Forbidden Neighbor: A Contemporary Romance Boxset (Forbidden Saga Book 2)

by Summer Brooks

  “Okay,” I agree, and I hug him, and then head for the door, finding my way back out of the office, thankfully avoiding John, who is on the phone. I could hear his voice at a distance, even though I didn’t want to. I head into the elevator and out into the street on my way back home.

  Tonight would be another night to curl up with a good book - a night like any other - alone, except for the characters in my head. When the only person I really want in there with me is a man who apparently has vanished and doesn’t want me looking for him.

  8

  Chris

  My small desk is covered with files. With the growing threat against my clients, I manage to unlock a few more sources to get more information. Nobody wants the innocent to die, even though many of them happen to die every day.

  More importantly than that, regardless of their moral compass, or lack thereof sometimes, nobody wants to get caught in a lawsuit accusing them of causing an innocent to die. Protective custody has its perks - the second all of my clients and I moved into protective custody all of these files that I couldn’t access before became available to me. Score one for the good guys.

  To top it off, there is a lot more here than I ever thought possible. I flip through the top file, put tags where I need new information pulled out and toss it into a second pile. I need an assistant. I need a couple of assistants at this point - and some typists - and people to help me gather all this information together.

  But I can’t exactly just hire someone off the street. Even though I’ve begged the law enforcement agencies protecting us - and there are several of those at this point - to get me some extra help, they haven’t been moving that fast on it.

  I’ll do everything myself if I have to. I need to get this done as quickly as possible - to protect my clients, to protect myself - and also, well, to see Laura again.

  I haven’t stopped thinking about her.

  It was just one night. I know that. I’m being realistic in my expectations. It’s been a few weeks already, so she might have moved on. But, part of me knows that she hasn’t - or maybe just hopes really, really fervently.

  I want to meet her again, and talk, and laugh… and explore her body more, make her gasp and moan. I sigh and stop thinking about her. Mostly because I’m already growing hard, and this isn’t exactly the place to do that.

  Still, the sooner I finish this case, the better. I want to get back to my life, and I want my clients to be able to get back to their lives too. They have us all together so that I can continue interviewing and building the case and reviewing all of the files. We’re in an old abandoned community center in a small town in the back of nowhere. I’m not even sure where, to be honest.

  I’m informed we’re safe, though we can’t contact the outside world to tell them where we are, just in case. The Powers That Be are certain that, although we’re safe now, the Malcons are looking for us. The whole thing is...disturbing...and, yeah, fucking scary.

  Unfortunately, I’ve been through something similar before. For some reason, that doesn’t remove any of the fear factor. It helps a bit to know more information...to have lived through this before - but, correct me if I’m wrong - knowing isn’t fixing.

  The mob is like any other conglomerate - different types, factions, many interested parties, to be sure. For instance, there’s the Italian mob, the Chinese mob, the Mexican Drug Cartels - but that’s not all. There are also subsets of each of these - families broken off long ago from main oversight, some of which have managed to operate on different continents. These smaller outfits usually don’t control quite as many assets or as big a territory as the Big Fish but they are still powerful and have to be reckoned with.

  Sometimes the smaller guys partner with the home base mob if you will. Sometimes they don’t. But those can be just as deadly, because they’re desperate to retain their people. More so than the larger ones, who have more people at their beck and call.

  The Malcons are a small subsidiary of - we believe the Italian mob, although we’re really not sure yet. They have been making ripples in several neighborhoods; hell, more than that - try almost half the city - for years now. According to my clients, generations in fact. We just weren’t aware of it all until recently, when they bombed an ice cream shop, where unfortunately a visiting ambassador had brought his family. The stakes not only grew higher - they, literally, exploded. Police enforcement from around the country has now become involved, and suddenly we have more information on them. Putting this case together is like connecting the dots in a mirrored fun house with a penlight while wearing an eye-patch, but I’ll take it, especially with all this new dirt coming in.

