by LP Lovell
Sighing, he slowly gets to his feet. Holding a hand out to his side. Jackson flicks the safety off his gun, placing it in Nero’s waiting palm. They all reach for their weapons, but he remains relaxed, arrogant as he walks up to the kid and stares him in the eye before lifting the gun to his head. The kid opens his mouth, his eyes going wide…BANG. My fingers are wrapped around my gun, ready, waiting for the impending hailstorm of bullets. It doesn’t happen. Yet.
“This is my fucking city!” Nero roars, eyeing them one by one. “And if you bite the hand that feeds you, I will put you down like a rabid fucking dog.” He points his gun at the ground and fires off two more shots at the dead body of their former leader. “Does anyone else want a bigger fucking cut?” he growls. No one says anything. He hands the gun back to Jackson, who’s moved beside him, smoothing his hand down the front of his jacket and straightening out the cuff on his shirt. So civilised, so feral. “Now, if I have to come down to this shithole again, if I so much as hear a whisper of a problem…” He looks up, his expression speaking of destruction and war. “I won’t kill you. I’ll kill your wives, your girlfriends, your fucking children and your mothers.” His voice gets steadily louder until it’s like thunder, rumbling off the walls. “I suggest you don’t test me.” And then he turns his back and walks out.
Some people make threats, meaningless words and posturing. But Nero’s fucking soulless, and anyone can see it. When he says he’s going to slaughter your family, you damn well believe him. Whoever said it wasn’t better to be feared than respected? I think he’s both. Definitely both.
“So was that the mafia way?” I smirk, following him out and rounding the front of the car. He simply glares at me and gets in the car. “I thought you guys were all about leaving the women out of it.” I snort.
He drags his eyes over me. “I play by a different set of rules.”
Indeed, he does. Nero Verdi will use whatever he has at his disposal to keep people in line, honour or ethics be damned.
“You know, it’s situations like these where you should probably have your own gun,” I say, fastening my seatbelt.
He starts the car. “Haven’t you figured it out yet, Morte? I don’t need guns. I only have to say the word and someone dies.” And I can’t help but be in awe of his sheer arrogance. To stand in the middle of ten guys and shoot their leader in the head. It’s like he’s invincible.
By the time we get back to the apartment, Tommy is already there, waiting. George runs up to me as soon as I walk in the door, whining excitedly. I pet him and he walks with me all the way to the kitchen. Taking a seat at the breakfast bar, I open my laptop, staring at the minimised window in the bottom left corner. Anna. Maybe it’s just a twisted brand of self-torture, but I click it, opening up the box. She’s lying on the bed, alone this time. Her too thin body curled in on itself. Seeing her so fractured makes my very soul hurt. I press my palm against my forehead and rest my elbow on the side, staring at the image of her.
“Una.” I hadn’t heard Nero come up behind me, which is all the proof I need that I’m not focused. Anna complicates things, but I can’t see past her. He reaches around me and clicks a button, closing out the window. “Don’t look at it,” he says quietly. His body lingers so close, right behind me without touching. He brushes my hair off my shoulder, but again, his fingers never make contact with my skin. For a second, I find myself wanting his touch, but he steps back and all I hear is his footsteps as he walks away. I need focus. Pain and blood, the promise of death. I need to remember what I am, to feel that cool indifference, the methodical application of force and consequence. I can’t save Anna and I need to take it out on someone, or something.
I find myself in the gym, staring at the heavy bag. Plugging in my iPod, I blast Die Antwood until the beat rumbles the floor beneath my feet. Cracking my neck from side to side, I go to town. The force of my bare fists colliding with the canvas of the bag quickly has my knuckles splitting. Blood coats the bag and my fists, but I don’t care. I like the pain, the feeling of age-old scar tissue tearing apart again and again. I stop only when my body is soaked in sweat and my lungs are heaving for breath. A brush of contact on my arm has me whirling around, fists raised. Nero smirks, but the expression slips and his eyes narrow as he looks at my blood-stained hands.
