by S. Massery
I don’t understand. One conversation with a woman has set Delia’s mind at ease?
She smiles at me and squeezes my fingers. “You’re going to like Vegas. Hell, you could make millions fighting there. Have you? Fought there, I mean?”
“No.” I don’t bother telling her that it’s Spike’s territory—how the backlash of getting caught wouldn’t just affect me, it would destroy him, too. He’s a cop with a brother who occasionally breaks the law. All of his dreams of making lieutenant would be dashed. For that reason, I stay the hell out of Nevada.
“Oh,” she says, her lower lip puffing out. “You’ve been, though?”
“To the strip once,” I answer. “When I got back from my tour. I wasn’t sure where I stood with my brother, so my buddy and I planned on visiting him.”
It didn’t go as planned. I thought, at the very least, he would be happy to see I had made it back safe. That was back when he was still a beat cop, fresh out of the academy. He was hardening because of the things he was seeing, dealing with—and my being back made it worse. It dredged up old memories of Dad.
I shrug. “We ended up leaving early.”
Her eyes are the size of half-dollars. “You’ve never gambled in a casino?”
“Is that the be all and end all of Vegas?” I ask.
She grins. “No. But one of our businesses handles security for a few of the hotels and casinos on the strip.”
“A business that you’re now in charge of,” I say.
“Well, assuming James didn’t fuck everything up. Father had a will, but I don’t know who—” She shakes her head. “It might get messy if he left everything to Margaret. Especially—”
She said Margaret was the one to put a knife in her father’s heart. I don’t want to believe her family is so twisted, her dad’s wife would murder him in cold blood.
“No matter. You come up, and I’ll show you around.” She visibly brightens. “We can go on the Ferris wheel. It’s beautiful up there at night, the whole city is lit up.”
A man in a suit appears, our waitress behind him.
“Compliments of the chef,” he says. “Please let us know if you need anything else.”
He waves her forward, and she puts two wine glasses on the table. She shows Delia the label, then me, and I shrug. She uncorks it and pours me a sample.
“I don’t know much about wine,” I say to Delia.
She smiles. “If you like it, that’s all that matters.”
I take a sip, and my eyebrows shoot up. It’s the smoothest wine I’ve ever tasted. “It’s good.”
The waitress nods, her fingers flexing on the bottle’s neck, before she fills our glasses. She leaves the bottle on the table.
I grab the menu and scan the wine list. When I find what the manager brought, I nearly drop it. “This is a thousand-dollar bottle of wine.” I don’t like being left in the dark. “You have to tell me what’s going on.”
She just shrugs at me. “We got lucky. Maybe the chef thinks you’re someone famous?”
“When are you going to stop fucking lying to me, Delia? I thought we were past that.” I rub my hands down my face. Anger constricts my throat, along with a chorus of, she’s lying, she’s lying.
“You don’t want to hear the truth.”
“And you just want me to be blissfully unaware. What would I do with you in Vegas? Move in with you? Lead a normal life? Pretend you’re not breaking the law under my nose?”
She stiffens. “Jackson.”
“No.” I stand. People speaking Italian, excellent service, special attention from the chef—
She’s been here before. Hell, they probably knew her on sight. The only silver lining is that they appeared to be friendly. Is Salt Lake City outside the reach of rumors? Or was that family showing support?
“I’m not doing this. If what I think just happened, happened, and you’re going to continue to pretend it didn’t… No.” I throw down some cash on the table and set Mason’s car keys in front of her.
I make my way to the exit as calmly as possible. I’m not naive enough to think that she’ll chase after me—I’m not stupid enough to wish she would.
I pick up a jog as soon as I’m on the sidewalk. It’s lightly raining, but a half-block later, the sky opens up. I have to laugh. The universe is trying to remind me of who I was, but I won’t listen. I grew. I changed for the better—and I am not letting one woman derail that.
