by LP Lovell
“I don’t trust you,” she says.
I inhale a deep breath and fold my arms over my chest. “I’m not the one that’s proven untrustworthy.”
She squares up to me.“Tell me, Nero…how does one go from a simple enforcer to the underboss in only a few short months?” She raises one eyebrow. “Even if someone were to blackmail an assassin, have her remove all competition and, in turn, have a price placed on her head…” She glares at me. “Even then, you still couldn’t make it to underboss.” She tilts her head to the side. “So tell me, capo, who did you blackmail to get this gig?”
I slide my hand up the small of her back, pulling her closer to me. Her round stomach presses against me and I shouldn’t care, I certainly shouldn’t like it, but there’s something incredibly hot about her having my baby inside her. My vicious little butterfly being maternal? It doesn’t fit. “Tell me you trust me, and I’ll tell you how I got here,” I whisper against her ear.
“I don’t trust you,” she growls.
“Well then, we’re at an impasse because in order to explain I must tell you something that very few people know. I have to trust you, and that goes both ways.”
She pulls away from me slightly, her eyebrows pinched together. “You want me to lie to you?” The last few months have made her wary. Even more so than normal.
“Why do it, Morte?” I ask. “Why run and hide, even after you killed Arnaldo? Why run from me? Why not trust me? Was I not there when shit hit the fan?”
“You caused most of that shit to hit the fan. You don’t get to declare yourself a hero just because you tidied up your own mess.” She pulls away from me and paces in front of the sofa the same way she always does when she’s agitated. “I’ll tell you if you tell me why you’re the boss,” she offers.
Always with the negotiating. “My father—my real father—is the boss.”
Her eyes go wide and she halts. “The big boss? Your father is Cesare Ugoli?” I nod and she shakes her head. “Should have known,” she mumbles. “And you knew this whole time?”
“Yeah.”
Realization blankets her features. “This was the plan. This was always the plan. Anna…it was all for this.”
“From the very first moment we met it was all orchestrated for this exact point, for you to kill Arnaldo. For me to become the underboss.” Her features harden and I know her well enough to see the precise moment when she locks down her emotions. “But I never expected to want you. By the time you were in danger, I thought I could protect you, but you ran.”
She snorts and turns to face me. “I knew what I was getting into. I knew you were an asshole and you were using me. I agreed to it.”
I cock my head, slowly moving closer to her and forcing myself into her space. She moves away until the wall is at her back. I brace my hand against the wall beside her head. “Your turn. Why run?”
She glares at me. “Because I had a five-million-dollar hit on me and no idea who had sanctioned it.”
I lean closer, brushing my lips over her cheek. She smells of vanilla and gun oil, and that scent alone makes my dick hard for her. She tries to twist away from me, but I press my body against hers. “If that were it, then why jump out a window after you killed Arnaldo?”
“I…” she stammers, her mouth opening and then closing.
“You are mine, Morte. I would have protected you.”
She swallows heavily, her eyes searching mine as though looking for the truth in my words. “I need to do this on my own,” she breathes.
“Do what on your own?” I ask slowly.
Her eyes squeeze shut and her lips part. She looks so fragile, so innocent, though I know she’s not. “I need to leave here, Nero,” she says. A breath hisses through my teeth and my hand slams around her throat, squeezing the delicate skin. Opening her eyes, she pushes forward into my hold. Her lips caress mine, her warm breath washes over my tongue, and my pulse hammers through my veins. “Let me leave, and in a few months, I’ll come back to you,” she says in a rare show of vulnerability. I narrow my eyes, trying to decipher her thoughts. “I promise. Queen protects king, remember?”
“Not anymore.”
She throws her head back against the wall and bites down on her bottom lip. I’ve never seen Una look so beaten down, as though she’s fought off the world and is somehow still standing. “Please.”
“Why? What do you have to do that will take months?” And then it all clicks into place like the gaping hole in an otherwise complete jigsaw.
