My Billionaire Protector

by R. R. Banks

  “Wow,” he says. “That sounds like a little speech Carter himself would have written up. I just can't believe my own sister is parroting that bullshit back to me.”

  “Face it, Mason,” I say. “You and I were lucky. We had an aunt and uncle who were able to provide us every luxury, and privilege we could ever want or hope for. We never went without and were given admittance into some prestigious schools because our family had money. Because of our family name.

  Carter didn't have any of that. He was in that home until he was eighteen, and then –”

  “And then he went and signed on to the Pops Ramazzo crime syndicate,” he says.

  “You have no idea what you're talking about,” I say, though my voice lacks conviction simply because I don't know what I'm talking about when it comes to Pops Ramazzo.

  “Murder. Arson. Rape. Kidnapping. Drugs. Human trafficking,” Mason says. “That's just a little bit of what Pops Ramazzo was into back in the day. Just a little bit of what your boyfriend was into.”

  “That's bullshit,” I say.

  “No, that's real shit,” he replies. “And that's just the tip of the iceberg.”

  I become keenly aware of all the people around the restaurant turning to look at us. I guess our conversation had gotten more heated – and louder – than I realized. Uncomfortable beneath all the scrutiny, I clear my throat and try to not let it get to me. Try to push away that oppressive feeling of being watched – and judged.

  I lower my voice, but don't lessen the heat. “If you took the time to get to know him –”

  “I don't want to get to know him!” Mason yells, apparently not caring who hears us. “He's a piece of street trash. And personally speaking, I don't want my sister associating with him. Not only is it bad for you, it's going to reflect poorly on me.”

  “Keep your voice down, Mason,” I snap. “Or I'm leaving right now.”

  He gives me a dismissive wave and takes another pull of his drink.

  “This isn't about you,” I say. “My relationships have nothing to do with you.”

  “Darby, I'm a U.S. Attorney and I have my eyes on a bigger political office,” he says, pitching his voice low. “Your relationships impact me and my electability. In this day and age, nothing is off limits. If there is even the barest whiff of impropriety, my chances are dead. And I'd say my sister running around with a known criminal would set off a whiff or two of impropriety.”

  I laugh. “Those aren't my problems,” I say. “And there is nothing wrong with Carter. He's a respectable businessman.”

  “The hell he is, Darby,” he snaps. “You don't know what I do.”

  I take a drink of my wine and shake my head. It's always about Mason. Always has been. And I'm sick and tired of it, to be honest. The more I sit there and listen to him, the more irritated I get. I have a right to live my life the way I see fit. I also have the right to date who I want to. And fall in love with who I want to fall in love with. It's not for Mason to say no to any of that. This is my life, damn it.

  Still, I can't deny that listening to Mason sets a small worm of worry burrowing through me. It scares me, simply because I don't know for sure, who Pops is, or was. I don't know what he's done. Which, in turn, makes me realize I don't know what Carter has done in his life.

  “And what is it you think you know?” I ask slowly.

  “How about we start with Pops Ramazzo,” he says. “Your boyfriend's mentor and father figure?”

  “What about him?”

  “I would be willing to bet, Mr. Respectable Businessman didn't tell you that Ramazzo used to be the head of a crime family all, did he?”

  “Actually, he did,” I say. “He told me that a long time ago.”

  “I gave you the general overview of what the Ramazzo syndicate was suspected of, but specifically, did he tell you his beloved Pops is personally implicated in at least half a dozen murders?” he asks. “And that your boy Carter knew about them all? Rumor is, he even participated in at least one of them, though I suspect he had a hand in more than that.”

  The knots in my stomach constrict and I feel my heart begin to pound. I have a hard time believing anything Mason is saying. That's not the Carter I know. But, then I think back to him telling me that he doesn't know what Pops did back in the day – and it sends a bolt of fear coursing through me.

