The Beast I Can’t Tame: Brooklyn Kings, Book 3

by L. K. Shaw

  The second I close the door behind me, he rounds on me. “Tell me about your mother.”

  I sigh. I despise talking about her. I’ve done everything I could to separate myself from her over the years. Jacob doesn’t care about any of that, though, I’m sure. “I haven’t seen her for a few years,” I finally admit. “As you can see, she’s not really maternal. Well, not unless it suits her. She’s an addict. An alcoholic. Just depends on the day. Fucks men for money, but refuses to acknowledge that makes her a prostitute. As you heard, she merely ‘scratches itches’.”

  Jacob studies me, his expression colder than he’s ever directed to me before. “So, it was purely coincidence that you started working for my father?” His tone suggests he doesn’t believe it.

  “Yes, sir. One of my buddies used to run errands for the family. He’s the one who got me the meeting with Mr. Bianchi. I only met your father when I was hired to be his driver a year ago. Before that, I’d seen him in passing. Of course I knew he was the boss. But that’s all.”

  I force myself to stand still under his steely gaze. It bounces across my face as though he’s memorizing my features. Or comparing them to his father’s. Maybe even his own.

  “For what it’s worth, I think this is a game she’s playing. I’m just not sure how far she’ll try and take it. Regardless, whatever punishment you deem fit—for both of us—I’ll accept it. I’ve already let you down once by allowing the Russians to take Brenna,”—I clear my throat—“I mean, Mrs. Ricci.”

  Jacob doesn’t speak for several minutes. My spine remains rigid, as does my jaw. Francesca’s face flashes behind my eyes. Was it only a week ago I vowed to make her mine? I guess it’s best that I haven’t made my intentions known, yet. Especially considering this man before me has every right to put me six feet under. And just might.

  “Pierce trusts you. I know that’s because of his sister. I’ve extended you the same courtesy, because I trust him. If I discover that you’ve played any part in this, whether that woman’s allegations are true or not”—his voice hardens—“I will personally end you.”

  Without waiting for a response, he storms away, leaving me standing there bearing the considerable weight of his threat.

  Chapter 3

  Francesca

  * * *

  “Are you ever going to tell me who that woman was from the funeral?” I ask Pierce, folding my arms and leaning back against the kitchen counter.

  He slowly swallows his café e latte and sets his cup down on the table. “Apparently, she’s Giovanni’s mother,” he answers carefully.

  I glare at him. “Yes, I know that much. But who is she and why did she show up at Uncle Sal’s service? You guys were gone for a while. Father Moretti had to postpone the memorial for nearly an hour.”

  Pierce’s expression goes blank. “As you’ve been told countless times over the years, you know I don’t talk about syndicate business.”

  Lord, he’s infuriating. I haven’t heard from Gio since that day, so I can’t get any answers from him either. “She has something to do with the organization, then?”

  My brother narrows his eyes. “Stop fishing. You need to let this go. It doesn’t concern you.”

  That’s the worst thing he could say to me. Pierce should know better. I cross the room and sit in the chair next to him. “I’m a member of this family, same as you. If it’s something that important, then don’t you think I have a right to know?”

  “No, I don’t,” he snaps back. “Don’t push me on this, Francesca.”

  I smack my hand on the surface. “That’s not fair.”

  Yes, it’s childish of me to whine, but something is going on with Giovanni, and I need to know what. Pierce reaches out and folds his fingers over mine. I meet his gaze.

  “You know how our family works, so this is nothing new,” he reminds me. “Don’t make me out to be the bad guy. I understand that because Giovanni is involved you think you have a right to certain information. You don’t, and you’re well aware of that fact.”

  I blow out a frustrated breath. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m worried about him. He hasn’t talked to me in days, and he disappeared before the service began. He was really rattled when his mother showed up.”

  Pierce releases my hand. “Gio is a grown adult who is more than capable of taking care of himself. As for why he hasn’t spoken to you, maybe it’s because he has other things on his mind.”

