“Well, thanks for the…whatever the fuck that was.” I gave him the screw face. “They obviously had the wrong house since the only person I know from Boston is YOU, so with that said, I’m off to work.”
Mac pinned me with a hard stare, his voice dropping an octave. “Kellum O’Brien also owns the holding company that registered the car in question, Otelia. So, you see, we have a big fucking problem. Somehow, you landed on his fucking radar, and that, in and of itself, is not a coincidence. Women in our circle aren’t subject to this kind of …intimidation. It’s…”
I interrupted his grim explanation. “Can you stop him, Mac, you and Ferdi?’
He met my eyes on an exhale, conflicted. “It’s not that simple, Otelia. O’Brien is a boss, head of his family in the syndicate, and I’m …not. There are rules that must be followed, protocols, none of which I expect you to understand. The situation is delicate.”
“Delicate? I don’t even know that motherfucker. What the hell? I shouldn’t be on anyone’s radar, much less a Boston crime boss. This is bullshit, Mac,” I screeched.
“We’re trying to come up with a solution, but it’s going to take time. Time we don’t have.”
It all made sense, then—the fight, the guns, the faceoff. I could even trace it as far back to the two days I’d spent in this very penthouse. When his father came to visit and I made the mistake of giving him my full attention, flirting shamelessly, switching sides. He was right about one thing: my knowledge was limited in terms of mob life, but I’d seen enough movies to know that you don’t go up against a boss unless you were willing to bring the smoke. Mac didn’t want to concede power to anyone, especially not over the fight club. It was his baby, totally illegal yet built with his hard work and vision. How I fit into the equation was a mystery, but somehow, I was smack dab in the middle of this shit storm, and I had the dead fish to prove it.
“Fuck me.” I stopped in my tracks.
“Yeah,” he agreed.
“Better pour me a morning shot, Mac. Think I’m going to need it.”
CHAPTER 25
MacCabe
FERDI WAS DAMN lucky Otelia interrupted when she did. I’d just been about to unload on that fool for his ridiculous and disloyal ass suggestion. Engaging my father to handle a situation I was perfectly capable of dealing with myself was straight bullshit. Never, not once since the day I took over the fights, had I had to crawl begging for my father to rescue me out of a jam. I’d be damned if I started now. Once this shit with O’Brien was over, he and I were going to dance, and I didn’t mean the fucking two-step. Our fists would do the talking, and I looked forward to that conversation. For now, I needed his skill set if I had a hope in hell of defeating O’Brien and sending his ass back to Boston, broke.
The morning had been a barrage of unwelcomed news and eye-opening revelations. Bella’s husband had moved forward with his plan to open a fight club in close proximity to mine. Word had gone out in the underground to ignore my establishment and patronize his. He boasted a better line-up of skilled fighters, more blood and gore than in a slaughterhouse, and free drinks for the entire night. We projected a loss of eighty percent revenue with their grand opening and even more during the following weeks. At this rate, I’d be finished within six months if I didn’t act fast. Competition was good for business, they said. I called bullshit. This squeeze was personal. Involving Otelia was a new low for someone who was supposed to be a wise guy who represented the organization in certain trade dealings with the other five families. They wouldn’t appreciate his underhanded tactics against an innocent woman, but I was no snitch. Accusing someone with his rank of wrongdoing without proof was not a ledge I wanted to step out on, at least not yet.
I watched Otelia as she sat in contemplative silence, stunned by my brutal disclosure, sipping whisky for breakfast. She was different than when she’d arrived, more like the woman who’d fought me balls to the wall when she was my guest for two days. She maintained a cool exterior, calculating, taking it all in before jumping to any conclusions. I liked that about her, my tough little kitty cat. The thing that fucked with me the most and pushed me over the edge was her palpable fear over what happened. Every quiver, every sharp intake of breath, every teardrop spilled, every pleading word would have to be accounted for, revenged. I felt the strong urge to hold her in my arms and pretend that this whole thing wasn’t my fault. To ease her down onto her back, strip her of those revealing pajamas, and worship her pussy with my tongue. I’d never been so hard in my life.
