White Knight

by Meghan March

  My resolve hardens, and I refuse to let the caustic tone of his words affect me. Dom may be my father, but he’s never been a dad. Those are two separate fucking things.

  Pushing back the chair, I rise and loom over his bedside. “You’re flat on your back. Your men are out of commission. I might be your worst-kept fucking secret, but I’m the one who’s finally going to take care of the shit you’ve let hang over this family for years.”

  I back away toward the door as Dom’s stare turns harder with my every step. I grip the doorway.

  “You don’t think I can do it? That’s fine by me, Dom. I’ll let you know when it’s done. You can thank me then.”

  I stride out of the room and stalk down the hall.

  “Cannon.”

  My name comes out of nowhere, and my head’s on a swivel as I try to figure out where the hell the rough voice is coming from. The room next door belongs to Creighton, and he’s sitting up in his bed with Holly nowhere in sight.

  I stop in the doorway. “What?”

  He’s propped up on pillows, and I’m happy to see his color has started to come back. Of course a bullet wouldn’t be able to keep Creighton Karas down for long. The man’s practically superhuman.

  He waves me in with two fingers, and like the errand boy I’ve always been, I step inside at his beckoning. As soon as the thought occurs to me, my feet stop when I’m only halfway to his bed.

  “What?” I repeat, my tone sharp.

  Creighton swallows, and I’m reminded of all the times I picked up the phone to reach out to him for advice, but didn’t call because he told me he never wanted to hear from me again.

  “You’ve got nothing to prove to that old man or anyone else. You hear me?”

  My hands clench into fists at my sides. “It’s been years, Crey. You don’t know shit about me anymore, including what I’ve got to prove and to whom.”

  “It hasn’t been long enough for me to forget what kind of man you are. You want to get out of this shit? This life? I can get you out. Cut ties with Dom. Walk away and move on.”

  The muscle in his jaw ticks, and I have to wonder if he’s holding himself back from straight up giving me orders like he used to be able to. But not anymore. I’m not Creighton Karas’s man. I’m not anyone’s fucking man but mine. It’s time to prove that to every single goddamned person in the world who thinks I’m nothing but a lackey.

  “I appreciate your offer, Crey. But I don’t need it. I’m done following Dom’s orders or anyone else’s. I’m my own man, and I make my own fucking decisions.”

  Creighton’s lined features smooth out. His dark gaze shifts, and what I see there looks a hell of a lot like pride.

  “Be safe then, brother. You and I have a lot to talk about when I get out of here, and I’ll regret it until the last day of my life if we don’t get that chance.”

  Brother.

  The word hits me like a cement truck.

  This man, the one who helped me figure out exactly who I was and taught me so much about life, is recognizing me as an equal. The weight I’ve been carrying around at the breach in our relationship dissipates where I stand.

  “I’d like that, Crey. See you soon.”

  He nods at me and I head out of the room, almost running into Holly, who is returning with a container from the cafeteria.

  “Holly. Take care of him.”

  “I will, Cannon.” She smiles at me. “And you take care of yourself.”

  I stride out of the room, sure she overheard at least part of our brief conversation. I’m almost to the next doorway when I hear Creighton’s gravelly voice, and my feet stop of their own volition.

  “He better not get himself killed. Not now. Not when I’m just getting him back. I won’t have it.”

  “Oh, babe. You know Cannon’s not like that.”

  “That was before. I don’t know this Cannon, but I sure as hell hope I get the chance to.”

  I don’t know if Creighton is aware I can still hear him, but I start moving again, my determination fueled by sources in every direction.

  Memphis. Dom. Creighton and Holly. Enzo. Paulie and Junior. The rest of the family. Everyone we’ve lost and everyone who still needs saving.

  Their lives are in my hands, and it’s not a responsibility I take lightly.

  32

  Memphis

  Benny shoos me out of the room the second after he puts the thick leather-bound journal in my hand. The only thing he says is, “The names have been changed, but the story’s there. Don’t tell anyone I gave this to you, especially not Dom. Now leave me the hell alone.”

  I stroll away from the library with the book tucked under my arm like contraband, waiting until I close the door to my small apartment to yank it out and flip open the cover. On the first page is a handwritten title.

  * * *

  Tales from the Inside:

  A Former Mobster’s Memories

  * * *

  Holy. Fuck.

  Is this what I think it is?

  I’m half-terrified for Benny, but also half-terrified to hope that this is a mob memoir that covers the feud between the Cassos and the Rossettis.

  Was Benny going to publish this? Maybe as his last offering to the world before he dies?

  I don’t know what to think, but that can wait. Right now, I have some major reading to do.

  I get lost in the words and pictures inside the leather journal. I’m almost halfway through the book, and when I look up and blink, the clock has ticked past two hours.

  Two hours? Jesus. How is that even possible?

  Oh, right. I’ve been engrossed in a hit man’s chronicles of mob history.