  His reprimand stings a little. Only because he’s right. I’m nothing to Gio. Not really. He’s not required to be at my beck and call or tell me everything. He probably has personal business to take care of with his mom. I just thought we’d become friends over the last few months.

  “Mila wants to know if you’d like to come over for dinner tomorrow night,” Pierce says, changing the subject. I bite my tongue so I don’t ask more about Giovanni.

  “Tell her I’d love to,” I say. “Have you guys talked any about finding a new house, or are you going to keep staying at the cottage?”

  “We haven’t decided yet. Anya loves the garden, but the house isn’t really conducive to three adults. Besides, I’d only borrowed it temporarily.”

  I smirk. “Yes, to keep Mila a prisoner.”

  He doesn’t even blink at my dig. I’m still a little pissed that Pierce kidnapped and held her captive after she’d helped rescue Brenna from the Russians. They’d fallen in love, so I guess I should forgive him some time soon.

  “We haven’t really made a decision, because I’m worried about you,” he says softly.

  My head jerks back in surprise. “Why are you worried about me?”

  Pierce spears me with a look. “You’re my sister. I don’t want you to be alone. I’ve gotten used to having you around these last few months.”

  “You may not have noticed, but you’re never here, anyway.” I smile to take out any harshness. “Besides, I’ve pretty much been alone for the last seven years while you were gone, and I’ve done all right.”

  There have been moments when I’ve been lonely, but I still haven’t completely gotten used to being around people. Not even my brother. I force myself to do it, because I can’t hide from the world forever.

  “It just feels different now that I’m back. It feels like I’m abandoning you all over again,” Pierce admits.

  I sit back in the chair and fold my arms over my waist. My gaze drifts and loses focus.

  “We’ve never really talked about what happened. Not that I want to,” I rush to reassure him, glancing in his direction again. “No offense.”

  His mouth lifts on one side. “I’m not really a talker.”

  I smirk. “You don’t say?” This time, I reach for Pierce’s hand. He squeezes my fingers. “You didn’t abandon me in the first place. Truthfully, I don’t think I could have handled you being here”—I pause for a beat—“after, anyway.”

  “I should have been here for you, though. It’s the first time in my adult life I’ve felt helpless.”

  “Hiring Theresa was probably the best thing you could have done for me,” I assure him. “Besides, I think Jacob needed you more than I did at the time.”

  * * *

  Pierce rises from his seat, picks up his mug, and presses a kiss to the top of my head, like he’s reached his comfort level with our discussion. “Thank you for the café e latte. I need to get back to the house and make sure Mila and Anya are doing okay.”

  “You’re welcome. Tell them I said hello, and I’m looking forward to dinner tomorrow.”

  “Call me if you need anything,” he says, placing the empty cup in the sink.

  I nod absently, and he strides out of the kitchen and disappears around the corner. Moments later, the front door opens and closes, leaving me alone in the house that seems to close in on me more and more every day. I’d never tell Pierce, because I don’t want him to worry.

  A restlessness hits me, and I nearly jump to my feet and make my way out to the living area. For the first time, I g
lance around and truly take in the place I’ve called home for the past seven years. The blinds are drawn, as though guarding against any light that might dare pass through them.

  There doesn’t appear to be a speck of dust on any surface, yet the whole room has a stale quality to it, as if no one lives here. It feels like my life—like I’m not living it. Merely existing. Going through the motions day by day. I’m almost twenty-six years old. Is this how I want to spend the rest of my life?

  I cross the room, flip the wooden slats open on every window, and then push them up to let the sunlight burst through. After those are done, I move around the rest of the house, opening every single blind and brightening up the place more than it has been since Pierce bought it for us. For me. I take a deep breath and can almost feel the warmth seep into my body. Have I always been this cold?

