by Nicci Harris
My best friend calls it a kind of infatuation. Of obsession. There is always one name playing on my lips - Max Butcher.
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The notorious bad boy of The District.
An unapologetic menace.
Hot to the point of physical discomfort.
Dangerous. . .
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So he finds me infuriating and wants to keep me out of his business and both away from him and other men. He wants to protect my body - protect my innocence.
But not even Max Butcher can stick to his guns.
And the further into his world I'm led, the more danger gathers. . .
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Get book
I am an emerging author of the dark romance genre. This is my third book.
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This is what you can expect from me. . .
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Sex. Sex.
Awesome sex.
Oh, and the below stuff too. . .
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In all my books, the hero is typically the jealous type. The over-protective type. The dreamy type. He has a single minded infatuation with the heroine. He is no angel. He fucks up. But in his own way, he will look after her. Take care of her. His girl. Ever. Damn. Time.
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"I'd die for my brothers, little one. But if any part of them ever touches you, I'll be hacking that part off." - Max Butcher, Cosa Nostra. (Coming soon)
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My heroine is always strong in her own way. She is witty. She is the type of girl you would want as a friend.
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I don’t do instalove unless the main characters have a past together. I don’t do instamine.
My hero will, of course, eventually claim his girl - and aggressively - but his fascination is earned over more than a single encounter. It builds. It eventually bursts.
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My page couples will grow together, be overwhelmed by emotion, be confused by it. Each one will fight together against the world more than they will against each other - for the most part.
I would love a review!
More than wine.
More than a cuddle.
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Goodreads & Amazon.
Jimmy Storm - 1979
Controllare le strade; control della citta
(Control the streets; control the city.)
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My father was a ladder-man in the late 1940s. In the old country - Sicily. He was the boy the Family trusted with their money, for he was the one with the clearest vantage point. The expression ladder-man had come about back in the early gambling days when young men would stand on ladders on the casino gaming floors, watching and waiting for misconduct.
My father was the most trusted and feared man in Sicily - a complete oxymoron, I know. But it all depended on who was doing the trusting and who was doing the fearing.
The Family paid him ninety lira an hour, which was good money back then, and so of course, the crooks of the club - the ones on the gaming floor pocketing chips, counting cards, and winning too much of the Family’s money - found death quickly. There was very little chance for rebuttal once my father had them in his sights. He was an adolescent then and rather engrossed in the power bestowed upon him, as would any young man be with the strength of many at his beck and call.
Things were irrevocably simpler back then. If there was a misdemeanour, it was handled quickly, quietly, and strictly; very few people lived to talk about it. Which is how it should be.
According to gossip, my grandfather was a ‘likable type’ and had no knowledge of his son’s activities. Luckily for us, my grandfather had died when my father was sixteen, leaving him without any relations. Luckily? Yes, because there is little I can learn from a ‘likable type’ of man.
After three years of being the boy up the ladder on the most notorious gaming floors in Sicily, my father became an orphan. And an orphan he was for exactly two days before the Family picked him up and officially made him their own. They bought my father. They owned him then. It wasn’t until then that he really understood what he'd signed up for.
He had married the mob.
When you marry the mob, as when you marry a woman, you are contractually, spiritually, legally, and emotionally bound to them. The key difference being, there is no such thing as divorcees - only widowers. That is where it all had started - humble beginnings and a life of servitude to the Family.
When I was a young man, my ego was larger than Achilles’, rivalling my father’s in every way. It would be fair to say I flexed my muscles every chance I could - at the boys at school, at the people on the sidewalk offering me less than obedient glances. . . at everyone. I was a sfacciato little shit, and partly because of that cheekiness, I learned to thrive on the sensation people’s submission gave me. I’d usually be hard as a rock beneath my trousers in the midst of a power play.
I am Jimmy Storm, son of Paul Storm, and my name is legendary. Storm is not our real name, of course. My father named himself when he became a made-man.
Half of Sicily owed the Family money, which meant we owned half of Sicily and her people. We managed people with ease, for their lives were worthless to us and priceless to them. I grew up around the cruellest, slyest, dirtiest bastards in the country and they set the benchmark for my behaviour as an adolescent; they were my idols.
When I turned twenty-seven, my zu Norris and I left Sicily, taking with us blessings and funds from the Family, with our sights set on a new place of profit. We flew to an area of Australia renowned for its wealthy residents - a secluded section on the coast consisting of four towns: Brussman, Connolly, Stormy River, and Moorup. I recently learnt of an Australian idiom for this kind of unmonitored and isolated area - ‘Bandit Country'.
I was out to prove myself at any cost.
Which brings me to today, and the reason I have my shoes pressed to a man's trachea.
“I am Jimmy Storm!” I state. The rubber of my heel presses very slowly on his windpipe, and when he tries to buck away, I know I have found the puntu debole. He tries desperately to claw at my foot, attempting to relieve some pressure. He can’t, but that doesn’t save my shoe from getting covered in fingerprints, and that is just so inconvenient.
