Kiss & Control: A Mafia Romance Page 8

Pop snorts, coughing on a laugh. “Enough with the conspiracy theories, Fal. For fuck’s sake, stay off the internet.”

  Nolan grins but offers a supportive pat on my shoulder. “Come on, Pop. He might have a point. What are the chances they both happen in the same day and aren’t connected?”

  Pop tosses his cigar down, missing the ashtray and sending the smoldering nub rolling across his desk. “Exactly. What if one of my fuckhead sons took matters into his own hands without having all the facts first?”

  I grab the cigar and stick it in the ashtray before it catches his desk on fire. He’s such a drunken screw up. It’s a wonder we haven’t been wiped off the face of the earth yet with him leading us. “You know damn well I was out running the streets like a dog all night. I wasn’t anywhere near fucking Minerva’s.”

  While he was drinking his fucking liver away with Nolan, I was out trying to save our crew, but he’d never see it that way. He would’ve let the hit happen and not batted an eyelash if the girl died. He’s only ever concerned with his immediate needs. Impulsive. Short-sighted.

  “Doesn’t mean you didn’t hire someone,” Pop snarls, slamming his fist on the desk.

  “Look, if you want to fucking accuse me of something, do it, Shea.” I don’t care about formalities. It’s only the three of us in here, and if the drunk bastard wants to hit me for disrespecting him, he’ll have to haul his sloppy ass out of his chair to do it.

  Pop grumbles under his breath before reaching for his tumbler.

  “What was that?” I push, moving to my feet. Nolan’s hand clenches my elbow, but I brush it off just as quickly.

  “You know the right person to pull off a job like that,” Pop says pointedly, clearly referring to Torin. “There’s not a fucking trace of her.”

  I lean over his desk to invade his personal space. If he wants to act like a fucking kid, I’ll treat him like one. “I didn’t kill her or pay anyone to do it.”

  “Well, someone fucking took her,” he barks, scooting his chair back and earning a few inches of precious space.

  I eye him, refusing to back down. He’s pathetic, still wearing his wrinkled clothes from yesterday, the top stained with booze. “Right now I don’t give a flying fuck about his kid. I care about Aidan, and you should too. Sit around drinking your problems away, but I prefer to do something about mine.”

  “Fal…” Nolan trails, but it’s pointless. He’s just as guilty of hiding behind the bottle. This entire family has gone to shit because of it.

  I turn and leave, receiving a hail of obscenities to my back from a sputtering Pop.

  I almost trample Ma in the hall on the way out. It’s obvious she’s been listening at the door where she’s standing against the wall, her eyes bloodshot from the waterfall of tears that won’t let up. I haven’t seen her since yesterday. Unlike Pop, she’s at least changed into a new dress for the day, her curly hair tamed into its usual chignon.

  Seeing her red curls makes my chest tight.

  Every time I close my eyes, I see Aidan. What was left of Aidan. His curls soaked in blood. So much fucking blood.

  “I love you, Ma,” I say, reaching out to stroke her cheek with the back of my knuckles. “They’ll pay. I promise. I won’t rest until they pay.”

  I intended to spend the rest of today listening to gossip about Aidan at pubs around the city, but my stomach grumbling serves as an unwelcome reminder that I didn’t leave out food or water for the unwanted pet Torin gave me.

  Technically, she can drink from the tub’s faucet and go a day without food, but I can’t do that to an innocent. Even if she’s Lombardi’s kid.

  By the time I make it to the dirt road, it’s afternoon.

  Hiking through the dense briers isn’t any easier in the daylight. If anything, it’s harder, since I can see every goddamn stab of pain before it hits.

  I approach the cabin quietly, listening for the girl inside. I’ve never taken anyone captive before, but I imagine they scream their fucking throats out, so I’m surprised to hear nothing.

  I purposely skip the squeaky parts on the porch’s stairs and try to open the cabin’s door without making a racket. Thankfully, it opens without too much of a fight.

  Inside, the main room is as filthy and barren as it was last night. Still wreaks of forest funk, too. The rain this morning seems to have somehow made it worse.