  The police want to be free of these criminals, sure, but the people that live in the neighborhoods have been scared. It’s easy for a police officer or an FBI agent to go in there and try to get some details out of families, but these are the same families that are usually left without protection when the police and FBI get their questions answered.

  I grab another file, growing frustrated. The only reason, in fact, that my clients have been brought to safety now is because one of the main witnesses was found dead earlier that morning.

  They’re moving more quickly, the FBI officers keep saying.

  “They’re moving more quickly,” I mumble. Of course, they’re moving more quickly, because the Malcons are finally scared - unfortunately, scared means deadlier.

  I put aside the file, grab another one. It was one thing for me to leave my life for a few months. I could go back to it. It’s a privilege to know my position would be safe, my home would be safe, my money would still be in the bank.

  Truth be told, I don’t even need my salary. I intend to donate it all back towards rebuilding these peoples’ lives.

  Because these people? They have nothing, and they’ve just been told to uproot or die. The worst part is that not all of them decided to uproot. Some of them stayed behind, more scared of losing their livelihood and their shops than of losing their actual lives.

  I grab the next file and slam it down in front of me. I take a deep breath, and try to stop the frustration from tingling in my fingertips. I stand and stretch. It’s nearly impossible. No matter how many times I look at these files, I find the same information over and over again - enough to stop the leaders of this small mob circle, enough to put an end to it.

  But nobody has been brave enough to do so before, or maybe they’d just been bought out. I’m guessing the latter by looking at the names of the lawyers and officers who stood up beforehand to try to stop them.

  I’d had the FBI pull the files on what happened to those lawyers and officers who sold out to the Malcons before. None of them were dumb or novices, they knew how to get and stay cozy with the criminals who benefitted from friends in city government and law enforcement. So now I’m building a secondary file, to take these bastards down, too - for letting these families suffer because they want to line their pockets with riches. Cowards.

  I need to stretch my legs. We can’t go outside, just in case the Malcons have eyes on us. But there is a small courtyard in the middle, where most of my clients hang out during the day, because it is cramped in here otherwise.

  I step outside. I’m not wearing a jacket and a tie, but I’m still wearing a dress shirt, sleeves rolled up. I’m not looking messy, but I’m certainly not looking fresh. I’ve been so focused on this case that, well, the showers haven’t been coming frequently enough, that’s for sure.

  It’s an overcast day, but there are still quite a few of my clients milling about. They all wave, a few smile, while some nod solemnly. It’s like we’re all in jail together right now. It’s not the most pleasant feeling.

  I spot Miriam and her little girl, Ruth. Miriam is the widow of a shop owner killed by the Malcons. She’s brave, and I admire her. Her little girl is her whole world, with her dark curls and wide smile.

  “Good morning, Miriam, Ruth,” I say as I join them. I don’t sit with them, but I stand not too far, still
intent on stretching my legs.“How are you today?”

  “Oh, we’re fine, Mr. Heed. Thank you for asking.”

  “I found a June bug,” Ruth says, running up and showing me the giant bug in her hands. “It’s almost bigger than I am.”

  “That, it seems to be,” I answer. “Make sure it doesn’t eat you,” I whisper with big eyes.

  She laughs. Ruth is terrified of nothing, as far as I can tell.

  “It’s more scared of me than I am of it, silly,” she answers, then scampers off towards the play set. I watch her go and then turn back to Miriam.

  “She seems to be adapting well,” I say.

  “She is.” Miriam smiles. “Ruth is much like her father, not much perturbs her.” A flicker of grief crosses Miriam’s eyes, but she quickly hides it away with a smile.“How are you enjoying your stay, Mr. Heed?” she asks.

  “Oh, it’s been great, especially the catered food.” I reply; she joins me in laughing. The food so far has mostly been sandwiches, not even interesting sandwiches. White bread, a piece of all-American cheese, a slice of ham, a piece of lettuce. If you’re lucky, you get some mayo or mustard on there. We’re rarely lucky.