17
DELIA
I slip into the apartment. The living room is dark, a single lamp on in the corner. Treading lightly, I move down the dark hallway, open Jackson’s door, and slide inside. I carefully lock it behind me. He stands by the window, immobile.
“You made it back,” I whisper.
He doesn’t turn around.
“Please forgive me.” For keeping my life a secret. For wishing you wouldn’t question it.
“Delia,” he says to the glass.
“I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t respond. Ice forms in my heart.
“Why do you want to go back to that?” he mutters. “Why can’t you come home with me? Be with me.” He spins now and meets my eyes. They’re wild.
I shake my head before I even realize I’m doing so. Go back? Turn on my family?
“Leave them like they’ve left you,” he says. “Be with me.”
“Jackson,” I whimper.
He comes forward and takes my shoulders, walking me back until my spine hits the wall.
I tilt my head up. “What do you want me to do?”
It’s much the same as he asked me—but somehow, I feel he’ll have an answer. He’ll make one up, one to fit dreams of his that include both of us.
He’s in my dreams, too. I’ve never allowed myself to envision it fully, but the realness of it sweeps over me. He’d protect me. He’d protect our family.
“I have to go home.” I glide my hands up his arms, cup the back of his neck. I pull him to me and kiss him like I could love him. I bite his lip and he bites back.
I moan into his mouth.
“Stay,” he says against my lips, “stay.”
I kiss him harder. He lifts me by my ass until our faces are level. I put my legs around him and cross my ankles. This feels more like home than Vegas ever did. He feels more real. More transparent.
Home is filled with deceit. Lies.
“Stay,” he murmurs again, biting and sucking on my neck.
I roll my head to the side, letting him mark me.
“I can’t,” I groan. “Come with me.”
He leans back and watches my face while his hand slips down my pants. My lips part as he runs his finger down the most sensitive part of me. He pushes a finger inside me, and I suck in a sharp breath.
I roll my hips in small circles. The need for him is instant, stronger than I can control. My hands go to his belt, the button of his jeans. I free his erection and practically drool at the sight of it.
I palm it and watch his eyes widen. One finger inside me becomes two, stretching me slightly, and I let my head fall back against the door. He drops my legs and lowers me to my feet, then shoves my jeans down my hips. I kick them off and go for his shirt. He pushes my hands away and turns me around, bending me over.
“Hold on,” he growls from behind me.
I grab on to the dresser.
I scream when he slams into me, filling me so completely that it’s pain on top of bliss. He thrusts a brutal pace, hitting a spot deep inside me, and I cry out again and again. One of his hands slips in front of me and touches my clit, rubbing rough circles.
“Jesus,” I pant.
“Not quite.” He smacks the side of my ass.
I jump, surprised at the bolt of electricity that goes right to my core.
“Dirty,” he mutters.
His rhythm picks up, as does his finger. My orgasm shatters through me at the same time his does. My forehead presses against the wood. He’s angry, but I like it. I want all of him, all of this. I’m not ready
to admit that I want him forever. That I might be falling in love with someone I’ve only known for a few days.
I close my eyes and hold on to the wooden dresser, even as he pulls out of me and kisses my spine.
I don’t want to miss him, but this feels final. I straighten and look at him over my shoulder, only to find that he hasn’t moved. He’s close enough that I see the flecks of brown in his blue eyes in the dim light. I can smell the sweat on his skin.
I turn fully around, and he lifts my shirt off of me. I pull his off and drop it to the floor. Silently, he carries me into the bathroom, setting me on the counter and spreading my legs wide. My head falls back against the mirror.
He washes me clean, cleans himself, and takes me to bed. His body fits snuggly behind me, and his lips touch my shoulder blade.
“Be with me,” he whispers, broken.
I don’t answer.
We don’t sleep for a long time.
I stand with Griffin on scaffolding. It was erected overnight and placed around the perimeter. Zach is on our level across the warehouse, and I occasionally catch them communicating through sign language. I glimpse Dalton once, perched high above us, but when I try to find him again, he’s gone.