My zu and I have been in this miserable part of the world for three god forsaken weeks and have found nothing short of disorganised, disrespectful, and inferior versions of la Cosa Nostra. The young man whose trachea I’m currently crushing is Dustin Nerrock, and he is ‘the name’ about these parts. A slightly hostile parràmune has taken place and I am simply establishing my dominance.
We'd met under casual terms, but this disrespectful man forgot his manners along the way. I’ve been told, ‘What the Australian male lacks in brains, he makes up for in brawn’ and I truly hope so. Since being here, we have found a lack of connections, a lack of muscle due to scope - all of Sicily is smaller than this area of Western Australia - and far too many new legalities to. . . manipulate without consultants to advise us. Despite my indelicate means of conversing, the end game is to get Dustin Nerrock and a few other big-name families in this area to work with us.
For us. . .
Dustin's father died last year, leaving him with businesses scattered throughout the area, but with no idea on how to utilise them. Money and dominance are the game. The man under my shoe has more money than sense, an ego that rivals my own, and a name people know. And soon, here, people will know mine.
“Do you have any idea who-” Dustin chokes, struggling to force words out while my boot is pressed to his throat.
Pity. . .
“Oh scusari,” I say, feigning concern. “Did you say something?” His face looks so feeble; I want to crush it ‘til it goes away. Men who bow are ants, small and helpless, but infinitely useful when put to work. I’ve been told my temper is an issue. Apparently, it is obvious when I’m irate; I speak a mongrel version of Italian, Sicilian, and English, and my accent seems to thicken. . . Personally, I don�
��t hear it. . .
“Madonna Mia, are you going to cry like a paparédda, Dustin. You’re the man about these parts. Stand up!” I yell, and then press my heel further into his jugular. . . so he can’t. “Alzarsi! Stand up!” He can’t. I won’t let him, and the whole idea of that makes my dick twitch.
I find myself tiring of his weak attempts to fight me off. I remove my shoe from his neck, allowing him to gasp and drag some much-needed air into his lungs. And he does, sucking like a man possessed. His palms meet the pavement under the dimly lit street lights and I take a few steps back to allow him room to stand. His pushes off his hands and climbs to his feet, a scowl firmly set on his face. Dustin all but growls at me and then spits blood to the side, his body shuddering slightly while he regains air and stability.
I mock, “Are you okay, paparédda?”
“You’re in deep shit,” he hisses, coughing at the pavement.
The bitterness in the air is tangible, an entity apart. It is time to switch the play and lead the conversation in a more mutually beneficial direction. I've humiliated him, and now I shall woo him.
“Let’s talk like gentlemen, Dustin,” I begin, removing a handkerchief from my pocket and offering it to him as he coughs and clears his throat. “Please oblige me?” I wave the folded white material in front of him, a feigned gesture of a truce.
He takes it and uses it to wipe away the little pieces of gravel pressed to his cheek. “Talk…”
“Perhaps we can start again. Se?” This is my favourite part of conversing - switching the play, manipulating the conversation. “You know who I am now, and I know who you are. You also know what I do, se?”
He stares at me, his brows drawn together, his eyes narrowed. “Yes.”
“Well,” I say, clapping my hands and grinning widely at him. “That’s an excellent start. May I recommend we take this little parramune to a more appropriate place? I know an establishment not too far from here. . . Will you join me for a drink? Put this little and unfortunate indiscretion behind us. . .”
***
It didn’t take long for me to gain Dustin Nerrock’s favour. In fact, it took less time than I'd imagined. The man is hungry, power hungry. I recognise it in him. It is indeed a trait we share. After three hours with Dustin, I’m even more convinced that this area holds infinite possibilities. To start with, there is a high crime rate, which, of course, is a huge benefit to my cause as protection comes at a cost. There are strictly governed gun laws, which, of course, means demand, and I am happy to supply. There is a vast class division, which means two things: an opportunity to clean up the riffraff at a cost, and addicts - I love addicts.
My father once told me to never choose a side, but to rather find out their motivation(s) and make them beholden to you. ‘Control the streets; control the city.’ I share this philosophy with Dustin. The final and most tantalising piece of information is that this country is bursting at the seams with minerals and is far too big to secure thoroughly. There is gold, diamonds, and unsealed access roads.
“I have never met a rich man I didn’t like,” I declare, clinking Dustin’s glass with mine.
A grin stretches across his face. The grin of a man whose eyes are suffused in dollar signs. “Well, that said, there are others we need in on this. . .”
"Yes.” I raise the glass to my lips and the smoky whiskey fumes float deliciously up my nostrils. "A man who my Capo told me about. Big pull in the old country." I use my hands to talk. My Sicilian mannerisms are hardwired. "Big pull. But he seems quite the enigma. I could not track him down. He has recently married some beauty queen from England and is probably just. . . How do you Australians say it? Fucking and fucking. No time for business when there is pussy. Se?” We both laugh and I play the game of equals; that is what I want him to believe. “So this man,” I continue, “he is a half-Sicilian, half-Australian, mongrel. But the Family. . . They seem to love him. The name I was given was Paul Lucchese."