  Something seems to have come over me. I open the back door and step out onto the large, oval-shaped deck. Just like the interior, there doesn’t seem to be a speck of dirt or a single cobweb anywhere. But I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve sat out here, basking in the sunshine, over the last seven years.

  After another deep breath, I stroll across the wooden surface and out into the yard. The landscaping isn’t nearly as robust as Pierce and Mila’s place, but there’s a small bed of flowers along the outer edge of the deck. I’m not sure I’m a gardener, but maybe it’s a hobby I can try to take up.

  Feelings I haven’t experienced since before, start bubbling up inside me. Almost like anticipation. Like excitement. It’s a little scary, actually. Nerve-wracking, in fact. After a few more glances around the yard, I head back inside, leaving the door open to let the fresh air in.

  I clean up the kitchen, washing the few dishes in the sink, before going to my bedroom. I fling the walk-in closet door open, flip on the light, and step inside, taking in all the drab colors. That’s what I’ve lived in. Blacks, browns, and grays. There isn’t any pop of color anywhere in here.

  Wait.

  There’s something, pushed all the way in the back. I dig through slacks and sweaters and blouses, sliding clothes out of my way, until I can reach whatever it is stashed there, hiding. My breath catches. With trembling hands, I reach up and lift the hanger off the rack. I can’t believe I forgot about this dress.

  The fire-engine red satin glides like butter off my fingertips. Its tea-length skirt flares out in an A-line from just under the halter-top bodice. There’s a row of pearlescent beads along the high-waisted seam. A subtle decoration that makes the plain dress just a shade fancier. I run my hand along the side, and it snags on something.

  A price tag.

  I remember the day I bought this dress. I’d been saving it for the perfect occasion. An occasion that never came. I throw off my clothes and slide the smooth fabric over my body. The dress almost hangs on me. Have I lost that much weight?

  I need to take better care of myself. I haven’t been doing such a great job of that. There’s suddenly so much more I want from life. It’s time to make some changes.

  Chapter 4

  Giovanni

  * * *

  The wait has been endless. I’ve done nothing but hide out in my tiny, studio apartment, staring at the four, mostly blank walls, and avoiding everything.

  Everyone.

  I’m not used to being idle, but between this bum leg, arm cast, and all the various aches and pains that still make me catch my breath, I’ve been forced to slow down. I hate it. But the thought of running into Jacob, Pierce, or any other person who had been within hearing distance of my mother’s stupid announcement makes me twitchy. I can’t even go to Gallo’s and work out some of my frustration.

  Dr. Marino had shown up to the church and taken Jacob’s and my DNA samples. Since then, it’s been a waiting game. A part of me hopes my mother is lying. There’s also a bigger part that hopes she’s telling the truth.

  From the couch, my phone rings. I’m tempted to ignore it, like I have every other instance, but I pick it up and sigh at the name displayed on the screen. I’ve lost track of how many times Francesca has called me. Always checking up to make sure I’m following the doctor’s instructions. I can’t ignore her forever, though. Taking a deep breath, I swipe to answer.

  “Hello.”

  “Finally,” she blurts out, her annoyance clear. “I’ve been trying to reach you all week.”

  “Sorry, I’ve been busy,” I lie.

  “Is—” Francesca hesitates. “Is everything okay? You know, with your mom?”

  “Nothing is ever okay with her.” Why did I tell her that? I don’t talk about her with anyone.

  “I’m sorry. I know how challenging moms can be. Mine’s the same way. We don’t get along either, so I understand.”

  For some reason, I can’t stop talking. “She has a lot of problems. Drugs. Alcohol. I actually haven’t spoken to her in quite a few years. She’s not going to win any mother of the year awards any time soon.”

  Francesca chuckles. “Neither is my mom. She’s…difficult, I guess you could say.” There’s a short pause. “There are times when it seems like she actually hates me.”

  I’m not sure if she knows it’s there, but there’s a hint of sadness to her admission. It’s also something we have in common. I’m not sure my mother ever loved me, either.