  As for what I’ve learned about the two families—they were never friends. They were always enemies. According to the handwritten story, Benny thinks the feud began back in the days of Prohibition when both sides were selling bootleg spirits up and down the five boroughs, trying to keep the population of New York well-liquored so the families could rake in as much cash as possible. They lived like kings, with the best of everything, but it was all too often ripped away by the cops who weren’t on their payrolls and judges who despised their autonomy.

  Each family did everything they could to throw the other under the bus. At least until the world went to war. Everything changed as men who used to shoot at their own countrymen turned their sights on others. When they came back, nothing was ever the same.

  Prohibition was over, and they had to find a new way to make money. Woven in with tales of World War II were the rising and falling tides of the mob and the families that scrambled for power, dodging the law every chance they could get.

  It read more like an adventure novel in some parts, filled with glittering highs and devastating lows. And then eventually, a new breed of mobster climbed the ranks. Although the names have been changed as well as the descriptions, I have a sneaking suspicion I’m reading about Dom Casso and his rise to power.

  Smart, strategic, and ruthless when necessary, he was unstoppable. His father before him didn’t have nearly the drive, ambition, or vision that Dom had when he took over as the youngest leader of one of the leading mob families.

  I stretch my neck from side to side because it has a crick in it from the way I’ve been sitting, and my shoulders ache. I rise to move around and get my blood flowing again, setting the book down for only a moment, and my phone buzzes in my pocket.

  My first thought is Cannon, and I yank the phone out.

  But it’s not him.

  * * *

  Randi: I heard what happened. Oh my God, are you okay??

  * * *

  I stare down at the screen wondering, first, how the hell she found out what happened. Second, I wonder if she really cares or if she’s pumping me for information for GTR Rossetti.

  I don’t want to believe the second possibility could be true, because that means they’re trying to find out what’s going on so they can strike at us again.

  Us.

&nbs
p; I freeze when I realize the word I used. I’ve just silently declared myself a member of the Casso clan, the very crew I vowed I’d see thrown in prison for the rest of their lives.

  But they’re not just mobsters to me anymore. Not at all. They’re real people with lives and loves, and whether or not it’s against my will and better judgment, I care about them. Even Dom, sometimes, when I don’t want to whack him upside the head for treating Cannon like crap.

  I’m not about to throw them to the Rossettis.

  Not sure what I want to say, I tap my thumbs on either side of my phone screen and consider.

  If Randi’s with the Rossettis, I can use her.

  I feel a pang of guilt at the idea of manipulating her, but I don’t see that I have much of a choice. Those people shot automatic weapons at a crowd that also included innocents, and hit people who didn’t deserve their animosity. They also could have easily killed or injured bystanders.

  If nothing else, GTR Rossetti and his father need to be taken off the streets. I don’t care that I learned the Cassos are partly good and don’t all need to go to prison. I don’t feel nearly so kindly about the Rossettis.

  I hesitate a few more moments before forming the reply I tap onto the screen.

  * * *

  Me: I’m okay. How did you find out what happened?

  Randi: There was a story on the news last night about a drive-by shooting in Little Italy. I went to the club to find you, but it was closed. That’s how I knew the Cassos had to be involved.

  * * *

  Hmm . . . yeah. I don’t buy it.

  * * *

  Me: I can’t really tell you anything. Just . . . stay away from the club. Stay safe.

  Randi: You’re scaring me, Drew. If you need help, I can get you some. I don’t know what you’re wrapped up with, but if you want out of this mess, I’m here.

  * * *

  What. The. Hell? She should talk.

  * * *

  Me: I’m fine. Thanks.

  * * *

  As soon as I reply to Randi, I can’t help but wonder what she thinks is going down, and my suspicions go wild after hours of reading mob stories. She could be working for the Rossettis and trying to draw me out so they can use me as bait.

  I drop back into the chair where I’ve been parked all afternoon and think through it. I’m not jumping to conclusions because I’ve spent hours wrapped up in Benny’s words. I’m not. But something is definitely going on with Randi’s message.

  I need to text Cannon, but I have no idea what he’s doing and I’m hesitant to interrupt him. Still, he needs to know about Randi. Plus, I desperately want an update about how things are going and if there’s anything he needs.

  Deciding a text is the least intrusive way to get to him, I type out a message.

  * * *

  Me: I know you’re probably busy, but is there anything I can do to help? I’m here, and I can take on anything you need. Call me when you get a chance. I have something I want to run by you.

  33

  Cannon

  I never expected to be at my desk at the club with this man sitting across from me. A man who has never set foot inside here before, and likely will never get another invitation.

  “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t take you in right now and keep you locked down for questioning for the next twenty-four hours.” Clinton Cole’s suspicious expression tells me he’s smarter than he lets on.

  “Because you’ve got no grounds to hold me. I’m a witness to a crime who invited you here. You should be thanking me, not threatening to arrest me.”

  “Then what the hell do you have to tell me? What the fuck happened?”

