Marco

by Sydney Landon

  “I wouldn’t think much of it if she hadn’t kept calling him Big Daddy. Seemed like a funny nickname for what they were doing and all.”

  Nina appears to comprehend that her newfound puppy is in grave peril because she clasps his arm firmly and propels him in Jake’s direction. “Langdon’s mother is probably worried about him. He needs to go home now.”

  Jake seems disappointed the show is over, but he gathers his composure and motions Langdon ahead of him. He pauses long enough to say, “Security system is still updating.” He hands me a slip of paper, before adding, “There’s the new code. Should be ready to set as usual in another thirty.” He moves in Langdon’s direction, and I hear the kid chatting aimlessly, but thankfully, I can’t make his words out. I shudder to think what other fun facts he’s filling my cousin’s head with. I’ll never live this shit down. I’ll have to kill Jake to keep this from getting out. I brace myself for Nina’s attack, but she brushes past me and leaves the bathroom. Whoever said silence was golden had obviously never encountered a quiet woman. I’ve always felt it better to get problems out in the open, rather than let them fester into something uglier. But women like to “process.” Which is code for, striking when you least expect it. They run through every possible scenario and figure out ways to neatly box you in so you have no choice but to wave the white flag and beg for mercy. Hell, I’d be tempted to toss out a few tears right now if she’d let this go. Dare to dream. Even though it’s the last thing I want to do, I move through my home until I find her in the kitchen standing in front of the microwave. She opens the door and tosses a bag of popcorn inside. A chill runs down my spine as she whistles while waiting for her snack. “How can you possibly be hungry after eating that much food an hour ago?” Oh, shit. Rookie mistake, Moretti. I know better than to question a woman’s eating habits, especially one who’s already pissed at me. Clearly, I’m not of sound mind right now.

  “It’s for Walking Dead. I always have a snack when I’m watching it.” She cuts her eyes at me in a way that makes me want to crawl from the kitchen. “If seeing a woman eat is too nauseating for you, then feel free to go elsewhere.” She empties the bag into a nearby bowl and finds the bottle of movie theater butter in the cabinet. I applaud myself for keeping a straight face while she saturates the popcorn until it glistens. I have a feeling that part of it is for my benefit, but I wisely avert my gaze and zip my lips.

  When she picks up her snack and turns toward the living room, I open the refrigerator and grab a beer. “What would you like to drink?” There’s no fucking way I’ll take her a glass of water or a diet soft drink at this point even though most women I know seem to prefer those two things.

  I know I was right to wait when she calls out, “Coke. Regular, if you have it.” She’s sitting cross-legged on my leather sofa while she flips through the channels on my remote. Her brow is furrowed as her finger frantically pushes the channel up button. “Oh my God, Moretti, where is AMC? I swear if Rick dies in the first part of the show, I’m going to lose it.” She drags a hand through her hair, leaving a piece sticking comically up. I think that ship has already sailed, Belle.

  Risking bodily harm, I pluck the remote from her grasp and bring up the guide. Within a few moments, she’s happily munching on her snack while I’m staring at the television in revulsion. How can she eat during this? I want to fucking puke. This is the goriest show I’ve ever watched. Give me The Sopranos any day. Seeing some dude torture another is far easier to stomach than a zombie eating some guy’s arm off. “So this is your favorite show, huh? Isn’t this a bit… unsettling?”

  She completely ignores my question as her attention remains riveted on the carnage unfolding in all its high-definition glory. It’s one of the few times I wish I didn’t have a television. At least fifteen minutes pass before she responds to my questions as if I’ve just asked them. “Minka and I have watched this since the beginning. Normally, we’d either be together or at least texting each other during it.” She shoots me a dirty look that plainly says, thanks for ruining it, asshole. I almost point out that no one has taken her cell phone away, but I’d rather not open that can of worms tonight. This is a tricky situation that even I’m not sure how to explain. Neither are technically our prisoners—nor are they free to go. The official story is they’re under our protection. If Nina should refuse that, then this will get much more difficult. I am concerned for her safety—that much is true—as is the fact that she’s at risk right now with the unrest in our world. What she doesn’t know is that she’s sitting mere inches away from the man who may have very well painted a target on her back.

  “This doesn’t seem like your kind of thing,” I say, attempting to get her off the subject of Minka.

