Dirty Debt: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance
Page 1
Dirty Debt
A Bad Boy Mafia Romance
Teagan Kade
Edited by
Sennah Tate
Contents
Dirty Debt
Sign Up
Also by Teagan Kade:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
Epilogue II
Sign Up
Thank You
Extra Title
About Teagan Kade:
Loaded: A Bad Boy Sports Romance
Striker: A Bad Boy Sports Romance
Dirty Brawler: A Bad Boy Sports Romance
Slammed: A Bad Boy Sports Romance
Throttle: A Bad Boy Sports Romance
Royally Wrong: A British Bad Boy Romance
—
DRILLED: A BAD BOY SPORTS ROMANCE
Drilled
Copyright
Also by Teagan Kade:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Sign Up
Thank You
Copyright © 2017 Teagan Kade
Published by Teagan Kade
Edited by Sennah Tate
All Rights Reserved.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Dirty Debt
A Bad Boy Mafia Romance
Teagan Kade
Sign Up
Sign up to my exclusive VIP newsletter and receive a FREE copy of my best-selling, full-length novel Burned: A Bad Boy Romance, plus special offers, ARCs, bonus material and more. Click here!
Also by Teagan Kade:
LOADED
AMPED
DRILLED
DIRTY BRAWLER
WRECKED
SLAMMED
STROKER
STRIKER
THROTTLE
ROYALLY WRONG
HITCHED
CHASING STORM
For Linda. I know you like the really naughty ones.
Chapter 1
Max
“Please,” he says.
It’s a word I’ve become all too familiar with.
The poor schmuck presses up against the lounge room wall so hard I think he’s hoping he’ll sink right through it.
The place stinks. There are takeaway boxes piled up in the corner and a teetering pile of dishes on the kitchen counter that looks like it’s been there for decades. This individual clearly isn’t making ends meet living like this, but I have a job to do.
The teeth I just loosed from his mouth crunch under my boots as I approach. I try to be as gentle as I can, reason with him. “Mr. Garcia, I don’t enjoy this. I don’t want to mess you up, but my employer needs his money. It’s business, pure and simple.”
How many times have you used that line? I think.
In truth, there’s nothing simple about it.
He’s shaking now, the inkpot eyes of a junkie staring back at me. “Tell Saul I’m sorry. I don’t have it. I swear on my mother’s grave. Please,” he begs.
I close and open my fist. I like the jobs where they fight back. At least there’s sport in it. This? This is sad—no other word for it.
I exhale, shaking my head. “Alright, Mr. Garcia. Let’s simplify things, shall we?” I snap him across the wall with a hard right.
Blood pours from his mouth. He spits another tooth out, his hand rattling against the wall.
I take hold of his jaw and squeeze, a pitiful groan following. “I’m going to need something, sir. I can’t leave here empty-handed. That would be very bad, for both of us. You either find me some money, or I find a bag to collect the rest of your teeth in.
I raise my fist.
He flinches away, hands raised, cowering in my grip. I should feel power, strength, but there’s only pity.
“Jesus,” he blubbers. “Wait.”
I tense for the blow and he begins to blubber again.
“The toilet,” he says.
“The toilet?”
“Under the lid. There’s five large in there. Take it. Just fucking take it.”
I let him go. He slumps against the wall breathing hard. “Stay there.”
I head to the bathroom. Like he said, there are rolls of cash taped under the toilet lid. I pocket them and return to the lounge. He’s watching me with something new now. I know it well.
Hate.
I pat my pocket. “Thank you, Mr. Garcia, but, as I’m sure you’re aware, this does not cover your full debt. I’ll leave, but I don’t want to return. Am I making myself clear?”
He nods, spitting out a wad blood.
I nod back and start for the door.
The second I do I hear him rush forward and swipe an empty bottle from the coffee table. There’s a whoosh as he goes to smash it into my head, but I’m already turning.
I grab the wrist holding the bottle and twist until something snaps. He screams, the bottle falling free. I drive a balled fist deep into his stomach, drive it so hard his eyes almost pop out of his fucking head.
He smashes against the wall and drops, gasping. He was never going to let that money go so easily, but I’m wise to these things now, wiser than I’d ever hoped to be.
I help myself to a beer from the fridge and leave, my only witness a pearl-eyed tabby watching from the kitchen counter.
Frank’s setting tables when I enter the restaurant. He stands when he sees me. “Max, my boy.” He spots my bloody and broken knuckles. “Working hard?”
