by B. B. Hamel
I still hadn’t gotten used to it.
“Go play,” Gian said and put Danny down. He teetered over to the couch, climbed up, and flopped onto his side. “I’ve got to talk to your mother.”
I hovered nearby, waiting for him to fall on his head.
“What do we need to talk about?” I asked.
Gian stretched. “Dean’s on the way over,” he said. “The Don has news.”
I chewed on my cheek. I hadn’t seen Dean in a while, not since Danny was born. He visited once or twice, but he mostly spent time with Gian and kept a low profile. The city was heating up again, and the ceasefire with the Healy family only lasted for about six months before Colm finally broke it.
We knew it would happen, sooner or later. There was a dark time there, those few weeks before Danny was born. Gian fought a bloody, merciless battle with the Healy family, but eventually forced them back onto their side of the bridge and retook his territory.
I had a feeling that was his plan all along. I heard rumors from the other guys when they stopped by—Gian was testing the Healy soldiers, constantly harassing them and pushing the line little by little, goading them into attacking first. When they finally did, he seemed elated to finally get to push them back.
Dean showed up not long later. I carried Danny with me and unleashed him in the little back yard as we gathered around the patio table. Danny dug in the small dirt patches near the tree and laughed as he got his fingers covered in mud.
“You two look happy,” Dean said, stretching his legs.
He looked exhausted. Still handsome, but tired, and like he’d aged ten years overnight.
“It’s the boy,” Gian said. “He’s a lot of work, but the good stuff’s so much better with him around.”
“Maybe I’ll have to get one of them sometime soon,” Dean said, smiling a little. “Guess I’ve got to find a wife first.”
“I’m sure you could if you tried,” I said.
“I barely have time to run this family, let alone find a woman willing to marry a bastard like me,” he said and laughed. “But I’m not here to talk about my domestic troubles.”
“Why are you here?” Gian asked.
“I’m here to let you know that the police department is officially closing their investigation into the death of Stuart Plight.”
My heart leapt into my throat. Stuart’s murder hung over our heads ever since it happened, and we knew his family was pushing hard for a serious investigation. With their resources and reach, I was terrified they’d eventually find us and this happy little life that I built with Gian would come tumbling down around me like snow from a tree.
“That’s fantastic,” Gian said and grinned at me. He took my hand and kissed it. “That’s great, right?”
“Right,” I said, and felt tears roll down my cheeks, tears of pure relief. “I didn’t think this would ever happen.”
“The Plight family made a stink,” Dean said, shrugging. “But we nudged the cops in the right direction and eventually they let it all go. Time heals wounds and whatever.” He stretched his legs as little Danny came running over and wiped his hands on Dean’s nice slacks. Dean made a face then laughed and scooped Danny up into his lap.
Danny struggled, hopped off, and teetered away.
“Only one more problem left,” Gian said softly. “Colm Healy’s still out there.”
Dean nodded slowly. “I know it,” he said, and glanced toward me, then to Gian. “You two don’t need to worry about that.”
Gian raised an eyebrow. “Considering he’s been gunning for my turf for over a year now, I think I definitely do.”
“Well, yeah, you do, but something’s going to change soon,” Dean said, and cleared his throat. “Listen, I haven’t told anyone else this yet, so I need you two to keep your mouth shut, all right?”
“Whatever you need,” I said, glancing at Gian, who nodded along with me.
“My dad’s going to die,” Dean said. “Not in the far off future, but soon, in the next few days. When he does, I’m taking over the family.”
Gian leaned back in his chair and stared with a shocked expression.
I didn’t know why it surprised him. The Don had been in bad shape for a while and everyone knew he was going to pass sooner rather than later. Even still, the Don did have a sort of mystique about him, like the old man would never move on to the next life at all, but linger here like a ghoul, running the show with his ghastly hands.
“That’s terrible,” Gian said. “And it’s good for you. Fuck, Dean. I’m sorry.”
Dean nodded slowly. “I’m conflicted too, but I want you to be ready when my dad passes.”
“Ready for what?” Gian asked.
Dean pushed his chair back and stood, looking over at Danny with a sad smile. “I’m going to need support from the Capos when I take over,” he said. “I hope I can count on you.”
“You can,” Gian said.
“Good. When I take over, I’m doubling the war effort against the Healy family. We’ve been bleeding for too long with this bullshit half-assed skirmish my father’s been waging. I’m going all in and ending it.”
Gian sucked in a breath and I felt sweat break out on my arms. But Gian nodded and stood, and held out a hand to Dean.
“I’ve got your back,” he said.
Dean shook it. “Thanks, brother.” He forced a sad smile. “Wish it weren’t coming to this, but it had to sooner or later.” Dean nodded and walked back inside with Gian close behind.
I watched Danny play. The war would heat up soon and start to boil over. I didn’t know what that meant for my idyllic life—but I knew that no matter what happened, Gian would keep us safe.
He returned and crouched next to me. “I love you,” he whispered, and kissed me softly.
“I love you too,” I said. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Changes are coming. But sometimes, change is good.”
“Yeah?” I smiled a little.
He slipped something from his pocket and clenched it in his hand. He opened it, palm up, and an engagement ring sat glittering in the early evening light. I sucked in a breath, shocked, and let him slide it onto my finger.
“Marry me,” he said.
“Of course.” I kissed him and held him there for a long while, not speaking, not doing anything but feeling him breathe, his lips against mine.
I had my man, my baby, and soon I’d have a husband. The war was coming, darker and more devastating than before—
But I’d be safe in my own little world, protected by Gian. He’d keep the Healys from me, keep them from spilling over into our home.
Nothing would ever be the same. I’d take his name and become his mafia wife, and together we’d survive this.
And hopefully soon, I’d give him another baby.