  “There are more things in life than the Playboy Channel, Moretti.” She smirks, then goes back to ignoring me when the commercial break is over.

  Despite myself, I’m thoroughly engrossed in the violent drama by the time it ends. I stare at the screen in bewilderment, thinking I must have missed something. “Where the hell did they take Rick? I thought you said he was going to die, but he’s clearly alive in the helicopter.” Instead of a response, I hear a sniffle. Really? Swear to fuck, I refuse to be jealous of a television character. Exasperated and more than a little tired, I grumble, “Belle, this isn’t real. The dude is an actor who makes a shitload of money to wear a nasty, sweat-stained shirt every week. He’s somewhere safe and sound having a beer and hoping they’ll turn this crap into a movie.” I feel like the world’s biggest jerk when her sniffles turn into full-blown sobs. I’ve never been good with tears, and Nina has been on an emotional roller coaster since learning of Franklin’s death. I reach out and awkwardly pat her knee, attempting to offer her comfort that says without actually saying, sorry I killed your family earlier. Greeting card companies would clean up if they expanded their selection of sympathy cards.

  Her mascara has smeared so much that she resembles a raccoon when she stares at me. “Why does everything I love go away, Marco? Am I cursed?”

  Oh fuck. Go ahead and take me now, Lord. Put me out of my misery. I’m still struggling to find the right words when she shocks the hell out of me by getting on her knees and crawling in my lap. God, it seems, has a wicked sense of humor. “Belle,” I murmur helplessly. “Rick is still alive. I know you love the show, and this sort of thing can be kinda… hard to handle, but he didn’t get eaten by a zombie, so there’s still hope, baby.” I wince at the intimacy of the endearment I’ve used, but she doesn’t appear to have noticed.

  Instead of helping, I seem to be doing the opposite. My poor shirt is taking the brunt of the damage. It’s like trying to use a Kleenex to mop up the Hoover Dam. I’ll take the wet shirt any day, though, over the damp nose she has pressed into the side of my neck now. “It’s not just that,” she hiccups, and I pat her back as if I’m trying to burp an infant. Hell, I have no clue what to do with a hysterical woman. Usually, when they lose it around me, they throw shit and use “fuck” a lot. What now? Maybe a glass of water—or vodka? Bottle of Valium? I’m seriously considering texting my mom for advice when she begins speaking again. Crap, she was waiting for me to ask her what else she is upset over. But… I don’t want to know. “First, there was my dad and then my mom.” Wait—is her father dead? Fuck, I have no clue. Better to remain quiet and hope she falls asleep. Or I could send one of the guys for more food. That seems to make her happy. “And even though I was conflicted over his way of life, I loved Franklin. And now he’s gone. Frankie was a turd, and I didn’t like him at all.” I’m nodding, in full agreement on that last statement when she slaps her hand over her mouth so loudly that I wince. Damn, that must have hurt. Her bottom lip is wobbling as she says tearfully, “I’m going to hell now, right? It’s a sin to speak badly of the dead.”

  “You get a pass when the recently deceased is a worthless twat,” I say confidently. Let’s hope that extends to those who exterminate said twats from the earth.

  She bl
inks rapidly, and I can almost see her brain processing my words. Even if she calls bullshit, at least it’s stopped the crying for the moment. I’m silently congratulating myself on talking her from the ledge when the tears return—again. Fuck me, how long has this been going on? Shouldn’t she have run out of moisture by now? She nods in the direction of the kitchen as if I’m able to read her mind. More popcorn? Maybe she’s an emotional eater. “Then there’s the McRib. Another thing that leaves me again and again. I smile and welcome it into my life, but it doesn’t really care about my feelings, ya know? It disappears with no warning, and I’m left to wonder why.”

  This has got to be a joke. I expect to see Jake and Langdon pop out of a nearby closet at any moment laughing their asses off. I’ll probably kill them, so I hope it’s worth it. I shoot her a grave look as if I’m on board with this madness. “Yeah, that one sucks the most, Belle. Fuck the Big Mac. That’s like winning runner-up in a beauty pageant. They pat your head and tell you how pretty you are, but you know different. If you were all that, you wouldn’t be standing on the sidelines while the hot chick walked off with the crown. Why not call a spade a spade, am I right? If you’re not a winner, you’re a loser. If you’re not a McRib, you’re a fucking burger.” That was kind of brilliant if I must say so.