  “You were there, Cole. You saw it all go down. You tell me what the fuck happened.” When I flip the question around, he glares at me.

  “You really don’t fucking expect me to tell you anything, do you? Because that’s not how this shit works.”

  “Did you find the car? The driver? Gunman? Anything?”

  Cole shifts in his seat, and his stiff posture expresses his annoyance. “You think you’re a cop now? You’re barely on the right side of the law, Freeman. Why should I tell you shit?”

  “Because you’re tired of blood being spilled on your watch. Despite being a hard-ass, you’re actually a decent cop. I want to end this, and I need your help.”

  Cole tips back the chair to balance on two feet. “You want to fucking end this, and you want my help?” He swings his head from side to side. “Did I walk into the twilight zone instead of some fancy club?”

  “No. But you can’t tell me you don’t want this over. You want to get the arrest and have your press conference where your boss calls you a hero, and then you have a chance to say you’re just doing your job and don’t want any recognition for something like that.”

  With his eyes narrowed, Cole sits the chair back on all its legs. “You think you have me figured out, don’t you?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Then work on this—I’m not giving you a license to kill. You’re not James Bond or Batman. You want to end this shit with the Rossettis, then you turn over everything you have to me, and I’ll get with the DA and we put together a case that’s airtight and we take them down.”

  I study him, weighing my next words before they come out of my mouth. “What happens if I agree to do it your way and no one goes down? What if bullets keep flying and take out someone else who matters to me? What then?”

  “You know I can’t make you any promises, Freeman. That’s not how this works. So either get with the program or stop wasting my time. I got better shit to do.”

  He says that, but I’m willing to put money on the fact that my offer to help is the best option he’s got.

  “Did you get any surveillance photos of the car? You had to have gotten something, Cole. I know you were out there taking pictures of all of us coming and going.”

  Cole crosses his arms over his chest, and that movement alone gives me all the answers I need. His statement confirms it.

  “So what if I did?”

  “Give me the license plate number, and I’ll dig up something decent to share with you.”

  A harsh laugh escapes his lips. “Right, like I believe that shit for a minute.”

  “I find the car, you go in and arrest the driver. How about that for a deal?”

  Cole leans forward, his elbows on the edge of my desk, and speaks low and clear. “Car was found this morning, burned out under a bridge. It’s in the crime lab now, but I’m willing to bet my badge on the fact that there won’t be shit to find. No fingerprints. No DNA. Registration linked back to a shell corporation propped up by a bunch of dummy names.”

  The dead end pisses me off, but I’m not going to show any reaction. At least now he’s sharing information with me.

  “But you’ve got something else, don’t you? Another lead?”

  “If I did, why would I tell you and risk getting kicked off the force?”

  “Because I’m the best shot you have at ending all of this without spilling another drop of blood. You want my help, it comes with strings attached. Lots of fucking strings.”

  “I don’t like strings, Freeman. If you’re serious about taking down the Rossettis without more bloodshed, then you need to drop ’em.”

  “I’m not dropping shit until I know you’re on board. You want to hand an airtight case to the DA, I have all the information you need. And you’re right, I’m not fucking Batman, and I’m not going to deliver them all tied up next to a light on top of police headquarters with the bat signal, so that means you gotta walk in there and arrest them without getting killed.”

  Cole kicks back in his chair, his arms crossed. “What if I don’t need you for an airtight case. What if I’ve already got someone on the inside who can give me what I need to get the DA to sign off.”

  I sit up straighter, because that’s information I didn’t have before. But if Cole had everything he needed, he’d already have
Giancarlo Rossetti and GTR in jail, awaiting trial. So he might have someone, but they don’t have enough information yet.

  The real question, though—who the fuck do they have on the inside? I run through every man on the Rossetti roster that I can think of, and most have been in place for years. Dom and Enzo would know more about the newest guys, but I’m not involving them.

  “You know you want to ask me who I’ve got,” Cole says, reading my mind.

  “You’re not going to tell me, so what’s the point of wasting my breath? Now, are we doing this, Cole? Or am I handling it myself and you’re going to have to explain to your lieutenant why you’re not doing your goddamned job?”

  Cole glares at me. “What’s your fucking plan, Freeman? Tell me, and then we’ll make a deal.”

  34

  Memphis

  Hours later, a text makes my phone vibrate, and I scramble to grab it.

  Not Cannon. Dammit.

  I read the message from Eden saying dinner has arrived, and I’d better come get it before the guys eat everything.

  I’m in the middle of reading about a grisly face-off between two mob bosses over the death of the wife of Sonny Mazzini. Mazzini, who I have to believe is Gianni Rossetti, the former head of the Rossetti family who was succeeded twenty-five years ago by his brother Giancarlo, the father of the notorious GTR.

  I leave the journal open, the silk ribbon between the pages, even though I desperately want to keep reading. But even more so, I’m hoping Cannon has come back too.