The warehouse is packed. Rowdy. Mason stands near the ring with a megaphone, calling out betting odds between fights and keeping a running commentary during the action. A slim man beside him collects money.
Griffin told me that I should stand with him, that he could make sure I was safe from the crowd, but that was almost an hour ago. He hasn’t spoken since. The others have been avoiding me, and Jackson—
I squeeze my eyes shut. He was gone before I woke up, and I haven’t seen him all day. My heart rattles the bars of its imprisonment. I ache for him, but I’ve set my course. There’s no going back.
“It’s time,” Griffin murmurs.
I lean forward on the railing and look down to the door. A path has been cleared, and people shift on their feet. Their whispers are wind against the grass.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mason yells, “let me introduce you to our final fighters of the night.”
We’ve already seen four men bludgeon each other. The first one ended rather fast—a quick taste of action. The second one was drawn out, each person pulling ahead and failing to deliver. The air tastes metallic.
“All the way from San Francisco, former Navy SEAL and reigning Salt Lake City fighting champion, Ronan ‘Mercy’ Montgomery!”
Earlier today, Griffin had explained that there were different fighting clubs all over the country. Salt Lake happens to have its own, which is why the warehouse is stuffed with people. No one knew Ronan was going to fight Jackson—but by the roars of the crowd, they know it’s going to be a good show.
Ronan bursts through the doors. He has a pep in his step. Like the other fighters, he’s shirtless. He circles the ring to the left and stands near Mason, giving him and the slim man a sharp nod. People reach out to touch him, running their hands over him. He ignores them.
He’s intimidating. His nose is slightly crooked, like it’s been broken a few times. There’s a scar cutting across his cheekbone. His hair has been buzzed short, and there’s another scar that starts behind his ear and veers up. It’s an angry red line that stands out from here.
“Fighting him tonight is a myth. A legend. He hails from Southern California and has fought all over the West Coast. Give it up for Blood Sky!”
I tilt my head.
“Blood Sky,” I repeat. I think about what I know of Jackson, and even without explanation, I can see how it fits him.
Griffin’s hands fly, gaze on Ronan.
The door opens, and the crowd surges. Jackson walks out calmly. His skin glistens in the dim lighting, muscles coiling as he walks. The yelling reverberates in my chest. This isn’t his home crowd, but they understand him the same way I do; he screams danger. Predator.
“We all did things that earned us nicknames,” Griffin says to me. “Names that have cemented us in history.”
“Angel of Death,” I say. “Sucker Punch. Blood Sky.” I shiver.
“Let’s get this party started,” Mason jeers.
Ronan and Jackson stand on opposite sides of the circle. As one, they move in and brush their knuckles together.
“You know the rules, folks. First one to step out of the circle, tap out, or KO—”
“KO?” I ask.
“Knock out,” Griffin answers.
“Right.”
I expect it to be like the other fights: a few hits, a quality akin to the UFC shows that are always on television. It isn’t.
Jackson pops Ronan in the nose almost immediately. When they turn, dancing around each other, my view of Ronan’s face reveals blood dripping down his face. He grins, teeth stained red. They exchange blows, bobbing and weaving, until Ronan gets a solid series of hits to Jackson’s body and face.
His head whips to the side, and I gasp.
Griffin laughs. “Did you think this was going to be like the sanctioned fights, stopping for rounds and point-counting?”
“How did he get his name?” I ask while I have Griffin’s attention.
“That’s not my story to tell, little blossom,” he says. “Ah, there.”
Jackson straightens as Ronan backs off of him. His eyes are unfocused. A chill runs through me. The man I know disappears. A curtain falls over him.
He darts forward, movements almost superhuman. Ronan’s head rocks back with the force of Jackson’s hit. His heel touches the inside edge of the paint, and the crowd shrieks. Jackson pummels him while the crowd quiets, then uproariously cheers. I shiver again. I hardly recognize this new person in the ring.
