Bury Me (Willow Heights Prep Academy: The Elite Book 3)

by Selena

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, meeting his eyes in the mirror as I do my makeup.

  “Come on, Crys,” King says. “Have you ever heard me talking about college? I’m a senior. You know I’m not going to school next year.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, my heart suddenly hammering.

  “I mean, I’m going back to New York when I graduate,” he says, his face grave. “I’m going to work for the Valentis.”

  “What?” I ask, my heart thudding so loud I can hear it in my ears. “Why?”

  King shrugs. “Al Valenti is Mom’s uncle.”

  “Holy shit,” I whisper. Al Valenti might as well be Al Capone—just a century later. It’s one thing to know my family might take loans from the mob, or do a few dirty deeds for them, but this… Fuck. We’re not working for the mafia. We are the fucking mafia.

  Have I met this famous mob boss and not even known about it? I’ve heard people talk about Uncle Al. I’m pretty sure that as a kid, when we’d go visit my grandparents on Mom’s side for the Fourth of July or a Memorial Day cookout, Uncle Al was among the relatives. I might have even been to his house. But it’s too hard to remember. I think of all the uncles and “uncles” who’ve come through our house over the years. It’s impossible to know who’s actually related or even whose uncle they are. Mom’s? Dad’s? Ours? Our nonni’s?

  And then there’s the fact that half the ones related to us are only related through marriage. Keeping track of which side of the family they come from is hard enough. I’m definitely lost by the time I’m trying to figure out which side of each of my grandparent’s family they’re from. But shit. I try to think of anything I know about Al Valenti—not the Uncle Al slowly forming into a picture in my mind, a rather quiet, watchful man in his fifties who never drew attention to himself at parties—but the legendary mafia boss on the news.

  But I don’t watch the news unless it’s assigned for a class. I’m a normal sixteen-year-old. I watch YouTube videos, social media stories, and occasionally Your Celebrity Eyes, the gossip channel. If I’m feeling really gossipy, I’ll read Page Six. Which is why I know the name Valenti in the first place. There are a couple notorious socialites around my age who carry the name, no doubt part of his family tree.

  “So, it’s true,” I say at last, dropping my mascara into my bag and snapping it closed, having done my face while I mulled over his words. “Everything the Darlings say about us, that it’s dirty money—they have a point.”

  “Who’s side are you on?” Royal asks, narrowing his eyes.

  “I think I’ve proven I’m on your side,” I say through gritted teeth. “Though I’m beginning to question whether that’s the right side.”

  “Crystal,” King says. “You know how hard Dad works. You know he earned what we have.”

  “I’m going to class. I’m late.” I shove out of the bathroom, and they don’t stop me. Now that I apparently look suitable for the great-niece of a mafia king, they’re satisfied with me.

  six

  Crystal

  Is my protective, caring brother really so excited about working for ruthless killers? Is this an opportunity for him, or is he trying to soften the blow and hide the truth by calling it that? King heals and protects. He’d be a good doctor. Not a killer. So, why is he going to work for Mom’s family? Was he promised in some grisly exchange straight out of a fairytale, a beautiful daughter’s hand in exchange for a firstborn son? Is that what King is? A debt Daddy owes to the mob?

  I don’t go to class. I walk past my class, all the way down the hall to the door where Devlin came in that night when we were looking for Royal. Today, the parking lot is full. I find Devlin’s car, and I sit on the hood, and I text him.

  And then I think about what King said about Dad making his own money. Nonna told me that they owed money to the wrong people, and that’s why they came here when Dad was a kid. And that he was determined to make it after that. I can put it all together from there. He came up with a plan to expand my grandparents’ little mom-and-pop candy store into an empire. He came up with some ideas for new candies, something of his own to make him stand out. And Devlin’s dad helped him.