Dustin’s gaze narrows, his amused expression slipping. “I know who you’re talking about. . .We can’t trust that bastard." And I’m immediately intrigued. . .
“He is very important to the Family.” I feign a sigh, but I’m eager to meet the man who has inspired such a reaction. I have never liked ‘likable people’; it is the unlikable ones I prefer. They have attitude and spirit. They make excellent soldiers.
Dustin seems to study my expression. “He will never agree.”
“He will. I assure you-" My attention is redirected to a clearly inebriated character as he swipes a collection of glasses off the bar; the sound of them smashing rudely invades my senses. I tilt my head and watch from our booth as he begins to yell and threaten the bartender.
Well, this is a pity.
I was having such a peaceful drink, and I have my favourite shirt on. The inebriated man’s grasp of the English language shocks me, and it makes me wonder whether it was his mother or father who has failed him so profoundly; perhaps both.
“Listen, 'ere,” he starts, pointing a shaky finger at the bartender. “I ain’t sellin’ nufin. I’m just ’ere for a drink.”
Interesting. . .
I shuffle from my seat and excuse myself politely. After walking slowly over to the man at the bar, I lean beside him and smile.
“Wah you want?” He lowers his voice. “I ain’t sell nufin’.” His mouth opens and expels words only vaguely fathomable. It is a damn pity about this shirt.
"Scusa." I motion across to my table. “I was drinking over there with a very important colleague of mine and you’re making it rather hard to concentrate. May I suggest finding a different establishment, se?”
It has been a long time since a man dared strike me, and it is apparent why over the course of the next few seconds. He stumbles backwards and then jolts forward, throwing his fist into my face. The smell of his breath knocks me harder than his knuckles do. My cheek burns for a short moment.
I shrug apologetically to the wide-eyed bartender and jab the bastard beside me twice in the throat. Jab. Jab. His knees meet the floor with a thud. My knee rises to connect with his chin. Crack. A guttural groan curdles up his throat. My knee rises again. Another groan. The back of my hand collides with his cheek. How irrispettoso. I can’t stand disrespect in any form. As I stare down at his swaying body, I notice a small stain on my shirt.
“Madonna Mia. Fare le corna a qualcuno,” I hiss at him. “Look what you did.”
***
Dustin’s brawn most definitely comes in handy as we relocate my new friend to a more private locale - an old building Dustin inherited. He doesn’t look quite as lively laying bound on the cold concrete floor. Although, my dick does like the bindings. . .
I can already tell that after this exchange, I’ll be in dire need of a lady’s company.
“Will you drag Mr. . .?” I stare questioningly at our bound captive.
“Get fucked . . .” He chokes on his own words.
“Very well, will you drag Mr Get Fucked so he is sitting against that wall just there, se?” I smile calmly in my new partner’s direction, pointing at the rear brick wall. “Thank you, Dustin.”
This disused warehouse would make an excellent abattoir; perhaps I will recommend a new business endeavour to Dustin. I ponder this as I remove a few items from my bag and set them down on the wooden workbench behind me: a blade, a bottle of aqua, and a Luna Stick. Pouring a small amount of water onto my shirt, I gently wipe at the stain. The chill from the liquid sends shivers down my spine.
“Such a pity,” I mutter to myself. When I tilt my head to watch Dustin manoeuvre our intoxicated captive to a more suitable position, I feel serenity wash over me. These are the moments where I truly shine. In the grit. When others usually waver, I am at my most contained. Perhaps, it also has to do with my new partner’s eager and obedient behaviour; after all, I did nearly squash his throat into the pavement a mere few hours ago. A sly grin draws my lips out. Who said money can’t buy happiness? Money can purchase th
e most loyal of comrades, and fear has no limit. Empires have been built on the foundations of both.
“I am Jimmy Storm. You know me?” I query, though I know the answer.
“No,” our barely coherent friend snaps, pulling away from Dustin’s grip.
“Well, this is Dustin Nerrock. You know him?” I ask, once again knowing the response. Our inebriated friend glances up at Dustin and nods, appearing to exhibit a suitable level of unease. “Well, now you know me too. Jimmy. Storm. I would like to know who you work for.”
“I’m not fucki—”
“A-ta-ta-ta." I wave my finger at his rude interruption. “Before you say no, we found ten grams of heroin on you. Now, don’t lie to Jimmy. Tell me who in this town supplies you. . .And then I will give you an offer you can’t refuse.”
“I’m neva snitchin’. He’d fuckin’ kill me.”
“I see.” I sigh and turn to my assortment of items. “I respect that.” As I pick up the switch knife and feel the cold metal in my palm, I run my finger over the blade, the rigid edge grating my pad. The excitement of what's to follow forces blood directly to my groin and I find myself in a state of impatience, eager to show Dustin how I assure success.
I spin on my heels and walk directly to my captive. I lean down. The blade slices through his flesh like a zipper parting fabric. The knife ruptures the nerves within. The deed is done. His eyes widen and his hand grips his left wrist. Blood trickles through his fingers and drips onto the concrete.
“Shit,” he cries. “Wha tha fuck? You said you respected tha.”