied to me. He delivers truth with unmatched brutality. It’s an art form, really. “Let’s drop by and see if he’s getting his beauty rest. Maybe he took Siobhan out for a spin.”

  Nolan snickers as we head to our vehicles, and this time, I let him lead the way. I even spare him from riding his bumper as we carve through the city toward the cookie-cutter neighborhood on its outskirts.

  Aidan has tastes as polished as his looks, and his newly built home is no different. Situated in a manicured community, it’s the last place you’d expect a gun-toting criminal to live, yet Aidan has inserted himself like a goddamn catheter.

  This has to have a simple explanation. We’re freaking out over nothing, panicking because Pop was an ass about the Lombardi meet. We’ll probably pull up and find Aidan watching Jerry Springer reruns in his boxers.

  Sure enough, as we pull in the craftsman's paver driveway, Aidan’s Cadillac sits outside the garage, a fresh coat of wax leaving it glistening under the midday sun.

  “Don’t you just want to take a shit on the hood?” Nolan grumbles, waving at the shiny red car when I hop out. “That fucker had us shitting a brick, and he’s probably inside bottoming out a bar hag.”

  “I’ll castrate him.” With all the craziness going on between us, the Italians, and the Russians, he knows better than to go off the radar.

  Nolan chuckles as he steps toward the house, almost crushing one of the solar lights lining the driveway with his boot. “You can have him after I take a nipple for my troubles.”

  I move to join him as he reaches the porch. “Just a nipple?”

  He nods, opening the screen door and pressing his ear to the one behind it, the mahogany carved with fleur-de-lis in typical flashy Aidan fashion. “I don’t hear any moaning, so at least we won’t walk into an eyeful of balls and assholes. Knowing Aid, he probably bleaches his.”

  I block the image out before it c
an even conjure up in my head. “At least we know it’s not Siobhan. She’s loud even when she’s sleeping.”

  “Oh yeah? She slept at your place after? You’re a gentleman. I fucked her in the bathroom at Ian’s party and called it a night.” He reaches into the soil of the potted bush beside the door to fish out the spare key, and I grit my teeth. I’ve bitched Aidan out for that hiding spot countless times.

  “I know,” I remind him. “I couldn’t get her out until almost noon the next day. She moans in her sleep.”

  I heard their entire fling, including when she called him my name. Twice. I would’ve preferred a similar encounter to his, honestly, rather than the one I’d had. Now she knows exactly where my apartment is and likes to stop by whenever she sees my car in its slip.

  His face scrunches as he fumbles with the lock. “Jeanie from the pub is a moaner, too, except she does it when your dick is in her throat. Hottest shit ever.”

  I run my fingers over my face as he pushes the door wide. “Too much information.”

  The lock finally clicks and the door creaks open, followed immediately by a gasp from Nolan. “What the fuck…?”

  “Nole?” I nudge him, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling at his rigid stance.

  But he doesn’t answer.

  I step around my frozen twin, finding the luxury living room in chaos. The glass coffee table rests on its side, its shards fanning across the black marble floor. A potted plant sits overturned on the leather sectional. Family photos lay scattered, a large one of Pop bearing a bullet hole in the center of his face.

  My hand falls to my 9mm, pulling the weapon free. Nolan is still slack-jawed in the doorway, so I thump his chest to get him to draw his, too.

  “Aidan?” I call, gripping the gun. “Aidan, it’s Nolan and Fallon. Are you there?”

  Nolan’s eyes widen, and he finally looks away from the destruction to me. “What if someone is here, asshole?” he whispers. “You just let them know that there are two of us.”

  Fuck.

  “Better than sneaking up on him,” I defend.

  He’s right, but I won’t admit it. Fear brings a lack of focus. A lack of control. And I’m terrified for the first time in years.

  We inch toward the kitchen. Along with the dining room, it’s just as trashed. Vases. Pictures. The chandelier. It’s like a tornado came through, tossing everything to shatter. The rainbow of glass cracks beneath our boots, the crunch joining the slamming of my heart in my ears.

  “Aidan?” I call again as we move into the hall toward the master suite.

  Nolan covers the rear while I lead, our pistols ready to fire and backs pressing into one another, protecting the other as always.

  “Aidan Tully, if you’re fucking with us, you better come out now before I shoot you in the dick!” Nolan yells, his voice cracking.

  He isn’t fucking with us. Aidan’s home is his baby. He takes pride in every piece, mapping its furnishings like Tetris before purchase. He would never trash it intentionally.

  I stare at the bedroom door for what feels like an eternity before reaching for its handle. I don’t want to open it. Every cell within me screams not to, but my hand finds the knob. I have to do this. The polished metal turns, and I nudge the door wide with my foot.

  “Aidan!” I shout one last time, but there’s no response. Just the steady whirl of the fan inside and the faint smell of something I can’t place.

  With a shaky breath, I step inside, and my world crashes down.

  Aidan Tully, heir apparent to the Tully empire, is dead.

  His face, the one we tease him for relentlessly, bears countless bullet holes, the mangled mess of tissue and bone unrecognizable as it lays nestled in the covers. I only know the body on the mattress is him because of his curls, the red kinks stained a deep maroon. Blood and brain matter decorate the pillow and headboard, their pungent, metallic scent thick in the air.

  “Don’t look!” I throw an arm over the doorway to spare Nolan from the carnage, but it’s too late.

  He walks in and gets an eyeful of hell, howling as loudly as the voices in my head.