“Tearing your fists up isn’t going to get her back any faster,” he remarks dryly. That uncomfortable feeling settles in my chest again, so I turn and hit the bag. Getting in three strikes before his arms wrap around me and he crosses my own arms over my torso, pinning them in place. I fight to get free, but just end up fighting myself. His breath blows over my neck in slow even draws. “Stop, Morte,” he says, almost softly.
“Fuck you, Nero.” My voice cracks slightly, frustration and helplessness seeping through.
He huffs a laugh and releases me. I whirl around to face him and he takes a step back. His eyes lock with mine for a beat before he slides his jacket off his shoulders and starts yanking at his tie. Dropping them to the floor, he then begins to unbutton his shirt. The material parts, revealing tanned skin over hard muscles. Tattoos appear beneath the veneer of his expensive suit.
“You want to hit something?” He spreads his arms wide. “Don’t pretend you don’t want a shot at me.”
He steps to the side and my eyes trace over the tight muscles of his stomach, bunched and ready. I take a step forward, clenching and releasing my bloodied fists. The corner of his lip twitches and an infuriatingly cocky smirk appears. I was always taught when fighting, that if outmatched or outsized by an opponent, let them come to you. Defend, then attack. Right now though, I don’t listen to any of it. I want to take out every inch of my frustrations on Nero’s perfect face. I lunge, jumping in the air and landing a punch to his jaw. His head snaps to the side and he stills, spitting out a mouthful of blood.
“Feel good?” he asks on a grin, bringing his eyes to meet mine.
“Not nearly enough,” I growl. I hit him three more times and he lets me, before rearing back and nailing me in the gut. I cough and stagger back a step as I force my lungs to drag in a breath despite my paralysed diaphragm.
He cracks his neck to the side and bounces on the balls of his feet, his arms hanging loose at his sides. “Don’t think I’ll go easy on you because you’re a girl,” he says before lifting his fists back up in front of him. We go toe-to-toe, catching each other with blows and ducking away. He grabs me around the throat and uses it to pull me close to him.
“So vicious, Morte,” he purrs, his breathing heavy. I gasp for air, breathing through my mouth. His eyes drop to my lips and he inches closer, until I punch him in the gut. Grunting, he releases me, hitting me hard in the face. The taste of blood in my mouth elicits a laugh. I lunge towards him again but he swipes my legs out from under me, my back hitting the unforgiving floor of the gym. I roll onto my front, ready to push up, but he lands on my back, his entire weight pushing me into the hard wood beneath me.
One hand wraps around my throat from behind, whilst the other grips my hip. He’s shameless in pressing his dick against my ass, rolling his hips against me. Lust and rage are so very close together, mixing and swirling into something explosive and raw. His lips brush over the side of my neck and hot, erratic breaths blow over my skin, making me shiver. “You done?” he asks in a patronising as fuck tone.
Fuck him. I try to jab my elbow into him but can’t do shit from where I am. He laughs and grabs both my arms, pinning them down beside my hips. His body shifts, and he slides away from me. His lips touch the exposed strip of skin at my lower back and I gasp, shaking beneath the brief contact. Slowly slipping his fingers away from my wrists, he releases me before he flips me over. My skin erupts in goose bumps when his lips skate over my hipbone. My breath hitches and the bloodlust wavers for a second, giving way to an entirely different kind of lust. I grab a handful of his hair and use it to pull his face up, away from me. His eyes follow the length of my body, and the look in them has my resolve wave
ring. His hands glide over my stomach, pushing the material of my top up as he goes. My heart pounds, the rhythm getting faster and faster the higher his hands move. By the time his face is hovering over mine, those eyes of his touching my lips, I can barely breathe. Blood trickles from the corner of his lip and already his jawline is splotched in angry red marks.
When his lips crash over mine, he starts an entirely new fight. His teeth rake over my split lip and I hiss at the sting, gripping his hair and pulling hard. Winding his fingers around my jaw, he cranks my head back, forcing my lips to part wider for him. He doesn’t just kiss me, he throws down a gauntlet, fighting me with every breath. I shove against his chest and he pulls back an inch, grinning. Swinging my arm back, I slap him, yes, I slap him like a girl. His head twists to the side before he very slowly brings his gaze back to mine. His irises swirl dangerously and there it is, fear, reaching out with cold fingers. I smile and lean into its touch, relishing in the frantic pounding of my heart, the instinctual trembling of my body. Nero scares me and it’s such a rare gift, one that no one else has ever given me.