  It’s deathly quiet, and when I inch the bathroom door open, I brace myself to not see her on the other side. That, or to find her dead from the pharmacy Torin forced into her system.

  But she hasn’t run off or croaked.

  She sits in a huddle against the wall with her knees to her chest, my coat draped over her just as I’d left it last night. This morning, actually. I didn’t leave the cabin until after two. I waited around to make sure she settled before leaving, listing every way I’d fucked up in life to pass the time.

  Her espresso hair is a tangled mess, the rest of her makeup now faded, fully revealing the purple outline of a handprint on her cheek. Someone gave her a hell of a backhand. Judging by the size, a man. Whoever did it deserves his fucking hand broken.

  Her eyes flick to me, the color catching me off guard. They’re so dark they’re almost black. She doesn’t say a word, but the bob of her throat and slight clench to her jaw say more than enough. She’s terrified.

  Now that it’s daylight, I can see her. All of her. Smooth olive skin. Full, pouty lips. A pert nose. I’ve never seen anyone like her in the flesh—only on billboards and magazines. She’s fucking flawless. No wonder Lombardi keeps her under lock and key.

  After a long moment of staring at one another, I lift the plastic bag of food I grabbed on the way over. I didn’t trust that Torin hadn’t just left dog food to feed her. “I forgot to leave out supplies. I’m sorry.”

  A snort catches me by surprise from her corner of the room. “How about you apologize for kidnapping me, asshole?”

  “Excuse me?” I’m not sure what I expected her to say, but it wasn’t that. Here I thought she was scared, and she comes at me with a forked tongue.

  She tilts her chin high, fixing her eyes to mine. “You heard me, motherfucker. I didn’t stutter.”

  Well, well, well. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

  “You have a mouth on you.” I hold my ground in the doorway, amused that this ant I could crush is so freely giving me lip. Her last name’s dangerously inflated her self-confidence. No wonder Tor had to drug her again.

  “And you have brass fucking balls,” she fires back, her nostrils flaring. “Kidnapping Antonio Lombardi’s daughter wasn’t your brightest moment, huh?”

  I eye her, genuinely shocked at the obscenities she’s hurling. Apparently no one taught this rebel without a cause respect. “Does your father know you talk like this?”

  She cocks her head and her lips purse. “Does your father know he raised a fucking moron?”

  I tap a finger to my lips a few times dramatically. “Hm, it seems like only a moron would mouth off to the person who brought them food and water. Maybe I should let you drink out of the toilet like a dog?”

  Her dark eyes widen, but she keeps that sour look plastered on her face like her life depends on it. “Only a fucking moron would kidnap a girl and sign his own life away. Hope it was worth it.”

  I don’t know how old this brat is, but I’m already tired of babysitting Antonio’s headache. “You swear a lot for a little girl.”

  She’s not a little girl by any means. I’ve seen her curves, and based on when Antonio’s last trial was, she has to be nineteen or twenty by now. But I know calling her one will piss her off, and it does.

  Her full lips twitch. “You make a lot of fucking mistakes for an adult.” She throws air quotes around adult, and I lose it.

  Anger takes control.

  Tossing the plastic bag of supplies to the floor, I move to her, unsure of what the fuck I’m doing before my fingers find her face, gripping her chin and tilting it up so she has to lo
ok at me. She’ll have a hard time insulting me from her knees.

  But rather than submit, like I expect, she springs into action like a wildcat in waiting, swinging her legs out and connecting them with my ankles, sweeping me off my feet and sending me hurdling backward, weightless in freefall.

  6

  Eva

  The man crashes down, hitting the floor in front of the toilet with a grunt. His body makes a satisfying thud, his arms barely preventing the back of his head from bouncing off the floor like a basketball.

  Baiting him worked like a charm.

  I stick with the plan, leaping onto the jeans-wearing stranger’s back when he pushes to his knees, exposing his back. I have one shot at this, and I’m going to make it count. Looping my cuffed hands over his head, I hook the handcuffs’ center chain over his throat to choke him.

  Unfortunately, this idea worked a lot better in theory than in practice.

  For one, I’ve never been in a fight in my life. Sure, I’ve tackled Nikki for helping herself to my wardrobe and punched Dina Marchesi in sixth grade for calling me a mafia bitch, but I’ve never had to go hand-to-hand with anyone. Especially a full-grown man.