“No.” My grip on her throat tightens, until I’m pushing her back against the wall. “No!”
She slams her fist into my stomach. I grunt and press my body flush against hers until our lips are almost touching. “Let me go and have the baby,” she says, “and I’ll come back afterwards.”
“Is this what you were planning? To have my kid in some foreign country and just abandon it?” My voice is rising, my temper bordering on rage.
She grits her teeth, shoving against me. “No, I’m putting it up for adoption! That is not abandoning it.”
“Fuck!” My whole body is bristling with tension and anger, and I want to step away from her, but, at the same time, I never want to let her go again. How could she do this?
“What would you suggest?”
“If you didn’t fucking want it, then why not just get rid of it?” I hiss in her face.
She stills and drops her gaze to the floor. After long moments, she finally speaks. “I couldn’t. But I won’t do this either.” She gestures between the two of us. “Look at us, Nero. I can’t have a baby. Children need…” she drifts off, her eyes going distant. “I don’t know…not us.”
My grip on her throat loosens and I cup her cheek, dragging my thumb over her bottom lip. Ah, my vicious butterfly. She’s so strong, yet so irreparably damaged, so set in her ways. She thinks of herself as a weapon, something trained and unleashed. Nothing more. But she’s so much more. She gave up everything to save her sister, a sister she hadn’t seen in thirteen years. A sister who, through rigorous training and conditioning, should have become inconsequential. What she doesn’t realize is that Nicholai wants her to feel nothing, but she does, and that means he couldn’t break her. What Una sees as weakness is proof of just how strong she is. She’s right. We are and always will be ruthless and brutal. It’s engrained. Instinctual. I know what she’s saying is right, and yet, I want something that has never even been a factor until right now. Until it’s right in front of me and growing inside her, my dangerous queen.
“You may be damaged, Morte, you may be a killer, but you are not heartless.” I drop my hand from her face, and when she opens her eyes, a single tear skates down her cheek. In the time I have known this woman I have watched her kill without blinking, threaten people without remorse. I have heard her scream such gut wrenching cries of anguish in her sleep, and witnessed her cry for her sister. I have watched her slowly crack, shattering piece by piece, and with each new splintered part of her I’m pulled further in, drawn to her. But we are who we are. Una must always be my strength, and I hers, because if not we will quickly become each other’s weakness. We are equals, but my next words will change that dynamic. “You’re staying here. Don’t make me force you,” I say, before I turn from her and stride out of the room.
“Nero!” she shouts after me.
I just made Una my biggest weakness, and myself—I just made myself a father. Poor kid doesn’t stand a fucking chance, but I will not leave it to be raised by a stranger the way I was.
7
Una
I pace backwards and forwards in the bedroom that I was shown to via armed guard. Pulling the curtain back an inch, I glance down at the three men standing watch just below the window. And they’re facing me. We all know they’re here to keep me in, not intruders out, but they could at least pretend. I drop the curtain with a frustrated groan. I will not be held a prisoner by Nero. He can go fuck himself. The room smells of him, his cologne subtly clinging
to the bed linen. I take a seat on the edge of the mattress and try to think of a way out of this.
I never considered the possibility that Nero would want a baby. I guess I never considered it because he was never supposed to find out. And now, he’s never going to let me out of his sight again.
The longer I’m trapped here, the more panicked I start to feel. I was running from Arnaldo. I was running from Nero, but mainly, I was trying to stay off Nicholai’s radar. The fact is, my child will never be safe as long as it is mine, as long as it is with me. Because of Nicholai. His obsession for designer soldiers started with children of a certain age, around ten years old, like I was A child is ready to learn how to fight at ten years of age, to be conditioned and honed to a fine blade. He never had any younger than eight, until one of his soldiers impregnated a cook in one of the facilities. I went with him to retrieve the child. I was eighteen then, but I still remember the way he looked at that baby like it was a brand new weapon in his arsenal. A shiny toy. After that I heard whispers and rumors of babies being bred, of Elite no longer being sterilzed. The younger the child, the more they can be conditioned during their developmental years. Of course, back then I didn’t care for the fate of children. They weren’t my concern. Truth be told, I still don’t. But I care about my child. If Nicholai knew about this baby, he would want it. I am, after all, his favorite. I can just imagine the way his eyes would light up if he got his hands on it.