My gaze skates over the crowd. They’re all focused on the fight. Most of them are men. Some have their arms draped over women. Some women stand alone.
One person isn’t watching the fight. She’s looking at me. When I meet her eyes, she raises her hand and points toward one of the exit doors.
I glance at Griffin, whose attention is on Jackson. “I’ll be right back.” I turn and climb down the scaffolding ladder and press my back against the cement-block walls. I edge by people until I come to the door.
Taking a deep breath, I push outside.
Five people straighten when I appear.
My heart beats harder as I look at each of them. My blood recognizes its family. “What’s your decision?” I ask.
Lauren steps forward. Her brother, Michael, stands behind her. “It is as I said yesterday at the restaurant,” she says to me. “We stand with you.”
I raise my eyebrows. “All of you?”
Cousins. I grew up with these men and women. I share embarrassing memories with each of them. We’ve celebrated our proudest moments together. They don’t all have the Moretti name, but they’re all a tangled web of family. Instead of leaning on them when I needed it—when the whole family needed it—I vanished. No matter: they found me.
“We forgive you for running.” Lauren nods, agreeing with her own words. “You witnessed family—our leaders—murdered in front of you. Someone you trusted held the knife.”
I tip my head. “It was the Castillos. Jorge.”
She laughs, and it’s cruel. I don’t flinch, but I narrow my eyes until she says, “He did not act alone. We suspect you know this. We want to know who.”
Slowly, I nod. Strength returns to me inch by inch. My father had instilled it there all along, but the bloodshed weakened me. What is it he always said? Iron is forged in fire. And one day, Delia, your trial by fire will come.
It’s at my doorstep, I tell my father.
“You’re right.”
There are murmurs. I glare at them until they fall silent. It’s a marvelous trick, and it boosts my confidence My back is against the cold metal door. It’s been raining, and its wetness seeps through my shirt.
“Those who tried to wipe us out will pay,” I promise.
“When?” That from Angelina, Uncle Angelo’s you
ngest daughter.
“Now,” I say.
18
JACKSON
“Blood Sky!” Mason roars as Ronan falls.
Kick a man while he’s down often enough, and something inside him will snap.
That’s what my mother used to say about our father. He was docile around us. A drunk who could barely find his way out of a bottle. But sometimes…
He never hit us. But he’d get going at the bar, get angry enough to pick on the biggest man in the room. I saw it a few times. He’d get a good few swings in, provoking the bear, and get pummeled. Then he’d snap.
It was as if pain didn’t exist. We didn’t exist outside of the flesh under his knuckles, the smell of blood in the air.
Who knew that kind of anger was hereditary?
Mason is in my face, turning me in a circle with my hand in the air. I grin, but it’s more of a grimace. Ronan has power behind his throws. My ribs might be cracked—they’re definitely bruised.
Ronan climbs to his feet and shakes his head while the crowd screams my name.
I look around for Delia. She was on the scaffolding with Griffin, but he flashes me a quick, “She left.” Sign language came in handy in missions where talking was dangerous, and I’m grateful for the easy communication now.
“Where did she go?” I grunt in Mason’s ear. He pulls back and stares at me, brows wrinkled. He doesn’t know. I sign to Griffin, “Where?”
Griffin shrugs. Zach also shrugs. Dalton has been a ghost lately—he’s probably in the rafters, watching us through a scope. Crowds aren’t his thing, even if he pretends otherwise.
I survey the crowd. Half of them are pouring toward Ronan and the slim man with the bets. Even defeated, Ronan draws a crowd. Some surge toward me, eager to say hello, to touch me, to offer congratulations.
I smile. Shake hands, bump fists. I’m covered in sweat, but they don’t mind. I hover close to Mason, who practically snarls when people get too close to me. Girls bat their eyes. Guys smile, hoping for work out advice. It’s not always this way—sometimes I lose, and I get to walk away without the attention.