“What are you planning to do about this asshole, Mac?” she interrupted my thoughts. “I know you have something up your sleeve, so out with it.”
How much should I share with her about my plans?
“Tonight is opening night of O’Brien’s new fight club. Ferdi and I will be there to welcome him to the area.” I tried to hide the smirk on my face. “Bake him a homemade pie and shit.”
Otelia rolled her eyes and finished off her whisky.
“Good. Then I’m going too.”
“The hell you say,” I thundered. “No fucking way.”
She shrugged her shoulders and nonchalantly picked at her fingernails. “I don’t remember asking you for permission, sir. Found my way into your establishment. I’m sure I can find my way into his as well. Worst case scenario, I’d have to suck a stranger’s dick like your good friend Marci is so fond of doing. That’s something you clearly enjoyed, so I say, let the sucking commence.”
Fucking attitude.
Splendid.
Her snarky comment mixed with my heated arousal took an undesirable nip on my mental state. I chucked the glass I was holding against the wall, my second in less than an hour, shattering it into a thousand little pieces and propelling my feet forward. I advanced into her personal space, caging her in with no means of escape. Her dilated pupils and heavy breathing affirmed I had her attention, just like I wanted.
“You’re not ready to sleep with danger, kitty cat.” She exhaled the breath she was holding and tried to turn away from the intensity in my stare. “You think this is a fucking game, woman?”
“I know it’s not a game, Darragh,” she snapped defiantly.
“These people will bury you in your own backyard then turn around and donate money to the search and rescue fund. Our world is dark, unyielding, unforgiving, ruthless as fuck. Once you step inside, there is no escape from its clutches. Lives are expendable, including yours.”
I thought her silence meant I was getting through to her, but she was just warming up.
“That motherfucker came to MY house uninvited, Darragh.” She pointed to her heaving chest. “MY HOUSE! Now, I don’t know much about “the lifestyle”, but I do know this: nobody messes with me and gets away with it. I don’t give a rat’s ass who he is or WHAT he’ll do to me.”
“You’re not getting me.” I shook my head in exasperation.
“I’m going, Darragh. Deal with it,” she snapped.
We were both pumped up from our little skirmish, dug in, holding our ground. I was either going to kiss her senseless or turn her over and spank her bratty ass red. Seeing that fire in her blue eyes turned my already hard cock to stone. How long had she been holding in that little dig about Marci sucking my dick? Since the night of the fight, stupid.
My motives for confronting O’Brien were becoming clouded in a mist of individual gain and the compulsion to shield Otelia from future harm. I was by no means a hero, but she didn’t need one. She was perfectly capable of saving herself. I could use that.
“You really want to do this, Otelia?”
“Fucking right, I do. I’m sick of you mob motherfuckers messing with my life.”
She left no more room for argument; it was either take her along for her own protection, or tie her ass up and throw her in the trunk of my car. Fuck.
“If you are going to be my date tonight, we need to discuss a few particulars.”
_______________
Nothing but Armani wo
uld do for this occasion. The cut of a finely tailored suit signified wealth and power, two things I wanted O’Brien to imagine when he saw me. Ferdi hadn’t checked in since he left the penthouse this morning, but I had every confidence he’d show up on time and be ready to roll. Otelia was another issue entirely. The past few hours had been one dumpster fire after another with me mostly on the receiving end. She’d tried to leave the sanctuary of the penthouse to go home and do woman shit, which I’d swiftly vetoed. That earned me a slew of profanities that rivaled any sailor docked in port on weekend leave. Then she tried to convince me to take her to Nipsy’s so she could speak with Maribel Laine, which, again, was a no-go. She finally gave up and stormed off to the adjoining room, where she’d been making lude gestures to the cameras for half the day.
I wasn’t amused.