  But none of that means he committed any crimes, or was an accessory to murder. In fact, what Mason is saying directly contradicts what Carter has told me – if he never knew whether or not Pops murdered anybody, how could he have participated in one of the murders?

  Unless Carter is lying about everything.

  I push the thought away roughly. I like to think I have a pretty good bullshit detector and can tell when people are feeding me lies. I've never gotten that sense with Carter. Not once.

  So, why is that worm of doubt still making its way through me?

  I've always known Carter has a temper. That's no secret. Nor is it any secret that he's been in his fair share of fights. But murder? Carter? It doesn't sound like the man I know. Not even close.

  That cold voice of logic that resides in the back of my mind – the voice that's been oddly silent since Carter and I started seeing each other again – chooses this moment to speak up. It reminds me that I didn't see Carter for a decade. That I didn't know what he was doing in that time. Nor, did I know what he really did while we were together. He's always had his secrets. Lots and lots of secrets.

  “He didn't tell you any of that, did he?” Mason presses. “Don't bother answering, I can see it on your face.”

  “Doesn't mean anything you're saying is true,” I say. “And if you're so sure he's guilty, why haven't charges ever been brought? Why has he never been arrested?”

  “Because these people are good, Darby. They're downright fucking evil,” he says. “They know how to cover their tracks. That's what mob bosses do.”

  “Oh, so now you're saying Carter's a mob boss?”

  “Not what I said,” he replies smoothly. “But, he was the right-hand man for one. It stands to reason that he'd be the one taking out the trash for his boss. Think about it.”

  That cold, dark voice is whispering in the back of my head again. Its voice is insistent. It's casting doubts over everything I know – or think I know. I push it away ruthlessly and refuse to listen to it anymore. None of this is true. It can't be. The man my brother is describing is not the man I know.

  “Let's move to today then, if that doesn't convince you, my darling sister,” he says. “My office personally has several open investigations into Bishop Financial. Insider trading for one. Racketeering. Fraud. I can't substantiate it at this point, but there is a rumor making the rounds that a whistleblower who was going to provide evidence of Carter's crimes mysteriously turned up dead.”

  I shake my head. “This is bullshit, Mason,” I say, desperate to believe my own words. “This is nothing more than you trying to drive a wedge between me and somebody you don't approve of.”

  “I wish it were that simple, Darby,” he says. “I really wish it were.”

  “No, you don't,” I snap. “This wouldn't be the first time you interfered in my relationship with Carter.”

  “What are you talking about?” he asks, though I can tell by the look on his face he knows exactly what I'm talking about.

  “He told me all about you threatening him,” I say. “Using the threat of sending Pops to prison to get Carter to stop seeing me ten years ago.”

  “That's bullshit,” Mason says.

  “He told me all of it, Mason,” I say, my voice cold and low. “Every last detail of what you said to him and what you threatened him with, to make him stop seeing me.”

  He drains the last of his drink and gives thought to ordering another, but apparently decides against it. He sets the empty down, and picks up his glass of water, taking a long swallow of it. I know what he's doing. He's stalling. Trying to buy some time for himself to think. I've seen him do it
all too often when he's caught in a lie.

  “Fine,” he says, apparently deciding that enough time has passed that he can abandon the lie. “I did do that. I admit it. But, I did it because I didn't want you mixed up with those people. I wanted you far away from those murdering scumbags as possible. I did it for you. It was in your best interests, Darby. You had your whole life ahead of you, and the last thing you needed was to get mixed up in that kind of bullshit.”

  I drain the last of my wine and slam the glass down on the table with enough force that it draws the attention of the people around us again. I turn and glare at the people gawking at me, no longer caring that they're staring. Mason has my blood up and I'm going to make my point. Screw these rich, snooty bastards.

  “So, you admit to making up a story to force Carter to stop seeing me?”

  “No,” he says, his slick lawyer voice in full effect. “I admitted to using what I knew to keep you out of a bad situation. The last thing I wanted was for you to end up hurt – or worse – because you were running around with mobsters, Darby. I did it to protect you.”