I force a smile. “Something like that. Is he in?”
Frank looks to the back of the restaurant. “Sure. Go on through.”
“Thanks.”
I head through the kitchen and down the back stairs, knocking three times on the plated door at the bottom. “It’s Max.”
There’s a groan as the door swings open.
Jerry stands there in all his six-foot-two, three-hundred-pound glory. “You don’t
look like a leggy blonde with double Ds.”
I clap him on the shoulder. “I do know how you love the ‘D.’”
He pushes me, laughing. “Fuck you.”
“How is he?” I call back.
“The boss? That fucking horse of his actually won a race this morning. He’s good.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” I salute and walk on.
The boss’s office used to be an old WW2 bunker. The walls are three-feet thick. Close the door and even if someone’s screaming at the top of their lungs you can’t hear a damn thing. The places gives me the fucking creeps.
Saul sees me in the doorway. He’s sitting behind his desk, the wing of a DC-9 airplane. I’ve always thought that was kind of ironic for a guy terrified of flying.
“Max,” he says. “How goes it?” He gestures to the sole chair in the room.
I take it, looking down at my hands. You’re better than this. “I’m alright.”
He scratches the side of his face, a constant look of irritation plastered upon it. As the city’s biggest crime lord, you’d think he’d dress well, but he’s wearing the same shitty burgundy suit he always does. “You went to visit that Garcia character, right, that motherfucker?”
“I did.”
“And?”
I take out the rolls of cash and stand, placing them on of the wing-desk.
Saul picks one up smiling. “You fucking animal, and here I was thinking I wasted your day.”
I sit. “It’s only five.”
Saul shakes the roll at me. “But it’s a start. What did it take?”
I flex my hand. “A little bit of dental work.”
Saul laughs, leaning back in his chair, an ejection seat from a F-4 fighter jet. “You’re a funny fucker, Max, always have been, but this is good. Do you know how long I’ve been chasing this cunt?”
“No, sir.”
He stands, pacing. “Ten k is a drop in the fucking bucket, but it’s the principle of the matter, isn’t it?”
Here we go with ‘the principle’ again… “Yes, sir.”
He sits on the side of the desk smiling. “You know, Maxie, I had my doubts about you when you started. Did you know that?”
“No, sir.”
He points. “Yes, indeed—the fallen boxer looking for easy cash. I didn’t think you had the stomach for this kind of work, but I was wrong, and that’s a rare thing. You’re a fucking natural. Five guys—count them—I’ve sent after Garcia and you’re the first to pull anything out of him other than an excuse. I appreciate that. I really do.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He waves it off. “No problem. As they say, though, there’s no rest for the wicked.” He tosses me an envelope. “Your next assignment. Go on. Take a look. I think you’ll like what you see.”
His crocodile smile is putting me off, but I open the envelope and take out a glossy six-by-four.
It’s a close-up of a girl sitting in a coffee shop. She’s laughing, one hand combing through long, auburn hair. She’s slim, petite, but full of life. It jumps out of the picture, something I haven’t been friendly with in a while—joy. She’s fucking beautiful.
“She’s all yours,” says Saul.
I lift my head up. “What do you mean?”
Saul comes off the desk and stands before me. “I mean, work your magic on her. Screw her, rough her up—I don’t give a fuck. Have fun with it.”
I take a sheet of paper out of the envelope, quickly scanning through it. I catch her name, repeating it to myself.
Dawn.
“What did she do?”
“Let’s just say her boyfriend borrowed a large sum of money from Yours Truly and has, instead of being a man, decided to skip town. Thus, Dorothy here.”
“Dorothy?” I question. “It says here her name is Dawn, Dawn Hayes.”
He taps the file. “Brunette, originally from Kansas. I thought it was kind of cute, but call her whatever the fuck you want. Just get the money.”
“But you said it was her boyfriend’s debt.”
Saul shrugs. “So? He’s MIA and she’s the next best thing. Besides, he took the loan out in her name, even got her signature. I don’t give a shit if she coughs up or you use her to find him—Just get me my fucking money.”
I look at the picture again, my guts twisting. Don’t do it, but I can’t help myself. “I’m not sure about this one. It doesn’t seem right.”
Saul explodes with laughter, standing and making his way over to me.
I notice the picture of Lucy, his daughter, framed on his desk. She’s his entire world. Her mother died when she was fourteen. Saul says it was from natural causes, but everyone in mafia circles knows that’s just another way of saying ‘bullet in the head.’