  I’d been so focused on the case that I hadn’t exactly been worried about the food - as long as we had food and there was enough of it. That was fine for me. Tense?

  “I remembered something else, Mr. Heed, that I meant to tell you, now that we’re safe here,” Miriam says. She looks determined to tell me whatever it is that she’s hiding as if she’s been holding it in all this time. I crouch beside her and look her in the eye.

  “What is it, Miriam?” I ask. For months, I’ve suspected that she knew more about her husband’s murder but hadn’t been speaking for fear for her child. I’ve never held that against her, how could I? I could only imagine what it would be like to have a child and be so worried.

  “The day before my husband was killed,” she whispers, but her words come out urgently. She wants to tell me everything she can before Ruth returns, but Ruth is busy with the play structure and a few other children. Maybe she just wants to tell me everything she can before she stops herself. Before she becomes too terrified to do it.

  “Go on,” I tell Miriam and look at her encouragingly.

  “We had a visit from, from the Godfather’s son.”

  “Shorty Malcon?” I ask to ensure we are thinking of the same piece of shit. She nods, and then looks around, as though looking for a shooter to take her or her child out at any second. I place my hand on hers.

  “Miriam, listen to me. You’re safe here. You can tell me what you know and help me put away the people who’ve been terrorizing your family for this long.”

  She bites her lower lip, looking like she’s fighting back tears, but she nods. She takes a deep breath, gathering her courage. I admire her. She has a sense of purpose that some people can only hope to acquire in their lives, but it comes at a high cost, too high a cost.

  “I heard him arguing with my husband in the shop. He wanted extra payment for protection, but my husband refused, saying he’d met with the Godfather only a week before, and he confirmed that the payments would stay the same. The Godfather’s terrible, don’t get me wrong,” Miriam says, eyes wide, “but he is true to his word. If he says you’re safe, you’re safe. If he says you’re dead, you’re dead. It’s as simple as that. That’s why we all pay what he asks because we know that if he tells us it will keep us safe, it actually does. It always has. But his son? Shorty? Not so much.”

  Her voice begins to shake, but she powers through, intent on giving me the information I need.

  “He came into the shop and threatened my husband. Shorty told him that…” her voice wavers. She takes another deep breath, closes her eyes as though reliving that moment. “...Shorty told him that if he didn’t do as he was told or if he spoke to anyone else in their family about this, he would kill him.”

  She opens her eyes again. They’re brimming with tears, but none of them escape. I wonder how long she’s been holding them all in, and at what point she just won’t be able to anymore.

  “Thank you, Miriam,” I whisper, “this will help.”

  She nods, and then stands, and I stand with her. She smiles, quickly wipes her eyes, and pats my upper arm.

  “Thank you, Mr. Heed,” she says, and then goes to join her daughter.

  My walk would have to wait. I turn around and head back to what is passing as my office in this place. If I look at it through a different lens and consider Shorty as a viable suspect in a lot of these crimes - on top of his father - I might be able to get a more complete picture with the evidence gathered at the crime scenes. I feel energized again, ready to attack the problem before me. The more information I have, the more solid a case I can build more quickly. Then, we can go to court, and I can go back home.

  It’s only been a few weeks, but I already miss my real office and my home. Even worse, I miss the possibility of what could be with Laura. I intend to rediscover all of these things again very soon.

  9

  Laura

  As a rule, I like to believe that I don’t embarrass easily. In reality however, I embarrass very easily. Not with anything one-on-one, that’s different. But put me in a social situation, and I am a flake. I don’t like being in large gatherings, I don’t like having to talk to too many people at once. I get jittery, I get nervous, and that feeling can filter over into everyday situations. Like going to the store, for example. Like the store I’m at right now…

  The worst of it is it’s not even my usual pharmacy. I decided to go to the pharmacy three blocks down from the one I usually go to, to purchase this particular item. That’s how embarrassed I am. I walk up and down the aisles, looking nonchalant, glancing to see if there’s anybody I know here. So far, so good.