  That’s what Mom said. That there was some dispute over a patent, ownership of something. Did she say Devlin’s dad tried to steal Daddy’s idea? But I can guess what really happened. I know Daddy’s cut-throat, that he’d step on anyone to get to the top. So, which one was thought up by Mr. Darling in some brainstorming session? Our famous Dolce Drops? Dolce Sweets or Dolce Pops? And then Dad claimed them all for his own. But if the Darlings hated him and this all ended in a big brawl, why was he working with Mr. Darling in the first place?

  That’s an easy question to answer. Dad wanted funding, and my grandparents weren’t rich. He must have convinced them to work with him, but when they realized he wanted all the credit, and they were going to just back the operation, they must have pulled out.

  Which left Daddy with no money. But he knew someone who would loan him money. They’d already lent it to his parents. Someone with bottomless pockets, and an effortlessly beautiful, glamourous, single niece.

  I swallow hard, feeling sick.

  Maybe I’m being too hard on him. But all my life, I’ve idolized my father. To find out that he stole someone’s idea and funded his empire with blood money—it shatters all my illusions.

  Would he marry someone to get in with her powerful family? Mom herself gave me that answer. Daddy’s ambition always, always comes first, before everything, including her, and us, and anything else in the world.

  When my grandparents moved back to New York, he must have contacted Al Valenti for a loan. Maybe he was scheming on Mom then, or maybe he met her through his connection with them. King is right about one thing, though—Daddy works harder than anyone in this world. But if he took a loan from the mafia, even after he paid it back, it’s still dirty money. It’s all blood money because the seed was blood money, and you can’t grow an apple tree from a pomegranate seed.

  “Hey.”

  I turn to see Devlin standing at the rear of his car, his eyes wary.

  “Can you take me home?” I blurt, not bothering with pretenses.

  “Shouldn’t your brothers be doing that for you now?” he asks. “You made it clear you don’t need me around.”

  “Devlin, that’s not fair,” I say. “And you know it.”

  His lips tighten, and he rakes a hand through his hair and sighs. He jerks his chin toward the car, looking down at me in that damn hot way of his. He unlocks the car, and I climb in before he can move because I don’t want to know if he was going to open the door for me or not.

  “Why don’t you have your own car?” he asks, glancing sideways at me as he starts the little Ferrari. The engine purrs, and I lay my head back on the headrest and close my eyes. I need to drive, to get out of here, but he just sits there waiting for my answer, not going anywhere.

  “My family won’t let me learn to drive.”

  “Why not?” he asks. “All your brothers have cars. Even the freshmen.”

  “But how could they control me if I could just leave on my own?” I ask, an edge of bitterness creeping into my voice. I’ve wanted a license for two years, since Royal got his at fourteen, thanks to some of Daddy’s connections who could pretend Royal needed a hardship license, as if he had to go to work and provide for his family.

  “And you said my family’s backwards,” Devlin mutters.

  “Yeah,” I say. “We’re fucked up like that.”

  His hand falls on my knee, and I try not to gasp aloud at his touch. Just the warmth of his hand on my bare skin makes me want to eat him alive. I have to force myself not to move. If I do, he might stop touching me, and I might crumble to dust and blow away.

  “Crystal,” he says. “What’s going on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You never talk bad about your family,” he says. “What happened?”

  “I think you were right,�
� I admit, opening my eyes and forcing myself to focus on something besides the heat of his hand shimmering up my thigh, awakening things that are better left dead. “My family is tied to the mafia. My dad stole some candy recipe from your dad and ran off to get funded by the Valentis themselves.”

  Devlin stares ahead for a second, his other hand resting on the steering wheel. We’re still in the parking lot. I’m still itching to move, to do something, like it’s all wound up tight inside me and I need to let it out. I need to scream, or drive so fast I can’t remember anything but how to breathe, or numb myself with a credit card and a website full of shoes I’ll wear once and forget I own.

  “That’s not exactly what happened,” Devlin says. “But yeah, I know your family’s tied up in that shit. I told you that before.”