Saul places his hand on my shoulder and leans down. “’Doesn’t seem right’? You’re a funny fucker, Davis.” He squeezes my shoulder, his expression turning dark. “But that money? That’s no fucking joke, so you do what you have to, understand?”
There’s no getting out of this. Everyone knows you don’t fuck with Saul Barnes. You do and you wind up at his brother’s farm, food for the pigs. I swallow the lump that’s swelled up in my throat. “Yes, sir.”
His hand releases. He taps the top of my head, the way you’d rap on the roof of a hearse to send it off. “That’s the boy, and like I said, have fun.”
Lowlife scumbags are one thing, but what has this girl done apart from hook up with the wrong guy? I can barely stomach beating up thugs. How the hell am I going to go through with this?
Pops would be fucking ashamed of what I’ve become. He played by the rules his whole life, the perfect citizen, the one who’d pull over to help an old lady cross the road, who’d stoop down in the supermarket line to retrieve a dropped tin of tomatoes. He taught me to box, how to protect myself, but if he knew what I was doing with those skills now he’d be turning in his fucking grave.
Best not to think about it, but I can’t help myself. I’ve fallen into a pit without a rope. It’s getting deeper, darker, and I have no fucking idea when it’s going to close over me for good.
As usual, I start to daydream about different, more traditional ways of making money, but each seems more ridiculous than the last. I picture myself in a suit and tie, my biggest threat water cooler gossip. It’s a nice thought, but that’s all. An office worker I am not, and never will be. Hell, I’d struggle to run a hot dog stand.
You’re a fucking con. Nothing more.
Yes. This shadow work suits me, as much as I hate it. Like Saul said, I’m a natural, cursed.
I’m sitting in my Lincoln across the road from the apparel store where the mark works.
She’s got a name, you know.
No. Best to keep this professional, take all the emotion out of it.
It’s a job like any other, I tell myself. Business—pure and simple.
I’m starting to sound like Saul.
I see her through the window holding up dresses. I check the photo, my eyes darting between it and the storefront.
The picture doesn’t do her justice at all. She’s gorgeous in the flesh, far curvier than her small frame would suggest with ample chest and soft, delicate features that glow in the low, evening light. She’s the kind of girl I could settle down with, wake up to.
The more I watch her—that smile, those emerald eyes—the harder my cock grows. I shift in my seat, watching the mirrors for anything suspicious. This part of Brooklyn used to be meat factories and crack dens, but it’s turned upmarket in recent years, full of trendy cafes named after razor gangs and designer labels bulging with vapid Kardashian wannabees. The Lincoln stands out like a big, rusty bag of dicks.
I train my eyes back on the storefront. She’s reaching for something, her floral dress rising tantalizingly high to reveal smooth, porcelain thighs.
I press my cock down.
A job, my head interjects. Nothing more.
Two hours later it’s completely dark, the sun having l
ong vanished behind the skyline. The mark turns the sign on the door to ‘Closed’ and the lights switch off soon after. It’s pitch black in there, the streetlights doing fuck-all to help. In a way, this works in my favor.
I check the mirrors again. There’s no one around, everyone keen to rush to the nearest rooftop bar to kick their weekend off.
The door of the shop opens, the mark stepping out onto the street. The door closes behind her, a bell ringing. She stands there in a pool of shadow between two streetlights, looking left and right.
Now.
I summon myself to move as doubt threatens to paralyze me. I can’t shake Pops from my head, running over and over the argument. I wanted to reconcile, I even wrote out what I was going to say, but it was too late. He had to go and die, didn’t he? Leave things messed up like that.
My thoughts shift from Pops to Saul, a father figure of a different kind.
Do your fucking job, my head warns.
I snap to, unlocking the door and stepping out, checking quickly to make sure we’re still alone before I start my way across the street.
Business. Just business. That’s all it is.
Chapter 2
Dawn
Friday afternoons are traditionally quiet, but I haven’t made a single sale today.
I sit out back of the store in a courtyard no bigger than a bathroom making use of the sun, sketching what I can on my break.
I look down at the designs for my clothing collection, the full line of couture never to see the light of day thanks to Rick McShit-For-Brains Collins and his sudden departure. I don’t know what I saw in him in the first place, but that’s hindsight for you. If I had of known about his gambling addiction I would have steered clear.
“Working on the collection?”
Noel, my best friend and employer, looks over my shoulder. “Ooh, I like that one.”