  I’m starting to feel like a spy in a movie, except the caper itself is really not that exciting. I peek to the right, to the left and breathe a sigh of relief - the coast is clear. I walk in front of the pregnancy test area. I just haven’t been feeling well. Food has been a turn-off. I haven’t thrown up yet or anything, but I am late now, and I haven’t been late on my period since I was fourteen when it started. At first, a week went by, and I didn’t think much of it. But a second week? And still more nausea in the mornings?

  Ohh… how could I be such an idiot? It’s not like we didn’t use protection. I mean, I’m sure that’s not it. I probably just have the flu or something. If you’re sick and have an infection or something, can’t that delay your period? Sure, but that hadn’t happened when I’d had pneumonia a few years ago, but, but, but…ugh. I can’t even stand myself right now.

  I take a deep breath, try to stop working myself into a tizzy. I came here for a purpose. I only need the pregnancy test kit, and then I don’t have to worry about it. I’ll have my answer, which will, of course, be negative. Yes, of course.

  I’m staring at the wall of test kits. God, there are a lot of them. Why can’t this just be easy? Why can’t there just be one kit, named Know for Sure, which would be very, very cheap - certainly not these prices - and should include something simple, like “Please Madam, simply blow upon this gentle jasmine-scented piece of paper, and we shall tell you immediately if you’re pregnant or not, and surely the answer is not. For you are a responsible adult and, in fact, had your partner use a condom. Come Madam, let us make you feel better.”

  As it turns out, not one of these kits has that marketing copy. There are different promises on each of them - the fastest, the earliest, the most accurate. Not one of them seems to promise that I wouldn’t be pregnant. Hmm… strange that. You’d think that would be a seller.

  I select one of the mid-range ones, figuring that I’ll take my chances with something not too cheap but not too expensive. I grab it, walk to the cash. No one there, again. Great. I pay for it, stash it in my purse, and head back home, like a thief in the night, except it’s daylight. Doesn’t matter, I have the goods. That’s how a good story en
ds.

  Now? To get the answer I want.

  This time, I’m at a pharmacy five blocks away. This one’s probably luckier. No, it’s definitely luckier. The first one - well, I’m going to chalk it up to a faulty test and a bad immune system, and maybe I’ve been eating too many corn nuts. Corn nuts can make you feel bloated, right? That was probably the problem.

  I do my once around the pharmacy again, trying to look inconspicuous. Then I grab a higher-end pregnancy test that promises accuracy above all else. The last one had been inaccurate - it had to have been wrong. This one would be accurate. I shouldn’t have gone for the fastest test, that had been my mistake and being at the wrong pharmacy, of course.

  Numbers fly through my mind as I’m calculating exactly how much it’ll end up being with taxes. This is already more than I wanted to spend on a silly scare, but it has to be done. I grab the pregnancy test, and as I turn around I come face-to-face with my great aunt Jolene.

  “Oh, hi,” I say. “Auntie Jolene, it’s nice to see you!” Thankfully, Auntie Jolene is somewhere north of eighty, practically blind, and stooped over so that she can’t really see what I just grabbed. Thank God for small favors. Unfortunately, Auntie Jolene still has all of her brains and is certainly quick on her feet.

  “Hello, Laura,” she says. “It’s wonderful meeting you here.” She looks around and makes a good show of it. “This isn’t very close to your home, is it?”

  “No, Auntie Jolene,” I give her a thin smile. “I was visiting friends and thought I would stop here for some stuff.”

  “Ahh… yes.” Auntie Jolene says, nodding wisely. “Stuff. I had to get stuff too, before, you know.”

  “Great,” I answer, hoping that she’s thinking of just getting pads or tampons or something, or something not related with me potentially being pregnant.