  “Bullshit, Mason,” I snap. “You did it to protect yourself. To protect your own political ambitions. Well, those aren't my ambitions and I won't be held hostage by them.”

  “Carter's little house of cards is going to come tumbling down, Darby. My office is closing in on him, and it's only a matter of time before we bring him down,” he says. “I'm trying to keep you clear of the fallout. Believe it or not, I'm still trying to protect you. That's my job as your big brother.”

  “Like I said, I don't buy your bullshit. Your only goal is to protect yourself, your career, and your own ambitions,” I say. “You don’t give a shit about me.”

  I stand up so suddenly, I knock my chair over behind me. The waitress is standing next to our table, our entrees in hand, looking between us uncertainly.

  “He'll take both of those,” I say. “He needs to feed his fucking ego as well, after all.”

  Grabbing my purse, I storm out of the restaurant, the stares and whispers of the other patrons hot on my heels, my own dark doubts and fears closer behind me than that.

  15

  Carter

  “So how come I gotta find out you're datin' that hot little number you were with all those years ago from the tabloids?”

  I drop down on the couch across from Pops and laugh. “It's been a crazy few weeks.”

  “Yeah, I can imagine,” he says, tipping me a wink. “Darby, wasn't it?”

  “I can't believe you remember her name,” I say, genuinely shocked.

  “Hey, my brain still works just fine,” he snaps. “It's just my damn body that's given up on me.”

  I run a hand through my hair, smiling. “Fair enough.”

  He looks at me, his expression serious. “You wanna know how I remember her after all these years?”

  “Enlighten me.”

  His gaze bores into me, his expression earnest. “It's because when you were with that girl, it's the only time I’ve ever seen you happy,” he says. “I mean genuinely happy.”

  “C'mon, Pops,” I say. “You and I have had plenty of good times.”

  He adjusts on the sofa and takes a drink of his water – at least, I think it's water. I make a mental note to check and see what he's drinking later. I wouldn't put it past Adriana to slip the old man some vodka now and then, just to make him happy – even if the doctors said no more booze.

  I look around, and unbelievably, Adriana has stuck even more Christmas shit in here.

  “Is she doing this to piss me off?” I ask.

  Pops chuckles. “Yeah, probably.”

  “Tell her to knock it off then,” I say. “I've got enough holiday spirit to choke all of Santa's damn reindeer now.”

  Pops laughs and shakes his head. “Listen, having a good time is one thing. And yeah, we've had our fair share, kid,” he says. “But, being genuinely happy isn’t something guys like us get a chance at. You had it though. And then you gave it up. To this day, I don't understand why.”

  I let out a long breath and lean forward, arms on my thighs, hands clasped in front of me. He's not wrong. Back when Darby and I were together, it was the happiest I'd ever been in my life. And honestly, I'm getting another taste of it now. Getting a second chance is a rare thing – and I plan on maximizing it. And I'd say that we're off to a decent start.

  “How'd you two get back together?” he asks.

  A rueful grin touches my lips as I recount the entire story to him – including the fact that it started off with her yelling at me at the gala. Pops laughs and claps his hands, genuinely amused. He doesn't get out much anymore, so he lives vicariously through me. And I'm always more than happy to entertain the old man. It seems like the very least I can do after he gave me so much.

  “The girl has some spirit,” he says when I finish my tale. “I saw it in her back then. Good to know that time hasn't quenched that fire.”

  I look down at the ground a moment and grit my teeth. The last thing I want to do is force Pops to rehash the past – especially since he's made his preference for not doing so abundantly clear over the years. Every time I tried to talk to him about it, he'd brush me off. A couple of times, he got downright pissed. So, I did my best to just let sleeping dogs lie.

