by LP Lovell
“Stop talking, Una,” he says on a low growl.
I’m close. “I want to know what a bastard enforcer is doing with the underboss of the Italian mob. I want to know how someone of your stature was able to dig up my sister. How is it that you have your own brother killed and manage to walk into being capo?” The car slams to a halt before we even exit the parking garage, thrusting me forward against my seatbelt. We sit for a second, the engine idling, and neither of us saying anything. He turns that icy glare on me, making me feel pinned to the spot. “What do you want?” I whisper.
He tilts his head to the side and his eyes pinch in agitation. “If I wanted you to know, I would have told you. I don’t trust you, Morte.”
“And you’re not telling me anything, so I don’t trust you.”
He smirks. "Just remember that this situation is mutually beneficial. I don’t give a fuck if you trust me, I don’t need you to, you don’t need me to. Simply trust in the fact that I have something you want and you have something I need."
"Lies. You don't need me. My bullet or yours, they both end the same way. You need someone to blame. I'm not sure whether I should be offended or flattered that I'm the one whose back you've decided to put a target on."
His eyes trace over my face, my lips, my throat. I feel like a rabbit caught in a trap, waiting for the big bad wolf to take a bite. "You're everyone's exception," he says simply.
"What?"
"Arnaldo, Nicholai, the cartel...they all turn a blind eye to you."
I lift my chin defiantly. "Because I'm neutral. I told you, I don't take sides."
"You're not taking sides now."
Oh, but I am. For Anna. And for all of me saying I don't trust Nero, weirdly, I think I do. Every rational fibre of me knows he's dangerous. Every ingrained piece of training is screaming that I know better. And yet...aren’t we already allies in a twisted way? I killed his brother and essentially made him capo. He found my sister where I never could, and now we’re here, bartering, tentatively trying to outmanoeuvre each other. The thing is, I trust him more because he’s blackmailing me. I may not understand his motivations, but I know that he wants something and is prepared to give in exchange. It’s a simple concept. In theory. And one that I trust.
"And now my sister is in hell but you won’t help her until I kill your list, all of whom are practically untouchable.”
“If there is one thing I have witnessed in this world, it’s the lengths people will go to for love. Even death herself is affected by its illness,” he says coldly.
“Are you going to tell me what you’re doing to get Anna back?” I ask.
“No, just know that I can pull strings and reach people that you couldn’t hope to yourself.” I swallow hard, hating his words but unable to argue with them. Smirking, he leans in, stroking a finger down my cheek. I tear my face away from him but he grips my jaw, dragging my face towards him. I could break his wrist if I wanted to, but I don't. The brutality of his touch is welcomed, as is the icy coldness of his gaze. I should hate him, I should loathe his touch, but I don’t, because when he touches me like this, I don’t feel the usual ingrained instinct to kill. It’s as though all my conditioning can be overridden by his cruelty. It’s a strange thing, to never be able to tolerate human touch. And the second that I can, I crave it, no matter its form. Nero is this warped exception to everything I know, as though he is above the law of physics themselves.
“So now I’m your Russian dog, chained and leashed, doing your bidding," I whisper.
Our eyes lock and he reaches out, dragging me to him and brushing his lips over mine. "You're not a dog, Una, you're a dragon, a thing of myth and whispers." He grazes his teeth over my bottom lip and a ragged breath falls from my lips. "You ask me what I want. It’s simple. I want power. With you, I will burn everything to the ground." A maniacal smile works over his lips and that darkness of his calls to me on every level, to the monster that I am. His fingers squeeze harder, forcing my head back. I relish in the touch because it's hard and angry, passion laced with hate.
“How?” I breathe.
His lips twitch. “Power is nothing more than a game of strategy, a chessboard.” I narrow my eyes. “You are my queen, Morte, the most valuable piece on the board.”
“Queen protects king,” I whisper. Or in this case, the queen is a body shield for the king.
