Fire with Fire: New York Syndicate Book One

by St. James, Michelle

  She’d been trying to banish the image ever since. As she lay in bed, grasping desperately for the oblivion of sleep. When she woke up in the morning, the raw energy of his physical presence like the warning of an earthquake about to crack open the ground. Her time in the garden had come closest to offering her a respite from the assault of his memory, but even then he’d been standing in the background, a fever dream she couldn’t shake. She wasn’t foolish enough to think it was anything but lust — but it was still a distraction she couldn’t afford.

  The train rattled to a stop on the track and she boarded with the rest of the crowd, standing near the doors as it jolted into motion. She felt the movement in her body in a new way, something that had been happening ever since Damian had walked into the club. It was like she’d been operating in some dark corner of her body and now was suddenly aware that there was more to her.

  That she had limbs and a beating heart and skin stretched over bone.

  It was an unwelcome kind of awareness, and yet it seemed to be out of her control, like a switch that had been flipped somewhere in her body, the primal flicker of fire that wouldn’t allow her to return to what she’d known — and what she hadn’t — before she’d seen him.

  She was grateful for the crowd as the train stopped and started, grateful for the push of people getting on and off the train as they made their way into the Financial District. It was all very normal, and by the time she got off at her stop, she’d almost managed to convince herself that her body’s awakening had been a fluke. A trick of the moment that would fall into the past. Just like Damian Cavallo.

  That’s what their meeting had been — a split second when their paths had collided. Whatever attraction she’d felt was irrelevant. Her number one priority was protecting Primo. Malcolm Gatti wasn’t the only one who held sway over him. Her influence had waned in recent years, but it wasn’t entirely dead. She would talk to him tonight. Make his favorite dinner and appeal to him to consider Damian Cavallo’s offer. She didn’t know how much money Damian had offered, but Primo had been stashing large sums of money for years. They would take whatever Damian offered and leave, maybe start over someplace warm where she could garden year-round. Someplace where Malcolm wouldn’t be a constant whisper in Primo’s ear.

  It was dark when she ascended the subway stairs to the street, a chill in the air that reminded her the holidays were just around the corner. Who knew where she and Primo would be then? Maybe on a beach somewhere, holding drinks with umbrellas and decorating a palm tree with colored lights.

  She stopped at the little market on the way home and picked up the ingredients for chicken parmigiana, Primo’s favorite of their mother’s recipes. She added a loaf of bread, plus greens and red onion for a salad, and made her way home feeling almost optimistic.

  It lasted all of ten minutes — right up until she stepped into the apartment and heard Malcolm’s voice coming from the living room.

  She set down her keys and moved cautiously down the hall. The room was barely illuminated by a dim lamp on one of the end tables, the lights of the city twinkling beyond the windows. Primo was sprawled out on the sofa, Malcolm at the other end, maintaining the kind of practiced slouch that was meant to put Primo at ease even as he stayed alert for every opportunity to turn things his way. Aria would have been surprised if he’d even had a drink from the empty bottle of whiskey on the coffee table, the half-full bottle next to it.

  They didn’t seem to be aware of her presence, and she waited, listening to the conversation she seemed to have interrupted.

  “That’s what I’m saying,” Malcolm said. “We take out something that matters to him. Something that hurts.”

  “What about Vitale?” Primo asked.

  “Fuck Vitale,” Malcolm said. “He had his chance at New York. He abandoned it.”

  “You might be right,” Primo said, the ice in his glass clinking as he took another drink. “Stay on the offense.”

  “Exactly.”

  She shifted on her feet and the grocery bag rustled in her hands. Primo looked up, surprised but not unhappy to see her. He was too drunk for anger. Eventually he’d pass through the sweet spot and come out the other side filled with paranoia, but she was in the clear for now.

  “Ari! Come in. Have a drink.” He waved in the general direction of the bottles on the coffee table.

  “That’s okay,” she said. “I’m going to make dinner. Mama’s chicken parmigiana.”

  “Perfect!” Primo said, taking a drink from the glass cradled in his hand. “Malcolm can stay.”

  Aria silently cursed herself. She’d hoped the food would motivate Primo to call it a night with Malcolm. She should have known her brother would invite him to dinner instead.

  “If you insist,” Malcolm said, raising his glass.

  She turned toward the kitchen, not wanting Primo to see the annoyance in her face. It would only antagonize him, and she was still holding out hope that she would be able to convince him to negotiate with Damian Cavallo. If not during dinner, then maybe afterward when Malcolm went home.

  She started unpacking the food, lining everything up on the counter. She didn’t notice Malcolm standing in the doorway of the kitchen until she moved to grab the casserole dish in one of the big cabinet drawers.

  “You don’t like me, do you, Ari?” he said.

  His use of Primo’s nickname for her made her want to crawl out of her skin. She avoided his eyes, glanced into the living room to find that Primo had left the room.