  Her eyes are so wide they’re damn near crossing. She hasn’t blinked in at least a minute, and it’s beginning to freak me out slightly. “I… guess so,” she says carefully. Then she snaps her fingers, and my balls want to pack up and run. “What about Rick Grimes?”

  “Who in the hell is that?” I mutter before dropping my head in defeat. “We aren’t back to Walking Dead, are we? For the love of—Belle, it’s not real. Do you lose it every time the zombies go all buffet on some poor bastard?” When she shakes her head, I grip her shoulders gently but firmly. “Then why are you so… emotional over tonight’s episode? The dude didn’t even die. From what little I saw, he’s better off than the rest of them. You should be pissed that poor Molly and Darin are left riding horses and shooting a bow while he’s on his way back to the land of WiFi and Prozac.”

  Something that sounds suspiciously like a giggle escapes her throat. “It’s Maggie and Daryl.” She snorts. “And where did the Prozac thing come from? I can think of many more important items than that.”

  “Are you serious? In a fucked-up world like that, a good anti-depressant would be priceless. The ability to go to your happy place while your best friend is zombie kibble, what could be better? Granted, an argument could be made for Jack Daniel’s, but you could easily blow through that in a night. Better to have something on hand for the long term.”

  She crosses her arms over her chest and glares at me. What now? I’m seriously getting whiplash from these rapid-fire mood changes. Happy, sad, pissed, confused, and deranged. And that’s just in the past half hour. I’m worn the fuck out. I was joking about the Prozac, but that might not be such a bad idea. “Based on what I know about you, Moretti, I would have guessed that you’d find a tramp to ease your suffering and not a pill. Well, unless it was Viagra. No judgment,” she adds quickly. “All men have performance problems from time to time. There’s no shame in seeking medical attention.”

  She did not go there. Both my dick and I are outraged. Question anything except my ability to perform in all circumstances—for however long I desire. She’s giving me an angelic smile that says she meant no offense, but I call bullshit. The little minx knew exactly what she was doing. Yet even knowing she’s pulling my chain, I still can’t help but take the bait. “I’ll have you know, Belle, that I’ve never needed help in that area.” I clamp my hands around her thighs and pull her snugly against the bulge in my pants. “I could fuck you right now until you couldn’t remember your name, and I’d just be getting started. Every time you moved the next day, you’d be reminded of the feel of my cock slamming inside you.” Her grin slides away as her breath catches in her throat. I’m smugly satisfied at turning the tables until I notice her nipples have hardened as they press against the material of her shirt. And that’s not the only thing that’s come to life. My cock is thrilled to discover that only a few layers of clothing separate us. I know I shouldn’t… She’s vulnerable, and only an asshole would take advantage of the situation we’re in now, but fuck I’ve wanted her for so long. Just one little taste of heaven before I return to hell…

  It all begins innocently enough, a simple slide of my lips against hers—almost chaste. A gentle tracing of her mouth with the tip of my tongue. See, no problem. I’m in complete control—until I’m not. This is where things get fuzzy. One moment, I’m pressing teasing kisses against that beautiful pout, and the next, she’s captured my tongue and is sucking it into her mouth. This is where I officially lose it and turn into a fumbling schoolboy instead of a skilled lover. My only consolation is that she appears just as frantic as I am. My hands are everywhere at once as I attempt to touch every glorious inch I’ve previously been denied. I finally settle for gripping her ass and squeezing it. Not original in the least, but it feels so damn good. I’m not sure who’s responsible, but her shirt has been pulled up and her bra down. Wait—did she do that or did I? Who in the fuck cares? There’s a nipple near my mouth, and I don’t waste another second trying to figure out how it got there. Her back arches, and she cries out as my teeth nip the dusky tip, then I soothe the sting with a flick of my tongue. Holy hell, she tastes amazing, like a ripe peach dipped in bourbon. An odd combination to compare a woman to, but that’s exactly what Nina is to me—sweet and intoxicating. “Marco,” she moans, and I damn near come in my pants. Why is everything about this woman so sexy?

  I’ve unbuttoned her jeans, and my hand is halfway to nirvana when my phone rings.