“Queen takes all,” he replies, dropping his eyes to my lips. His fingers clamp down on my face even harder and his lips press against mine roughly for a brief moment before he shoves me away from him like an unwanted toy.
“Stay in the car,” I say, throwing the door open. She gets out and I glare at her over the roof of the car. “Was I speaking a foreign language?”
She cocks a brow at me and slams her door. “I didn’t leave your apartment to sit in your car.”
“I didn’t bring you with me for a day trip. I brought you because Tommy is busy –”
“Ah, yes, driving Zeus to his appointment with a tree to take a piss on.”
“– and you can’t be trusted on your own.”
“So now I’m the untrustworthy one? As I recall, I came of my own free will.”
“Fucking women, you’re all the same, don’t listen to shit,” I grumble, turning my back and heading towards the stairwell.
“Careful, capo. I’m the one who brought the gun, remember?” She falls in step beside me, and low and behold, she has her fucking gun strapped to her thigh.
“This is a government building.”
“So, take the service entrance.”
Stopping, I grab her arm, turning her to face me. She tenses and I smirk. I’ve learned with her, that it’s the casual touches that make her uncomfortable. Grab her by her throat or grip her arm hard enough to break it and she’s fine. Finger fuck her and it’s tentative, but it seems pleasure can tamper her bloodlust. “This is not a fucking tactical assault. I told you, it’s not a gun affair. It’s a meeting,” I say slowly.
She sighs. “I thought that was like mafia code for kill someone.” She raises both eyebrows as though this should be obvious.
“What? No.” I shake my head. “Jesus. Look, lose the gun or wait in the fucking car.” She rolls her eyes and unbuckles the holster from around her thigh, dropping to a crouch and sliding it across the parking garage floor until it comes to a halt beneath the car fifty yards away.
“Happy?” she scowls. I eye the cuff at her wrist. “Don’t even think about it,” she says as she struts past me, hips swaying in a way that I don’t think she’s even aware of. Damn, her ass looks good in those pants.
I have a meeting arranged with Gerard Brown, otherwise known as the current Port Authority Chief. Of course, he doesn’t realise it’s me he’s meeting with, simply the director of Horizon Logistics, an import and export company, a legitimate company that, as it happens, I own. His secretary shows us to his office, eyeing Una the entire time. I don’t blame her. Nothing about Una fits into normal society unless she’s forced to. Give her a job, tell her she has to play the fucking mayor’s wife and she’ll pull that shit off no problem, but in her natural state, people become wary of her. It’s the same way an antelope can sense the presence of a lion without even seeing it. Their instincts tell them she’s dangerous and yet they trust what their eyes tell them, that she’s just a tiny, pretty little woman. They should really listen to their instincts more.
Gerard Brown is a middle-aged guy with a beer gut, an ill-fitting suit and a moustache that looks like he stole it from the set of a seventies porn film. That said, this is the man that controls all of the docks in New York City. Nothing comes in or out without his say-so, and it just so happens that Finnegan O’Hara has his say-so. Whether he knows about the nature of O’Hara’s dealings, it’s impossible to say. But in my experience, you don’t manage to get that much drugs and guns into the country via one of the biggest cities without a little help. Still, for now, what he does with O’Hara is none of my concern. I simply need to us
e him.
“Mr Brown. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.” He holds his hand out and I shake it. His thick eyebrows pull into a frown, and he squints behind his glasses.
“I’m sorry, you’ll have to forgive me but I don’t know your name. My secretary –”
“Was never told it.” I finish for him, taking a seat in the leather chair across from him. He sits and places his palms flat on the desk, subtly glancing at Una where she stands with her back to the wall, placed exactly between the window and the door. “I am Nero Verdi.”
His face pales and he leans back in his chair, trying to put as much distance between us as possible. “Mr Verdi.” He nods, a tentative smile politely gracing his lips. He tugs at his collar and a thin sheen of sweat covers his skin.
I cross my ankle over my knee and brush my pant leg casually, smiling. “I see my reputation proceeds me. Good. This should go quickly then.” He squeezes his eyes shut and swallows heavily. “You have a working relationship with Finnegan O’Hara.”