  Putting my plan into motion is a lot harder than I imagined. I wholly misjudged his strength, and the man who sounded weaker than the stranger from Minerva’s is actually a hell of a lot stronger than his sinister friend, with broad shoulders and a tall, athletic frame that’s rock hard as I struggle to wrap my legs around his waist and choke him at the same time like a homicidal backpack.

  Of course, I knew all of this looking at him in the doorway when he showed up here unannounced, but I need to try. I won’t sit chained like a dog and behave. I need to fight.

  But I barely have my hands under his chin when he reaches back, grips my upper arms in his powerful hands, and hoists me up and over his head like a rag doll. I can’t hold on, and rather than leapfrog with grace, I meet the gritty floor headfirst and see stars.

  This is it. I’m dead.

  The tumble sends my dress hiking up, leaving my thong-clad bottom half pointing squarely at the man. I tug at the hem as my face burns with embarrassment, but not before he lands a vicious swat across my bare ass, making me cry out almost as loudly as the slap’s crack against my flesh.

  “What the fuck?” I sputter, scrambling to right my dress and get away from him. But I barely have any chain slack, so all I accomplish is a measly foot at most.

  His muscled frame flexes as he pushes to his feet, practically snarling like an attack dog. His shoulders only get wider as he inches higher, looming above as I cower into the side of the clawfoot tub, shackled down like a tetherball if he gets slap-happy again.

  Okay, the plan was definitely stupid as hell to attempt.

  I’m all of five-foot-five. This man is at least six feet tall and looks like he’s double my weight in pure muscle. I’d be outmatched even if I had a flamethrower.

  “You attacked me,” he grinds out in a gravelly rasp, his gray-blue eyes burning under heavy brows.

  If I had the ability to, this would be my cue to run. To run like hell and never look back.

  I throw my hands in front of my face to shield any blows, my heart hammering against my ribs. “You were going to hit me!” I squeak, knowing damn well I would’ve attacked him even if he hadn’t stormed over like an angry grizzly ready to paw me into the next millennium. Honestly, I want to take another stab at it, but after introducing my face to the floor, I need a moment to recover.

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  I peek between my hands, glimpsing at the man’s frown. If I passed him on the street, I might say he’s handsome with his blue eyes and dark auburn waves, which feels all sorts of fucked up as soon as the thought crosses my mind. He’s my fucking kidnapper. Not a GQ model. I have no business finding him remotely attractive. He’s a criminal. A low-life.

  I lower my hands, relatively sure he won’t strike. “You just did!”

  He leans in, all but baring his teeth at me. A desire to choke the life out of me shines in his eyes. Uh, shitty call on the whole not going to strike thing. “You misbehaved.”

  I blink, confused. “So you slapped my ass? You kidnapped me! What the fuck?”

  Do kidnappers dole out spankings nowadays? Who the hell are these people?

  He shrugs, backing out of reach. “Bad kids get smacked on the ass all the time.”

  This fucker is ridiculous. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear Papa hired these clowns to teach me a lesson. I might’ve believed it if it weren’t for the whole drugging and chaining me to a bathtub thing.

  I roll my eyes. “I’m not a kid, buddy.” I’ve seen shit no person my age has. Guns. Beatdowns. Courtrooms. Clearly he’s the rookie in this business. I almost feel bad that he fucked with Papa. He doesn’t stand a chance.

  His expression is bored as he adjusts the sleeves of his black pullover that rolled up during our little tussle. “Sure, Evangelina.”

  “How do you know my name?” I snap.

  He smirks, infuriating me all the more. “You told me your father’s name, Angie.”

  “Call me that again, and I’ll break your fucking jaw,” I promise, pushing to my knees. “It’s Eva. Your friend knew my name, too. Or is that your lover? You’re into the cold, dead-eyed look, huh? I bet you beat off to pictures of serial killers.”

  I’m trying to bait him again, eager for another chance at freedom. If they kidnapped me because of Papa, I’ll probably end up dead in the trunk of a burning car or shark food off the Jersey shore.