  Ignore it. They’ll go away.

  She lifts herself slightly, and I make it another inch before my two-way radio sounds.

  Someone is dead.

  I want to ignore it—fuck, do I ever—but that would be utterly foolish. “Goddammit,” I hiss as Nina looks up at me with eyes full of desire. If you hurry, you can pick right up… But I know that’s not going to happen. It’s like she transforms into Nina Gavino, ice queen in seconds. No vulnerable looks. No sex-crazed gaze. Shuttered expression. Which means, of course, she’s already pulling away. The universe fucking hates me. I click the intercom button on the radio and snarl, “WHAT?”

  There’s a moment of silence on the other end. I rarely lose my cool, so obviously I’ve taken whoever the hell it is by surprise. I didn’t bother to look at the display before responding. Knowing my luck, it’s probably my mother. “Marco.” The grim tone in Jake’s voice effectively cuts through my pity-party. Something’s very wrong. “I took the kid home and—fuck, man, his family’s dead. Mother took a shot to the head and chest. Sister had three rounds in her. Forehead, leg, and gut. I went in with the kid to give an explanation about his new job and—goddammit, what a fucking mess. I got the kid out of there and wiped my prints. Hell, I didn’t know how you wanted to handle it.”

  Most things in my world require tactful concealment. I’m not worried that Nina will call the police, but I wish I had spared her the details. Had I not been so distracted, the gruesome picture Jake just described wouldn’t have been another trauma Nina was subjected to. She’s sitting in the corner of my sofa now with that same blank expression she was wearing earlier. She’s retreated to that place we all go to when we can’t handle anything more. “If you’re certain you left nothing behind, then take the boy to the office and give him some time to decompress. The police will want to question him. As bad as I hate it, he really needs to be the one to give them a heads-up. Gonna look suspicious if he doesn’t officially find them and follow the usual procedure.”

  “I agree.” Jake sighs. “Maybe Rutger can talk to his contact and ease the way a bit. Kid’s been in your apartment for days. Not that we want the scrutiny of being his alibi, but he couldn’t have done it. Well, I suppose he could have left and come back, but that’s
unlikely. Someone would have seen him. Plus, they were killed today.” He pauses for a moment, and I can almost see him swallowing hard before he adds, “It was… still fresh.” I dart my eyes in Nina’s direction and note that she doesn’t appear to have moved an inch. Hell, her shirt is still pushed up on one side. As beautiful and desirable as she looks, sex is not even remotely on my mind. Not with this.

  “Hey listen, let me think this through, and I’ll hit you up in a few.” I toss the radio aside and lean forward, rubbing absently at the tight knot in the back of my neck. Mother took a shot to the head and chest. Sister had three rounds in her. Forehead, leg, and gut. Fuck, it was a hit. Why Sophie? Related to me or some stupid shit of Langdon’s? Fuck. Sophie. What the fuck is going on?

  “Who killed them, Marco?” she asks in a voice as vacant as her expression. Her ability to disassociate herself from reality is unnerving. It makes me wonder what kind of shit has gone down in her life for her to perfect that kind of defense mechanism. Few are born with such skill. It takes trauma to hone it to the point that she has.

  “I don’t know, Belle,” I reply honestly. And even though I have shit to handle, I pull her back against my chest and give us both the comfort we need. She’s stiff at first, but she gradually relaxes as I absently drop a kiss onto the top of her head, while rubbing her back soothingly.

  “It can’t be a coincidence,” she says, echoing my thoughts. “But why them? They’re not connected to either of our families other than working for you, right?”

  “Correct.” I don’t elaborate because this isn’t a conversation we should be having. Nina already knows far too much and not only would the Gavinos frown on her involvement, but my family wouldn’t like it either. You don’t bring outsiders to dinner without an invitation, and you damn sure don’t give a member of another family an all-access pass to your business. That’s a diplomatic way of saying, trust no one, especially mafia. She knows too much. I might have had mostly good reasons for protecting her, but I’m beginning to think she’d have been better off on her own. I can only shield her so much from what’s going on—unless I hand her off to someone much further down the food chain than me. My feelings for her are already interfering with my job and also my judgment. I’m making all kinds of excuses to justify her staying with me, when none are valid now.