Grabbing me by my throat, he wrenches me off the floor, tearing my top over my head before literally dropping me like dead weight. I fall back against the floor with a gasp, and he backs up, yanking at the button of my pants before dragging them down my legs. I barely get a chance to think about what that means before he’s over me again, his hard body between my legs and his rough lips moving against mine.
He has me in a trance of sorts, caught somewhere between lust and rage. All I can feel is him, all I can think about is his hands on me, his tongue in my mouth, his raw brutality. I want to be on the receiving end of Nero. I want him at his worst. I want to fear him, and he gives me all of that and more, demanding and taking what he wants from me. Under his touch I feel alive. I feel. All my training, my past, my wariness of him, everything I know I should do…it all disappears. All that matters is this exact moment. It’s the kind of weakness that gets you killed, but I can’t even summon the will to care.
I hear the clink of his belt buckle, feel the harsh grip of his fingers on my hips, the tearing of material. And then nothing but the hot press of his cock against me, pushing, threatening. Wrenching my hips up, with almost no warning, he slams inside me in one brutal thrust. All the air leaves my lungs, and my nails rake over the back of his neck, making him growl like the feral beast he is. My pussy clenches around him as shock waves ripple through my core. I’ve never felt so utterly invaded and it’s both uncomfortable and welcome. He touches his forehead to mine and I close my eyes. I inhale a staggered breath, breathing in the scent of his cologne, the hint of cigarette smoke.
A broken groan works its way up his throat. “You feel so fucking good, Morte.” He pulls out and pushes back in, dragging a gasp from me. He kisses me, thrusting his tongue past my open lips. “So fucking tight,” he growls.
I want him to stop talking and just fuck me, so I push up off the floor, pressing my lips to his. He groans into my mouth, slamming his hips into me, pushing me to the point of pain on every thrust. I like it, I need it. The pain is what drives me; the pain is what pushes me to the limit. The more he fucks me, the more rabid he gets until his fingers are digging into my skin and his kisses become bites. His thrusts are fast and hard, everything about him savage and animalistic. He fucks me like he’s trying to kill me, and I embrace the threat, daring him on as he wages sweet war on my body. I bite his bottom lip and my mouth fills with the metallic tang of his blood. My core starts to tighten, winding up and up until I feel like I can’t take any more. One hand dives into my hair, wrenching my head back until my back bows up towards him. His other hand slips between our bodies, where he pinches my clit at the same time as he bites down on my neck hard. I lose it. Screaming, writhing, shattering apart beneath him.
“I want to tear you apart,” he growls, pinching my jaw between his teeth. The orgasm reigns on and on, slowly tearing me apart before putting me back together again. My body falls limp and he sits back on his haunches, his jaw clenched as he grips my thighs and drives into me hard and fast three more times. His head falls back, exposing the muscular column of his throat, and the sound that leaves his lips is so guttural, so primal, that it makes me shiver. The roped muscles of his neck pop out and then his abs tense as his body jerks. I’ve never seen a man look more vulnerable or more powerful than he does in that moment. He finally stills and pitches forward, bracing his hands on either side of my body as his chin touches his chest. A drop of sweat rolls down the center of his chest, winding between the angry claw marks that mar his skin. Our heaving breaths intermingle with the sound of Die Antwood in the background.
It’s only when my pulse slows and the aftermath of my orgasm fades that I start to feel uncomfortable. I just fucked him. And that’s the last thing I need to be doing with him of all people. He just…he makes me burn for him. He feeds into every element of my nature, stoking the flames of my violence until it’s an inferno. We’re fire and gasoline, the perfect combination, the perfect disaster.
“Now do you feel good?” He cocks a brow.
Feigning indifference, I roll my eyes and shove him off me, climbing to my feet. I don’t even bother putting clothes on. I just walk straight through the apartment and head to my room.