  But, I need to know what I'm walking into. I know Mason is going to come at me with guns blazing, and I need to make sure I protect Pops as best I can. The only way to do that is if I know everything. And I mean everything. I have to have all the information at hand, so when I hire the lawyers, they know what we're dealing with, and can formulate a strategy based on that.

  “Actually, she is the reason why I came to talk to you,” I say.

  “That so?”

  I nod. “Yeah,” I say, steeling myself. “See, she's got a prick of a brother named Mason. Turns out, he's a U.S. Attorney.”

  Pops rolls his eyes and scoffs. He's always had a healthy disdain for lawyers. Thought they were puffed-up assholes with God complexes. And he's not wrong about that.

  “I hate him already,” he mutters.

  “Yeah, me too,” I say. “It's about to get worse though.”

  I tell Pops everything. I tell him about how Mason forced me to stop seeing Darby back then, using the threat of going after him if I didn't. Through it all Pops listens, his eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched. When I finish the story, he looks at me in silence for a long moment. His gaze is penetrating. Fierce.

  “That's why you stopped seeing Darby all those years ago?” he asks. “Because of me?”

  “No, because of Mason,” I say. “Because of what he threatened to do to you.”

  “Kid, if I'd known any of this back then, I would've kicked your ass up and down the Kitchen,” he says. “For the smartest kid I've ever known, you're pretty fuckin' stupid sometimes.”

  His voice is as firm and cold as I've heard it in years, and his eyes blaze with a ferocity I've seen all too many times – though, not recent memory. In a way, it's comforting, to know that tenacity is still in there.

  “I couldn't let him come after you,” I say.

  “Lemme ask you somethin', kid,” he says. “You really think I offed anybody?”

  I shrug. “I have no idea. I know you were the head of a mob back in the day, and –”

  He laughs and shakes his head. “Damn. And here I thought you were smarter than that,” he says. “I thought I taught you to use your head better.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Yeah, I ran a small organization,” he says. “We never killed nobody though. We moved some grass and fixed some games. Did a lot of bookmaking. Big fuckin' deal. Christ, you act like I was Al fuckin' Capone or something.”

  I cock my head and look at him. “But, I heard the stories some of the old timers told, and –”

  “That's all they were, kid – stories,” he says. “I have no idea where they came from, or why anybody believed 'em, but it was all bullshit. I didn't say nothin' beca
use it earned me respect in the neighborhood. People thought I was this bigshot Mafia Don or some shit like that, and because it kept people off my back, I let the assholes believe it. It was one of those rare cases where rumors worked out in my favor.”

  I run a hand through my hair and laugh. Smoke and mirrors. Just like the reputation I'd fostered back at St. Aggie's all those years ago. All smoke and mirrors. That's what Pops' reputation was built upon.

  Damn.

  “Feel stupid yet, kid?”

  I nod. “Yeah, more than you know,” I say. “But, how was I supposed to know?”

  “You should've known,” he says. “You should've known me better than that, kid.”

  “I did. I do,” I say. “But, when Mason confronted me, and started makin' all these threats, telling me you were going to prison – I was still young. I got scared. I couldn't let it happen. Not after everything you've given me. I wouldn't be anywhere, wouldn't be anybody, if it wasn’t for you, Pops.”

  He waves me off. “That's bullshit, kid,” he says. “You were always gonna do great things.”

  “That's funny because you're the only one who saw it,” I say. “You're the only one who invested in me. The only one who gave me a chance. So no, I wasn't going to always do great things. Not without you.”

  He gives me a crooked grin. “Fine, I may have nudged you in the right direction, but who and what you are is all your doing. You're the one who put in the work. Not me.”

  “Yeah, that's true,” I say, “but without you, I wouldn't have had the work to put in.”

  We sit in silence for a few moments, each of us just looking at the other. He's right. I should have known better. Pops isn't a violent man. Never has been. He’s always pushed me to use my brain rather than my muscles. Always told me I'd get farther in life using my head than my brawn. He was right. I should have known. I can't believe what an idiot I’ve been.