“Please. I don’t want any trouble –”
“You handle his shipments, which means you know when the next one’s coming in…when he’s coming in. No?”
He shakes his head. “No, I don’t know.”
“What kind of chief doesn’t know what’s coming into his own ports?” I fix my gaze on him and he visibly flinches. This will be easy.
“Please, I don’t –”
“You’re boring me.” Una sighs, pushing off the wall. She approaches him and grabs him around the throat, shoving him back in the chair as she takes a seat on the desk. “When is he coming into the city?” Nothing. “I’m going to count to three,” she says the words so sweetly. “One, two, three.” The blade at her wrist drops into her hand and she grips it, driving it towards his face. He shrieks and braces. There’s a beat of silence, a tense moment before he opens his eyes and finds the point of the blade poised millimetres from his right eye. She wraps her free hand around the back of his neck and pulls him towards her, cradling his head against her chest as if he were a small child. “You don’t need your eyes to talk, Gerard,” she whispers gently over his head, before stroking her fingers down his cheek. She then puts the blade away and hops down off the desk, returning to her spot by the wall.
I glance over my shoulder at her and adjust in my seat because my dick is uncomfortably hard. Damn, it’s the way she handles everything, so calm, yet so fucking psychotic. Turning back to face Gerard, I cock a brow at him. He’s trembling, visibly shaken and about to spill his guts, because if he doesn’t, Una will cut his fucking eyes out of his head. I know it and he knows it.
Una waits in the elevator impatiently, keeping her arms crossed over her chest and her booted foot in the doorway, holding the elevator for me. She bristles with attitude and impatience. Accordingly, I’m agitated and pissed off. My skin feels too fucking tight for my body and my dick will not let up. My balls are starting to ache, bringing about a whole new meaning to blue balls. Her eyes bore into me as I cross the reception area of Gerard’s office and get in.
The second the doors glide shut I turn on her, pressing my hand against the centre of her chest and shoving her against the mirrored wall of the elevator. Her eyes narrow but she makes no other move to stop me. “At any point, did I ask for your help?” I grate. I’m not really pissed off about it. I’m pissed off because I want to fuck her, but that’s not rational.
She slaps my hand away from her chest, which only serves to eliminate the only thing between us. Her chest brushes against mine, the tension in this confined metal box becomes stifling. “The civilised bullshit doesn’t suit you.” She smirks, dragging her gaze from my eyes to my lips and back again. “Don’t pretend you’re not every bit as monstrous as I am, Nero,” she whispers, stroking her hand down my chest, my stomach, barely skimming over my crotch. I clench my teeth and suck in a sharp breath. “You’re worse,” she breathes.
Her lips barely touch mine and I have to bite back a groan. Fuck, fuck, fuck! For a second, I lose track of everything that isn’t her, her tight body, her perfect lips, her lethal fucking words. And then I manage to get a handle on it. Just.
“I am,” I agree, stepping back and smoothing a hand down the front of my jacket. “But cutting people’s eyes out…” I tilt my head to the side. “It’s not the mafia way.”
The elevator pings and the doors slide open. She strides past me. “You know the thing that pisses me off about the mafia?”
“I’m sure you’ll enlighten me.”
She stops next to the car, spinning on her heel to face me. “If you’re bad, just be bad. Why wear a white hat?”
Before I can respond, she drops to her knees and I lift a brow. She rolls her eyes. “Not likely,” she grumbles before lowering herself to the ground and reaching underneath the car, coming back out with her gun. She climbs to her feet and fastens it back in place. Huh, I never realised how naked she looked without it until she put it back on. My vicious butterfly. My lethal queen.
“So, Finnegan’s going to be here in three days?”
Nero nods. “Yeah, him and half an army of IRA guys.”
Leaning back in my seat, I pull my knees up, bracing my boots against the edge of the seat. The car winds through the streets of the city and the sun is just starting to drop below the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of pink and purple. “Bernardo and Gabrielle aren’t in the city for another two weeks,” I murmur.