I shower and get into bed, staring at the ceiling. I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore. It feels like everything I once was is slipping away, and I’m becoming something else entirely. I’m Una Ivanov, the kiss of death, ruthless, efficient, professional. It’s like that person doesn’t even exist here, in this apartment. I’m becoming someone who acts on impulse, without thought, driven by emotion and…cravings. I can’t seem to pull back that hardened mask I’ve worn for so many years, and I’m not sure I want to. It’s true that not feeling anything always kept me safe, focused, efficient, but it’s like Nero pressed a defibrillator to my chest and shocked me to life, first with anger and hate, then with my love for Anna and the pain that followed, and now…now this lust that feels so wild and uncontrollable. Despite every ingrained bit of conditioning and any basic level of common sense that is screaming at me not to do it, I can’t help myself. I have never felt more alive than when his lips are on me, his fingers threatening both pain and pleasure. I’ve never fucked a man because I wanted to, but with Nero it doesn’t even feel like a choice, more like a need. But none of this changes the reality that I shouldn’t even be in a professional relationship with him, let alone whatever this is. Nicholai would be so ashamed of me.
There’s a soft knock at the door before it opens a crack. Nero walks in the room, wearing only a loose fitting pair of tracksuit bottoms. His hair is wet from the shower, the strands swept back haphazardly.
“You’ll need these,” he says, holding up some bandages. I watch him approach the bed and I sit up, crossing my legs as he takes a seat on the edge of the mattress. Reaching for me, he wraps his fingers around my wrist, pulling my hand towards him. A small frown line sinks between his eyebrows as he focuses on my hands, bandaging my ripped knuckles with strong but gentle hands. The gesture seems so at odds with everything he is. I study the profile of his face, the hard cut of his jaw. Bruises are already blossoming across his skin in varying shades of purple.
“You should put some ice on your face,” I say quietly.
His lips curl at one side, but his gaze never wavers from my hands. “That would just spoil your handiwork.” His eyes flick up for a second and then drop again. When he’s finished, he stands up and leaves. Just like that. I don’t pretend to have a clue when it comes to…these things, but I’ve never been so confused. Perhaps we’re just pretending that didn’t happen.
I’m sipping on my coffee, staring at Tommy. Nero left first thing, barely speaking to me this morning.
“No.” Tommy shakes his head. “Definitely not.”
Rolling my eyes, I cross my arms over my chest. “We’ll literally just go for a drink and leave.”
He stares at
the floor, a scowl fixed on his face. “Look, I have to go at some point. We both know Nero isn’t going to let me go on my own. Heaven forbid,” I grumble. “I can’t go with him because they’ll probably shoot him on sight. You’re Irish.”
“Half Irish!” He interrupts.
I wave him off. “You look Irish.”
“Half fucking Italian! I’ll get shot on sight, too.” He adds, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut. “Fucking shit,” he hisses.
“I won’t tell Nero if you don’t.” I smile.
“I’m a shit liar,” he huffs, scooping the car keys off the kitchen counter. “Fine. Let’s go.”
I hide my smile as I grab my gun from the kitchen side and tuck it into the back of my pants. “You’re the best.”
O’Malley’s is an Irish bar in Woodlawn. The outside has tinted windows with dark green paint peeling off the window frames and an old steel door that looks like it’s seen better days. If I didn’t already know that it was the epicentre of the New York Irish Mafia, I might have guessed. Although, right now, we’re just ignorant tourists stopping by an authentic Irish bar. When we step inside, I can practically feel how nervous Tommy is. A few guys are sitting at the bar and they turn, eyeing us the entire way to the bar. I flash them a grin and they slowly focus their attention on me. Tommy looks Irish, but I don’t want them looking at him too closely. If there’s one thing to be said for mafia it’s that everyone knows everyone else, and someone of Tommy’s heritage will undoubtedly be memorable.
The barman braces his hands on the edge of the thick mahogany bar across from me, a frown pulling his eyebrows together.
“Hi. Can I get a vodka on the rocks and a whisky?” I want them to think we’re just two punters that have walked in off the street. Not that this place exactly attracts the average passer-by.