  2

  Eva

  “Buy the fucking ring.” Perla taps her finger on the display case like a child terrorizing a fish in a bowl. “It’s gorgeous.”

  Judging by her glare, the store’s owner wants to bounce my best friend’s face off of the counter as each tap leaves a smudge, but the middle-aged woman swallows her pride and bites her tongue.

  Not because of Perla Ricci. That name means nothing. But me? With one word, I can have the woman’s shop closed. One more, and she’ll be at the bottom of the Delaware while everything she loves burns to the ground.

  Allegedly, of course.

  “You don’t think it’s too flashy?” I ask, directing the question at the shop owner rather than my best friend.

  The woman dons a few stones on her otherwise understated black ensemble of a dress and heels. She wears the jewelry and not the other way around, just how I like. Perla, on the other hand, is loud and proud in a leopard-print coat and black pleather pants. It suits her perfectly, but isn’t for me.

  “No, it’s classy!” Perla smacks her gum, the pop making the poor owner flinch instead of answer my question.

  I eye the twisted band of diamonds and rubies one last time before stepping away. “I have to sleep on it.” I like the piece, but I don’t love it.

  Perla scowls and plucks her iced coffee from the display case, the cup leaving a puddle of condensation behind. “You’re such a brat. Your father gave you money to treat yourself, and you won’t even spend it. I wish my parents threw cash at me.”

  I fasten the top button of my twill coat and ignore the insult. Perla is fun, and I like having someone to be myself around, even if it comes with an attitude bigger than Citizens Bank Park. She’s honest to a fault, and I appreciate it in a world where fake friends are as common as traffic on I-76.

  “Money doesn’t burn a hole in my pocket,” I explain. I wear nice clothes and drive a luxury car, but I don’t spend for the fun of it. Papa appreciates my fiscal caution, while Mama and Nikki blow more than enough of his blood money to make up for it.

  Perla stomps away from the jewelry counter in a tsunami of clanking jewelry. “It’s not your money, though. He told you to buy something. Not spending it is like, disrespectful, or something.”

  I pause at the door. “As disrespectful as unsolicited advice?” Much like her yapping Chihuahua of a father, Perla’s never learned when to shut up.

  She shoots me a nervous smile before wiggling her fingers at the store owner. “Oh, Eva, don’t be so snippy!”

  I push the door open, spilling out onto the packed sidewalk of Jewelers’ Row. The autumn air nips at my cheeks as I power along, the city buzzing all around.

  “There’s a big Halloween party tonight at Minerva’s, ya know?” Perla struggles to keep up in her heels, the sky-high stiletto boots the last thing someone with half of a brain would wear for a shopping trip to Center City. “It’ll be good practice for your twenty-first…”

  “I have class in the morning.”

  With finals around the corner, I can’t afford to slack off. One slip in my grades and I’ll be married off like Nikki to some creep. A dumb daughter is more useful as a bargaining chip than a brain. I won’t be used as leverage. I want to show him that I’m more than a pretty face. To earn a spot at the table, even if he hasn’t cleared one for me yet.

  “Come on, it’ll be fun!” Perla pushes, the ice jostling around her colossal cup with every step. She hits up Dunkin at least three times a day for one of those and a Boston Cream donut, yet she’s still built like a rail. Well, aside from the boobs. But she bought those. I helped her pick them out of a book like Build-a-Boob. Nipple shape and all. “Enzo will be there!”

  Now that gets my attention. Enzo Riga is head and shoulders above Dario, the rodent-faced prosecutor that Papa has in his sights for me. The sooner I catch Enzo’s eye, the
better if I want to avoid a life as Mrs. Rat Face. I don’t doubt for a moment that Papa will force an engagement after graduation unless I have a suitor.

  Sighing, I take the bait. “What time?”

  She smirks. “Ten.”

  My shoulders slump. My first class tomorrow starts at 8:00 AM, and Tuesdays are my long day on campus with back-to-back lectures.

  Her angled brows arch, sensing the impending no on my lips. “How often do you get to see Enzo?”

  I loathe when she’s right. “How am I going to get in the door?”

  The only place as secure as the family compound is the door at Minerva’s, the club entrance guarded by bouncers bigger than most of Papa’s men who can sniff out a fake ID regardless of how short your skirt is. I’ve only gotten inside a handful of times by paying one of Papa’s men to smuggle me in the back door.

  She rolls her shoulders as she catches up, loving having the upper hand for a change. “My buddy, Chuckie, is working the door, and let’s just say he owes me a favor.”

  “I didn’t know people our age are named Chuckie. Don’t tell me you’re screwing old guys again, Perlie.”

  Her last fling was forty. And the one before that, fifty. I might understand a sugar daddy arrangement, but these bums give my best friend nothing more than heartache and pregnancy scares.

  She squirms under my gaze, her pillowy bottom lip glistening with peach gloss between her teeth. “He’s a cute Irish guy. And he’s not that old.”

  I groan. Papa would disown me for half of the shit she’s pulled, but then again, she isn’t expected to marry up. She’s just expected to marry, period. As long as he’s Italian, she’s good to go. “I don’t know, Perlie…”

  There has to be an easier way to get alone time with Enzo. Granted, the grapevine method of getting his attention isn’t working too well. But Minerva’s is a crapshoot, more so if Perla is intending on bedding some random old guy.

  My best friend frowns. “I really feel a connection, Eva. He might be the one.”