I’m not safe here. We’re not safe here. We are what we are, and Nero and I live in a world plagued with enemies and danger where choices are limited, so it’s on me to make sure the only plausible choice is made. When it comes to this, Nero’s opinion is inconsequential because he can’t possibly understand what Nicholai is capable of.
Of course, now I’m here, and Nicholai will find me. I need to speak to Sasha and see what he knows. I also want to talk to Anna, because despite everything that’s going on, I did all this for her, for us. I worked with Nero so she could be free, but now that she is, I find myself hesitating. I want my sister back but, at the same time, I want to keep her as far from this mess as possible. She’s free which is a luxury I will never have. Nicholai will always own me, always want me. Anger, frustration, and fear mix together and have me permanently on edge. I long for the time not so long ago when emotions were a foreign concept to me. These days, I’m an unstable, hormonal mess.
I get up and open the bedroom door. Two guys in suits step straight into my path, blocking the door. One of them is reaching for his gun, and I smirk.
“Really? Touch that gun and you better be ready to use it.” I glare at him. I’m irritable and tired and I’m not in the mood for Nero’s wannabe soldiers. The guy’s eyes widen but he says nothing. “I need a phone,” I say. They both stare blankly at me. “Now!”
“Boss hasn’t permitted that.”
I huff a laugh. “I suggest you get me a fucking phone or I’m going to break both your noses, and then I’m going to slit your boss’ throat in his sleep.” I smile sweetly. “Do not test me.”
The one that was reaching for his gun steps back, nervously glancing at the other one. “Go,” he says, jerking his head to the side. The guy turns and walks off down the hallway.
“Wise,” I say as I step back into the room and close the door behind me. I do have one ace up my sleeve, and that’s pure fear. His men are scared of me, but the question is: who do they fear more, me or him? They might risk a broken neck from me to avoid being disemboweled by Nero. Choices, choices.
I’m starting to get a headache, so I lie down on the bed while I wait. I must have fallen asleep, because I startle awake when someone touches my shoulder. Nero dodges my reflexive strike aimed at his throat.
“Don’t do that!” I say.
He laughs and takes a step away from the bed. “Ah, Morte, I’ve missed you. Sleeping is so…restful without you.”
I sit up and drag a hand through my hair. “What time is it?”
“Late.”
I guess I’m not getting that phone. He strips out of his suit jacket and throws it over the back of the chair in the corner of the room. His fingers move over the buttons of his shirt. I can’t help but follow their trail, watching as the material slowly parts, giving way to tanned skin over hard muscle. When I lift my gaze to his, he only stares back at me, his dark eyes sparking with something dangerously hypnotic. Forcing myself to get up, I move away from him. I open the door to the en-suite, and before I’ve even taken a step inside, his hands are on my hips. My body goes rigid for a second, years of engrained conditioning kicking in and demanding that I react before I slowly relax. It’s his touch. Nero, my addictive and lethal exception.
He steps into me, pressing his chest against my back. His lips brush over my shoulder and I tilt my neck to the side as hot breaths blow across my skin, his fingers digging into my hips. I feel his hard cock pushing against my lower back. I turn around and step away from him. He cocks a brow and braces his forearms on either side of the door frame as he watches me back away. He’s topless, and every muscle flexes in a show of power. Tattoos wind down his arms, the ink work wrapping around his limbs like snakes. In his suit, you could almost mistake Nero for something sophisticated, civilized, but it’s here, when he’s like this that he can’t hide. Everything about him is honed and lethal, created for the sole purpose of destruction. I’ve always glimpsed beneath Nero’s veneer, but the closer I get, the more I see. Right now, he’s like the devil taking his true form.