It was all I could ever ask for.
If you want more steamy suspense, read the mafia books that started it all! Obsessed with His Bride begins the story of the Leone Crime Family. Dante meets his match in Aida, though she resists his intense charms at first. But when a war breaks out, Aida must give in to her desire or end up dead. I’ll kill to keep her. I’ll do much worse to make her my bride. >> Click Here to read it!
Want more from Ash and Gian? Sign up for my newsletter and read a fun little bonus scene! >> Click here
Also by BB Hamel
All my books are standalones, steamy, safe, and have a guaranteed HEA!
Click Here for the whole catalogue on Amazon!
Series include Steamy Daddies, SEAL Team Hotties, Love to Hate, Baby Daddy, Miracle Babies, and more.
Thanks so much for reading! As an indie author, your support means absolutely everything to me.
XO, BB
Untitled
BONUS: Gian
Sunlight slanted through the street as I tugged Ash along behind me. She kept pace with a strange look on her face, half fear and half loathing as we stepped through the tall wrought-iron fence gate and into the farme
rs’ market.
“I thought you were joking,” she said as I led her past the tented stalls selling candles, deformed apples, stacks of squash, piles of mushrooms, fermented tea, cheap jewelry, beans and corn, handmade donuts, and jostling crowds of people pushing to get the best deals.
I ignored them all. The local salesmen hawking their wares held no power over me. I kept hold of Ash’s hand in case she decided to go running off to smell flowers or try artisanal cheese or something equally insane.
We were here for one reason, and one reason alone.
“I never joke about the farmers’ market,” I said, eyes narrowed, plowing through the crowds. “This is the highlight of my summer.”
“You must live a very sad life.”
I stopped suddenly and turned to her. She ran into my chest and I held her there, staring deep into her eyes, searching her soul for some sign that she understood me, that she could see beyond my tough exterior into the truth of me below.
She blinked up at me and squinted.
“This is important,” I said softly, brushing my fingers against her face, and a nearby woman in bright pink slacks and a hat like a peacock frowned at me like I was some crazy person.
If only she knew.
“I really can’t tell if you’re being serious,” she said.
“I’m very serious.” I kissed her softly on the corner of the mouth. “I’m not joking in the least. This is important to me.”
“All right,” she said. “Okay, fine. Let’s go do it then.”
“Thank you.”
I turned with a manic grin and led her past stall after stall until we reached my destination, my heaven, my Valhalla, my miracle, my home—the pickle stall.
Vast barrels of pickles were lined up behind a folding table. A guy with a scraggly gray beard, glasses, a massive beer belly, tiny jean shorts, and a scowl sat on a stool. His pickles floated like dead fish, glistening and perfect. I stood before him, hands on my hips, with Ash tentative behind me, and beamed.
“Hello, Marshal,” I said. “I want your best pickles, please.”
Marshal frowned at me. We did this song and dance every time I came to the market. He pretended not to know me, and I didn’t give a fuck what he thought.
“You sure you want the good ones?” he asked. “You strike me as a kosher dill sort of boy.”
“The good ones, sir,” I said. “Give me two, please. The lady would like a taste.”
“I don’t think she can handle the good pickles,” Marshal said.
“It’s a pickle,” Ash said, shaking her head. “What the hell are you two talking about?”
I exchanged a look with Marshal. I tried to let him know, via subtle facial expressions, how embarrassed I was of Ash’s behavior, and how much I wished he would forgive her for being so ignorant of his pickles, and that I still very much wanted said pickles if he was willing to be the bigger man.
“Three bucks,” Marshal grunted, and got up with some difficulty. He fished out two pickles from the back-left barrel, stuck them in a small paper bowl, and thrust them toward me.
I gave him the cash and beheld the perfect pickle.
“It looks good?” Ash said.
“It looks good,” I confirmed, picked up my specimen, and took a bite.
Oh, God above, the crunch, the sour bite, the salty swirl, and then that kick after, the spicy perfect burn of the jalapenos Marshal added to his brine, it played on my tongue like a symphony of perfection. I groaned in ecstasy, took another bite, and nodded at Ash.
“Do it,” I whispered.
She raised the pickle to her lips. She hesitated before sliding it into her mouth.
The snap, the crunch. Her eyes went wide with surprise. “This is, uh, interesting,” she said, trying to smile.
“It’s a real pickle,” I said softly. “Not that grocery store bullshit, which is really just a baby cucumber in vinegar. This is the real thing, Ash. This is the dream.”
“The dream,” she echoed.
“Eat,” I commanded, and set to work finishing my pickle with relish.
Marshal watched the whole time, his annoyed gaze hanging over our every move.
Ash obeyed. She was perfect, my gorgeous Ash. She ate the pickle, though I could tell the gherkin’s majesty was lost on her. She finished it, swallowed it down, and beamed at me.
“You know, that wasn’t bad,” she said. “I like the spice.”
“She likes the spice,” I said to Marshal.
He nodded. “Good,” he said.
I bought two big jars and offered to get more for Ash, but she declined. I tipped Marshal a little extra, simply out of good will and appreciation. We left the tent together, walking side by side, the jugs of pickles sloshing under each arm.
“I’m going to be honest with you, Gian,” Ash said as we passed a stand selling incense. “This thing with pickles is insanely weird.”
“I know,” I said with a sigh. “It’s my one flaw. I love those pickles. I really, really love them.”
She nodded once and seemed to struggle for a moment, but beamed at me. “I understand,” she said. “And you know what? I’m happy you found something you like so much.”
“I appreciate that,” I said. “You’re the perfect woman. And this is the perfect pickle.”
“What a lucky man.” She smiled at me, radiant in the afternoon sunlight, and my heart melted, and for one moment I thought maybe, just maybe, I could give up my pickles for her—