  “At least you have your brother,” I tell her, then wince, hoping she doesn’t question me about what went down last week.

  “I’m lucky that Pierce and I are so close. Especially after our father died. Mother only got worse then. I’m not sure what I would have done without him. I can’t imagine if I’d been an only child.”

  I don’t really want to talk about this anymore. “Did you call for something special?” The question comes out a little harsher than I mean it to.

  “I just wanted to check and make sure you were okay since I haven’t heard from you,” she says, not bothering to disguise her hurt. “You’re not doing too much, are you? How’s physical therapy going?”

  “No, I’m not doing too much. And therapy is fine.” I haven’t been going. There’s no reason to. Because I’m fine. As soon as I get this stupid cast off my arm, I’ll be even better. All I need to do is get back to work. After I am done hiding, of course. Hell, I may either be out of a job or dead by the time the dust settles.

  “Gio,” she scolds.

  “Let it go, Francesca,” I say, sharper than I should.

  She sniffs a little, and a flood of guilt washes over me, but I stifle it. Being fussed over makes me uncomfortable. Like I can’t take care of myself. Something I’ve been doing since I was a kid.

  “I’m just worried,” she says. “Between your recovery and whatever happened at Uncle Sal’s funeral—that no one will tell me about—I want to make sure you’re okay.”

  I can’t help but smile at her pointed emphasis on the fact that there’s a secret she doesn’t know and doesn’t seem too happy about. My expression drops. I debate whether to be the one to fill her in and decide against it. I’m not ready to share it. Maybe once the results come in. I doubt a secret this big will stay a secret for long.

  “Thank you for checking up on me. Everything is fine.”

  “You know any time someone says ‘everything is fine’, it’s never really,” she states.

  How did I not ever notice before how stubborn she is, and doesn’t let things go? Or is this a new trait that’s just starting to emerge? Either way, she’s relentless.

  “How’s the search going for that photography class you were looking into?” I ask.

  She growls. Actually growls. “You’re as bad as my brother is with changing the topic when you don’t want to talk about something. Fine, keep your secrets. And it’s going terribly. I haven’t found one that really speaks to me. Either the photographer doesn’t feel right or their teaching style isn’t right for me.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sure you’ll find something soon. You just have to keep looking and be patient. The right one
will fall into your lap before you know it,” I assure her.

  “Thank you. I hope you’re right. I don’t just want any instructor. I want the best. At least, the best for me,” she says. “I didn’t think it would be this hard to find someone.”

  I understand her impatience and need for perfection. I’m the same way about certain things. It’s something else we have in common. There’s a sudden single knock on my door. It’s loud, though. And powerful.

  “Francesca, I have to go. Someone’s here.”

  “Oh, okay. I’ll talk to you later,” she says.

  I end the call and move the few short steps to glance out the peephole. I’m not surprised by who stands on the other side. Only by the fact he’s alone. From his expression, this isn’t a social visit.

  My palms feel clammy. Ignoring the nervous weight in my gut, I open the door. Jacob and I stare at each other for several beats before I finally step back, widening the entrance for him.

  He strides past me and I close us inside. I rest against the wooden surface with my arms crossed. My finger plucks nervously at the plaster cast on the underside of my arm, where the action isn’t visible. Jacob doesn’t say anything at first. He slowly pivots in the middle of my personal space, his eyes taking in everything. No doubt not missing a single detail.

  I don’t have any mementos hanging on the wall or displayed on shelves. My place is functional. Some might say barren. There isn’t much I need. A bed to sleep on and place to cook a few meals. I own a small television that gathers dust, but that’s about it. It’s a far cry from the luxury that Jacob lives in.

  “Nice place,” he says, blandly, finally turning toward me. There’s no sarcasm, but he’s also clearly not impressed. Which is fine. I’ve never been one to try and impress people.

  “Thanks. Can I help you with something?” I try to keep the impatience out of my tone.