O’Brien picked the perfect night to open his fight club, if I did say so myself. End of the month meant payday for most of the industry workers around town. Some would drop entire paychecks in the hopes of winning it big, money I could previously count on to go into my pockets. That element fucked with my headspace the most. The longer I thought about it, the more pissed I became, until it was nearly time to leave.
“Glad you didn’t return the clothes and other stuff, Mac,” I heard from behind in a sing-song voice. “Unless, of course, you planned on kidnapping another size six and outfitting her with the same wardrobe? I think this one will do, what say you?”
Otelia did a little spin near the doorway, and I forgot my own fucking name. She looked absolutely stunning in the red Vera Wang, as I’d known she would when I made the purchase. The sequin cocktail dress flaunted a plunging neckline that dipped mere inches from the top of her belly button. The back was just as low cut as the front; both were held together by a tiny gold rope chain that hung around her neck. She’d paired the ensemble with strappy red pumps. Her legs appeared long and sleek. Memories of them wrapped around my shoulders while I ate out her cunt flashed inside my head. I thanked the gods she’d opted for heels instead of those disgusting tennis shoes. Men would envy my prowess tonight, and the women would want to trade places with her. She was a vison.
“What do you think, Mac?” I snapped out of my reverie.
“Well…” I stalked towards her, pretending to mull it over. “I think we need to practice particular number one on our list, where you do exactly what I say, when I say it, with zero attitude or backtalk.”
I hovered inches from her succulent mouth, our pants mixed with mutual desire. She swooned after a hefty inhale, my scent affecting her, weakening her, drawing her in.
“Take off your panties, Otelia.”
“Why?” she cried, brows raised.
“Because”—I brushed my lips against hers—“I said so, and what I say goes.”
Otelia hesitated for a moment, then used tentative hands to reach under her skirt and remove the garment at my request. Of course, she wouldn’t go quietly into the night. She twirled them around her finger before chucking them in my face as a show of defiance. I picked them up and shoved them inside my suit pocket for later.
I took a step back from her personal space and offered her my elbow. “You ready to do this?”
She took my lead and flashed me an award-winning smile.
“Time to fuck shit up, Mac.”
Such a brave little kitty cat.
And off we went.
CHAPTER 26
Otelia
FERDI MET US at a deserted parking lot off Highway 10 in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere. It was a mile outside of town surrounded by farms, fields, and open land. In a word, it was creepy. A limo materialized out of thin air, and we three were taken to a private airport hangar, newly erected from what I could tell. No words were exchanged between the driver and Mac, which only added to the hair-raising factor. After a series of security checks, we were escorted to the exclusive area where the fights were to take place. The whole cloak and dagger, the mob version, was very exciting, and my body buzzed with what was yet to come. I not only had one fine specimen of hunky man-meat on my arm, I was blessed with two. We made a handsome trifecta, if the stares and points were anything to go by.
Picture it.
Remington, Virginia, at an illegal underground fight club!
Take that, Sophia Petrillo of The Golden Girls.
Ferdi excused himself to “recon the motherfucker’s layout”, his words, while Mac and I were left alone to peruse the scenery. I had to hand it to this fuckhead, O’Brien—he’d spent a pretty penny to outdo his competition. Naturally, there was a standard-sized ring, three open bars, and a VIP section towards the front giving its members the better view. That was where the similarities ended. Where Mac’s place was rough and rugged, catering to the everyday man with a few dollars in his pocket looking for a good time, here, the focus was on the hedonistic needs of the privileged elite. Anything your little heart desired could be had in this place for a price. Access to women and men of your choosing, trays of a lined white substance, probably cocaine, and top-shelf alcohol was yours for the asking. And that was just what was in plain view. I imagined there was even more debauchery hidden in the bowels of this overblown cesspool. I felt sick just standing around in this place, let alone having to mingle.
“What’s wrong, Otelia? You look a bit queasy,” Mac asked as we made our way.
“This shit is all the way fucked up, Darragh.”