  “I know,” I say. “I guess I just didn’t want to know the truth. They’ve always kept me sheltered from it, and I was happy to stay that way. It’s the same with the car. They won’t buy me a car because then they’d have to teach me to drive. And they won’t teach me to drive because then they wouldn’t know where I am at all times. I know they mean well, that they want to protect me. But they also want to see me in a certain way.”

  “They want to control you,” he says.

  I start to protest, to defend them because it’s my default setting, but then I stop myself. “Yeah,” I say. “So, tell me what happened between our dads.”

  “They were in a class together senior year,” Devlin says with a shrug. “It was one of those senior project classes. They were paired up, and they had to come up with some idea for a business and try to start it. No one expects a business to actually succeed when you’re in high school, but this school likes to prepare people for the real world, and it looks good on college applications and all that. Dad thought they could make your family’s candy business into something big, Dolce Sweets. He just came up with the name and the idea and the first candy together. The recipes, all the rest of it, that’s all your family’s. That all came later.”

  “But the whole idea for Dolce Sweets was your dad’s?”

  He shrugs. “Yeah. They were going to be business partners and keep it going after high school, turn it into something real. Your dad knew some people back in New York who could lend him some startup money, but once my dad found out who it was, he didn’t want anything to do with it. So your dad took the idea and ran with it. Literally.”

  “Fuck,” I say, letting my head fall back again. Once, I would have doubted him, called him a liar. But I know it’s true. There’s too much evidence to back up what he’s saying, and nothing but naïve loyalty to back up a denial.

  Devlin slides his seat all the way back and pats his thigh. “Come here and drive us home.”

  “What?” My head snaps up and I stare at him.

  “You said you don’t know how to drive,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips. “This is the south, Sugar. Everybody drives.”

  “But… What if I wreck?”

  “You won’t,” he says. “I’ll be right here to catch you if something goes wrong.”

  “You just got this car,” I say, my protests getting weaker. I really fucking want to do this. But the thought of sitting in his lap while I do it… I don’t know if I can handle that.

  “And I can get another,” he says. “It doesn’t mean shit to me.”

  I wince at the reminder of what my brothers did to the car that did mean something to him. “I’m sorry,” I say. “About your other car.”

  He shrugs. “It gives me an excuse to spend time with my dad building a new one.”

  If he doesn’t go to jail, I think. God, this is so fucked up.

  I swallow hard before climbing across the seat. Devlin puts the top down so I don’t have to duck my head while sitting on his lap in the small car. Then he pulls the seatbelt around us both and snaps it into place.

  “I don’t think you’re supposed to double up in a seatbelt,” I say, ignoring the thudding of my heart. “Then we’ll both be crushed to death if I wreck.”

  “If you die, I’m going down with you,” Devlin says, squeezing me against him. “Besides, I can’t really think of a better way to die than crushed up against you.”

  “I’d choose a heart attack during sex,” I say. “Sorry to the guy who’s fucking me, but I’m selfish like that.”

  “You’re twisted as fuck, you know that, Dolce?” Devlin says.

  “I think we both know that.”

  “Stop talking about sex while you’re in my lap, or I’ll pull up your skirt and fuck you while you’re driving, and we’ll both get our death wish.”

  “Fine, what do I do?” I ask, but I can’t stop thinking about what he said. I can’t stop feeling dizzy and intoxicated from inhaling the scent of him so close to me. I can’t stop feeling his body against mine, his strong thighs under mine; his taut abs and muscular chest pressing to my back with each breath; the relentless, demanding ridge of his erection growing under me.

  “First, take off your shoes,” he says. “I don’t know how you even walk in those, but you’re not driving my car in them.”

  “Isn’t that illegal or something?”

  “Nah,” he says. “That’s how I learned. You can really feel the pedals, how much pressure to use, with bare feet.”

  “That’s so redneck of you,” I tease.

  “Shut up and drive.”