He shifts, taking a step towards me. My stomach clenches and heat prickles over my skin as he stalks forward, crowding me against the vanity unit. “Don’t run from me, Morte.” His voice is deep and rough as it works over my senses.
“I’m not running.”
He reaches me and wraps his hands around my waist, lifting me onto the vanity. His broad body presses between my legs until I’m consumed by him, surrounded in every way. His finger presses beneath my chin, lifting it until I’m forced to look at him. “You’re always running.” He swipes his thumb over my bottom lip, pressing it just inside my mouth. I nip at the pad of his thumb. His eyes swirl, darkness creeping in. That one look is enough to make me shiver and my pulse race. It’s the promise of something explosive, but I never know which way he’ll go. He could fuck me, or he could choke me. He’s a thrill ride of the most unpredictable nature.
“Not from you,” I whisper. It’s a truth and a lie wrapped in one. I want to run from Nero because I want to run to him and that terrifies me.
“Lies,” he says. “How far would you have gone if I hadn’t caught you?” The air crackles with electricity and his anger is almost palpable.
I glare at him and shove him in the chest. He doesn’t budge. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.” A slow smile pulls at his lips, ice cold and calculated. My heart thrums in my chest, adrenaline flooding my veins, and I can’t help but smile back at him. He’s like my own personal high. A shot of adrenalin straight to my soul, reminding me of what it is to be alive, to be human. I grab his jaw and lean forward, brushing my lips over his. “I don’t run from you,” I say, biting his bottom lip, waiting the entire time for him to lash out. Honestly, I want it. I live for it.
He scoops my hair away from my neck, trailing his fingers over my skin so lightly that I shiver. “No. Me, you fight.”
“You make me violent.”
His fingers wind into my hair and he wrenches my head to the side, brushing his lips over my jaw. “You make me want to hunt down all who would hurt you and bleed them dry.” His voice is low and deep and it makes everything in me rise up to greet him.
His teeth graze the side of my throat and my pulse hammers in response. “You can’t kill everyone, Nero.” He wraps his arm around my back, pinning me, imprisoning me against his hard body, and I want him. I want him to fight me and dominate me. He brings his face back to mine and our eyes lock for a moment, promises of death and retribution swirling between us, drawing us together and binding us
in bloodlust.
“Fucking watch me,” he says as though it were his solemn vow, and I want to believe that it’s within his power, within our power. His grip on my hair tightens and then his lips crash over mine. I moan as that sweet battle rages between us, the sound of his deep growl like the crashing of steel blades to my ears. His rough stubble scratches at my skin and he thrusts his tongue inside my mouth. Prying his belt open, I slide my hand beneath the elastic of his boxers, wrapping my hand around him. A low breath hisses through his teeth and his body coils tight like a snake waiting to deal a death blow. I work over him, watching him wind tighter and tighter with each stroke. Suddenly, his hand slams around my throat, shoving me backward until I’m braced on my elbows, my head pressed against the mirror at an awkward angle. He grabs my face, his fingers sinking into my skin brutally as he smashes my cheek into the glass. My breaths are nothing more than rapid pants as he leans in, bringing his lips close to my ear. “You are fucking mine, Morte,” he says, touching his forehead to the side of my face and trailing his free hand up the inside of my parted thigh. When he brushes over me, a low whimper leaves my lips. I crave this, his touch, his rage, his utter possession.
He pushes two fingers inside me and I clench my teeth. “Look at me,” he groans, his hot breath washing over the side of my face. I turn to face him and he uses his hold on my throat to pull me upright again. Our eyes lock as he fucks me with his hand, and I feel so exposed to him, so raw. I both love and hate it. He makes me willingly vulnerable, and I’m so desperately weak for him, yet unbreakably strong.