“Language, my dear. Remember our particulars,” he chastised lightly.
I wanted to slap that knowing smirk off his pretty face. Maintaining an image, that was condition number two on his long list of “must do’s” before he agreed to bring me along. The first being, I had to follow his instruction without backtalk or sass, or he would consider my consequences. I’d readily agreed before he managed to sneak in a third stipulation, which was how he decided our night was going to end. According to him, he reserved the right to fuck me raw if I somehow pissed him off by breaking rules one or two. His idea of a deterrent was my idea of a hell of a good time. Sacrifices and all that.
“I think I’m going to hurl. Is that better? This whole scene is a shit sandwich, Mac. Why anyone would want to come here instead of your place is beyond me. We should just light a match and burn it all to the ground and save ourselves the trouble of dealing with this prick.”
“Tempting,” he replied. “And here I thought you were salty because your bare pussy was a bit drafty. Imagine what would happen if I touched you in front of all these people.”
He used a single finger to trace a line along the bottom of my skirt where the fabric stopped above my naked legs. The intimate touch mixed with the voyeuristic possibilities created an excited shiver to run down my spine.
“Concentrate on business, you fiend. What are we doing here, really? And don’t feed me a line of bull…stuff about extending a welcome. We need to find this asshole and kick his stupid behind for the crap he pulled.”
“Now, now. Don’t get your back up, kitty cat.” He leaned into me. “One could learn a lot from watching, wouldn’t you agree? Like now, for instance, your breathing, the flush of your cheeks, the parting of your lips, all signs that you crave my touch and can hardly wait to feel more of it. I bet if I ran my tongue along your slit right now, you’d be dripping wet for me. I can almost taste your delicious cream on my palate.”
“What is your sudden fascination with my pussy, Mac?” I whisper-yelled.
“Mmm…” he groaned. “That word coming from your pretty lips was the distraction I needed to keep from killing a motherfucker. Thinking about slamming my cock into your tight, wet pussy is saving lives, my dear. You should feel proud.”
A server appeared before I could answer, carrying a tray with a glass of whisky for Mac and a flute of champagne I assumed was for me. We hadn’t ordered anything, and I was reluctant to accept a drink from a perfect stranger knowing it could’ve been laced with who knows what. My date didn’t seem to share my concerns. He grabbed the tumbler a
nd took a sip, motioning for me to followed suit. Between his obscene dirty talk, inappropriate touching, and close proximity, I could definitely use a little liquid courage.
“That’s from my private stock. Macallan 1926. I hope you enjoy it.”
A man sauntered towards us as he spoke, his arm wrapped securely around the waist of a beautiful woman dressed to the nines. There was an air of superiority about them, a confidence, like their shit didn’t stink. He was taller than Mac by about an inch, sandy blond hair perfectly coifed with styling product, blue eyes and straight white teeth. Handsome in a stuck-up, small dick way that reeked of overcompensation.
The woman was the exact opposite. Dark complexed with inky brunette hair pulled neatly into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes, which were as black as night, held no real warmth in their depths until they landed appraisingly on my date. They sparked with a calculating gleam that was only obvious to me. It was a woman thing. She wanted Mac badly. Damn the fact that her date stood next to her, lust glowed from her like a beacon.
The two of them belonged on a postcard one would send from a summer vacation. His hand held a glass of the same amber liquid that was offered to Mac. Something in the exchange of looks screamed familiarity and history amongst the three of them. Not outwardly hostile, but not overly friendly either. The man wore a sinister smile, while his woman looked as if she had swallowed a hornet’s nest.
“As I live and breathe, if it isn’t baby MacCabe,” he offered by way of greeting.
“O’Brien.” Mac tensed at the moniker but tipped his hand holding the drink.
I gulped at the sound of his name.
O’Brien, the shitbag.
“This is a pleasant surprise. You boys aren’t open tonight?” He inclined his head while waiting for an answer.
48 Mac (A Junkyard Boys Novel) Page 15