  He lets out a low whistle with the shake of his head, still fumbling with the wrist of his fleece. “You’re a piece of work.”

  “Better than a piece of shit,” I volley with a shrug.

  His eyes jerk from his fleece to me. “We saved your life, you unappreciative brat. Would you rather be dead right now?”

  I bat away the image his words conjure up, one where I lay sprawled on a medical examiner’s table with my guts out for autopsy. I watch an embarrassing amount of forensic shows, so I’m well-versed in that shit. “You chained me to a toilet.”

  His mouth spreads into another grin. “A bathtub, actually.”

  “Same fucking difference,” I fire back.

  They’re not, though. I could break a toilet loose with enough force. That tub isn’t budging. I know because I’ve tried all goddamn day.

  “Actually, you shit in one and bathe in the other unless you’re a savage. You didn’t shit in our tub, did you? I didn’t realize Antonio raised such a wild animal.”

  “Can you leave?” I ask. “I enjoyed being alone a lot more.”

  I’m lying through my teeth. Sitting alone for hours on end in the unknown is more tortuous than dealing with this schmuck. At least when he’s here, I have a chance of getting away if I can hurt him. That, and he’s a hell of a lot friendlier than his buddy from Minerva’s.

  He lifts a brow. “You don’t want food and water, princess?”

  I’m cold, but I ignore the coat he gave me last night, choosing to wrap my arms around myself instead, leaving it in a forgotten bundle. “I don’t want to eat with you.”

  Honestly, I’m so thirsty that I’m amazed I can speak. I tried the water from the tub after desperation set in earlier, and within a few sips, I vowed I’d rather die of dehydration than the eventual water parasite it’d give me. I’ve never had tap water, and if that’s a preview, I never want to try it again. Papa has always had spring water shipped into our place.

  The stranger waves between us, smiling stupidly again, showing off perfectly straight white teeth that I want to kick out of his skull. “I’m sensing a lot of hostility here. Were you a mean girl in school?”

  I plaster on a saccharine smile. Maybe he’ll get close again and I’ll get a shot at his balls. A crushed testicle might get me out of here. “Were you a loser with no friends?”

  He laughs. It’s deep, warm, and I hate how genuine it sounds. “Yup. Definitely a mean girl.�
�

  I don’t give him whatever he’s seeking and stay quiet. I don’t know if he wants to be my friend or what, but I’m not interested. This isn’t Beauty and the Beast. I’m not his captive that he can woo with manners and a fucking library. I’ll happily choose the Gaston route with his head mounted on my wall.

  Much to my disappointment, he doesn’t seem to mind the silent treatment. He makes himself at home, sitting with his back pressed to the wall across the room. He slides a hand into the plastic bag he brought and fishes out a liter of water that he rolls over.

  The plastic bottle smacks against my knee, but I ignore it.

  He reaches into the bag to roll two more after it, and while I’m busy glaring at the wall instead of him, he tosses something wrapped into my lap.

  I don’t have to look to know it’s a hoagie. The football-shaped sandwich is a Philly dietary staple, and I’ve probably eaten my body weight twice over in them this year alone. Secretly, I’m cheering inside with this gift, and my stomach betrays me with a low growl.

  But I don’t look at him.

  Well, I don’t until I’m smacked in the side of the head with something hard and plastic-wrapped.

  “Really, asshole?” I snarl, finally turning and seeing a Snickers bar in my lap.

  When I look over at him, he’s smiling. “You’re not you when you’re hungry.”

  God, I hate this man.

  7

  Fallon

  “Look at you, you spooky son of a bitch!” Nolan booms.

  He grins at Barry from the head of the table as the giant lumbers into the room wearing a t-shirt with a ghost stretched across the chest, his head barely clearing the doorway.

  “Trick or treat, rub my feet, give me some good pussy to eat,” Barry greets, delivering the singsong rhyme in his baritone voice on the way to an empty rolling chair around the long table.

  For the first time today, I crack a smile.

  It’s Halloween, so the shirt and rhyme are fitting, but the day doesn’t feel like a celebration. Instead, the ghoulish decorations that crept out of hiding all around bring back memories I want to forget.