“Okay, so we hit O’Hara, then Marco, and wait for Bernardo and Gabrielle.”
“Oh, it’s ‘we’ now?” I press my head back into the seat.
“It’s always been ‘we’,” he remarks quietly while turning the car at a junction. “You aren’t doing this for me, Morte. You’re helping me, so I help you. Remember that.”
He’s a bastard, he really is. His phone rings, the sound blasting from the car speakers loudly. He clicks a button on the steering wheel.
“Yeah?”
“Boss, I have a gentleman here who wants to talk to you. Seems the Los Carlos think they’re getting an unfair deal.” I think it’s Jackson, and even I can hear the amusement in his voice. He’s the only one of the three whose voice I’m not very familiar with, and only one of the three would be calling Nero direct.
“Where?” Nero asks.
“The club.”
“On my way.” The line goes dead and he turns the steering wheel hard, sending the car screeching down a side road. His body bristles with tension, and I’m guessing this isn’t good.
“Trouble in paradise?” I drawl.
He looks at me and holds my gaze far longer than he should considering he’s driving. “Par for the course, Morte.” The car jerks violently and I throw my arm out against the door to catch myself.
The Los Carlos are a smaller gang here in the city, heavily involved in drugs and seemingly supplied by Nero. The Italians have always run the cocaine trade in New York and they probably always will. If there’s dissension amongst the dealers on the streets then it filters up, hitting everyone’s pocket.
Eventually, he pulls the car up outside of a dirty looking little club in Hunts Point, South Bronx. A couple of guys in suits linger just outside the door, guns in hand and eyes shifty. When Nero gets out of the car they relax slightly and start talking to him in quick-fire Italian. This isn’t my business and has nothing to do with why I’m here. I should stay out of it, and yet I find myself opening the door. Morbid curiosity has me climbing out of the car. I pull my hood up as I follow Nero to the door. He makes no move to stop me.
Inside, it’s just as much of a shithole. The floors are sticky and the walls and ceiling are so tarnished with nicotine they’re stained a dull brown. Smoke seems to hang in the air as if it’s a permanent feature. An old jukebox in the corner is playing some soul music quietly, and in front of us, sprawled across the black and white tile floor are two bodies. Both are Latino, and neither of them can be older than twenty. Jackson stands with his back to us, toe to t
oe with another kid. This one is maybe twenty-five at a push. He squares up to Jackson, gun in hand as he clenches his jaw and gets in Jackson’s personal space. Ten other guys are fanned out behind him, standing amongst the scattered tables and chairs that fill the bar. Jesus, it looks like the scene of some cliché gangster film.
Nero pulls a chair out and takes a seat, bracing one arm on the scarred wooden tabletop beside him. Slowly reaching inside his jacket pocket, he takes out a packet of cigarettes, sliding one out. Everyone in the room has their eyes on him, watching, waiting. He places the cigarette between his lips and then lifts a silver lighter, flipping the top back and allowing the flame to touch the end. The heavy click of the lighter snapping shut is the only sound in the room as Nero draws a long breath, inhaling the smoke. The guy across from Jackson starts to fidget and Jackson moves away, turning his back on him and coming to stand behind Nero. The smirk on his face is part mocking and part genuine amusement. I remain completely removed off to the side of the room with my back to the wall. The safest place you can ever be is with a wall at your back, because people can’t walk or shoot through walls.
Nero still says nothing and the silence in the room makes the young guy squirm. “Look, man, we want a bigger cut. Forty percent.” He shifts his shoulders from side to side, acting the big man.
Nero leans forward, bracing his elbows on his spread knees. The cigarette hangs between his fingers, spilling ash onto the tiled floor. He couldn’t look any more out of place here if he tried. He looks perfect in his expensive suit, immaculate and beautiful, dark and deadly. Ten armed men face him and yet he never looks out of control. He never ceases to be the ultimate danger in the room.