  I laugh, and he guides me out of the parking lot and then through town. He takes the steering wheel when he needs to, coaches me through restarting when I stall out at a stop sign, and taps the brake when I’m not quick enough. And all the time, he acts like he’s not hard as a rock under me, like his cock isn’t burning into me and lighting me on fire. If it weren’t for the fact that I can feel his desire throbbing against me, I’d believe he didn’t feel anything for me anymore.

  By the time we pull up in his driveway, I’m squirming on his lap, the heat between my thighs an unbearable, wet ache.

  “That was quite a ride,” he murmurs against my shoulder as his hand finds the seatbelt and unbuckles. The pressure holding our bodies together releases, and an anguished cry ripples through every cell in my body. I bite my lip to keep it from bursting from my lips.

  I twist around to face him, my breath already labored, desperation eating me up from within. “Devlin,” I whisper. “Can we go inside?”

  “I… Don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says, glancing up at his big house.

  “Are your parents home?”

  “It’s not that.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, twisting around further so I can slide my hand behind his neck. “I’m so fucking sorry I said all those things to you. And I know I’m not supposed to want this, but I don’t care. I want it, anyway. I want you, anyway.”

  “How can you?” he asks, his hand cupping the back of my head and pulling me forward, his hand rumpling my hair as he presses his forehead to mine. “After everything I did to you—how can you do anything but hate me? I fucking hate myself.”

  “I told you,” I say, stroking the back of his neck with my thumb. “I wasn’t saying no to you.”

  “I’m not talking about that,” he says. “I’m talking about everything. I don’t even know where to start, or how to apologize to you, Crystal. You should despise me.”

  “But I don’t,” I say, squeezing my eyes closed. My heart is beating so hard I feel dizzy, and the smell of him is making my head spin. “I care about you too much.”

  He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Don’t say that.”

  “I do,” I insist. “I can’t help myself. I’m sorry. I know we can’t be together, but I fucking need you, Devlin. I just…”

  “Don’t cry,” he says, his thumb smoothing across my cheek, skimming my wet lashes. I’m not crying yet, but I’m about to. “Tell me what you need, baby. Tell me what to do.”

  “I need you to fuck me,” I whisper. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

  He tenses, a
nd I don’t blame him. I made him fuck me until he cared about me, and then I ripped his heart out like some heartless bitch who needed it to fill the void where her own should be. Maybe that’s exactly what I am, but I can’t stop myself. I hold onto him, not letting him go this time. There’s something wrong with me, something missing, and only he can make me feel whole.

  “I don’t know if I’m capable of that,” Devlin says quietly, his hands falling to my waist. “And even if I was, I don’t think I could be capable of it with you.”

  I remember what Lacey told me on my first day at Willow Heights, that Devlin didn’t sleep around. I hate myself for asking him for this, but not enough to change my mind. I need closure, need to know that I can move on, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to do that with the way we left things.

  “Just this once,” I say, a tear sliding down my cheek. “Please. For me. I can’t have our last time be that time in the locker room. Just let me have this, just one time. Let me feel every moment like it’s the first time, for the last time. And we’ll pretend the rest of it never happened.”

  Devlin’s jaw tightens, and he just stares at me like I’m some kind of stranger to him, and it breaks my fucking heart.

  “I can feel how much you want me,” I whisper. “Feel how much I want you.” I take his hand and slide it down from my hip, around my waist, and down, burying it between my thighs.

  Devlin draws a sharp breath.

  I tug up my skirt, pulling it around my hips, and press his fingers to my soaked cotton underpants.

  “Fuck,” he breathes, his head dropping back against the seat. He closes his eyes, his breathing labored, but he doesn’t move a muscle.

  I pull aside the fabric and press his fingers to my bare, wet flesh. “Just one more time,” I beg. “Let me remember you like this. Just us.”

  Without a word, Devlin slides his hand down and buries a finger deep inside me. He groans and pushes deeper, lifting his hips to push his cock against my ass. I tilt my hips and grind into his palm, spreading my thighs for him, desperate for him to obliterate me.