  “What I think about you doesn’t matter,” she said, putting the casserole dish on the counter and unpacking the chicken. She was rinsing it under cold water when she felt movement directly behind her.

  Turning around was instinctual, a protective mechanism to protect her from the intruder she sensed in her personal space. She came up against the wall of Malcolm’s chest, his face looming over her.

  “What if I said it did?” he asked.

  His breath was sour, his thighs close enough to brush against hers. She resisted the urge to gag.

  “Get away from me,” she said, her voice low.

  “You’ve gotten feisty.” He leaned down, and she tried to back away from him, remembered she was up against the counter. “I like that.”

  She was paralyzed, the bulge in his pants pressed against her stomach as he moved his lips toward her ear. She was still trying to process what was happening, still trying to prompt herself to move, when she felt the vicious sink of his teeth into the soft flesh of her earlobe.

  White hot pain shot through her body and her hands came up, smearing his face with the residue of raw chicken in a blind effort to get him away from her. He grimaced, his hand coming down hard and fast against her cheek.

  “Bitch!” he snarled, wiping at the slimy residue on his mouth.

  She took advantage of the moment to duck under his arm, her eyes burning with unshed tears as she rushed down the hall. She had almost made it to her room when Primo stepped out of the bathroom and into the hall, hie expression changing to one of surprise when he saw her.

  “What are you — ”

  She flew into her room and slammed the door. When the door was securely locked, she paced to the standing mirror near her bureau. Her cheek was bright red, a trickle of blood making its way from her ear lobe down her neck. She pulled some tissues out of the box on her dresser and dabbed at it as tears spilled over onto her cheeks.

  It wasn’t enough. She didn’t want to just wipe away the blood; she wanted to erase the moment from her memory. Wanted to forget the press of Malcolm’s erection as he’d leaned over her, the wetness of his mouth in the moment before he’d used his teeth to hurt her.

  Rushing into the private bath attached to her room, she turned the water on hot and started stripping. By the time she was down to her underwear the bathroom was filled with steam. She sat on the lid of the toilet, sobs breaking free from somewhere deep in her body.

  She was dimly aware that the tears wer
en’t just about tonight, although that was bad enough. It was all the tip-toeing she’d been doing for years, holding everything together while Primo spun out of control, working around Malcolm when by all rights, he should have had no part in their lives.

  In her life.

  She’d known he wasn’t a good man from the beginning. Had known he was dangerous to her brother. But she was only now fully understanding the depths of his depravity and the way he could become a danger to her as well.

  She heard his words in the living room. We take out something that matters to him. Something that hurts.

  She didn’t know Damian Cavallo. Didn’t know what Primo and Malcolm might take from him that hurt. But she knew it would be the beginning of a war none of them would survive.

  Herself included.

  She’d been foolish to think she could reason with Primo. He was too enthralled with Malcolm, which meant there was only one person left to whom she could appeal. One person who might listen to her, might at least give her more time to reason with Primo. It hardly mattered that Damian Cavallo was her brother’s enemy.

  He was her only hope.

  And now she had a warning to trade.

  10

  Damian was at headquarters reviewing the new protocols for their men on the ground when a knock sounded at his office door.

  “Come in,” he said, still scanning the report in front of him.

  A long moment passed and he looked up to see Cole standing near the door, an uncertain expression on his usually stony face.

  “What is it?” Damian asked.

  “Aria Fiore is here,” he said.

  Damian paused, steadying his voice through the embarrassing jolt of desire that stampeded through his bloodstream at the sound of her name.

  “What does she want?” Damian asked.

  “She wouldn’t say. Just said it was personal.”

  Give me five minutes,” Damian said. “Then show her in.”

  Cole hesitated as if he wanted to say something, then seemed to think better of it. He disappeared quietly into the hall, closing the door behind him.

  Damian leaned back in his chair, mentally preparing for the things Aria Fiore might say. He couldn’t think of a single one. Regardless of her position on the periphery of Primo’s organization, she must be privy to the rules. Must know a war was in the making. Any reason she might have for coming to see him was either a betrayal of her brother or a move on a chess board she had no business making.

  The war against Fiore was already in motion. Damian had spent the last twenty-four hours in communication with Farrell Black, asking for resources to help execute the strategy he’d developed, anticipating that Primo wouldn’t take him up on his offer.

  He could have acted quickly, hit Primo’s most obvious targets, taken out Platinum in an effort to destabilize the organization. But that would have offered short-term satisfaction at the expense of long-term victory. The smart thing to do was to plan one big hit, deploy multiple teams to all of Fiore’s key business locations and take them out all at once.

  Platinum included.

  He didn’t like hitting another boss’ headquarters. It was usually a safe zone for an organization. But there were no rules in the middle of a war, and Primo Fiore had been given the opportunity to avoid one. Damian had declared the apartment Primo shared with his sister off limits out of deference to Aria. He could tell from her eyes that she’d suffered enough. Everything else was fair game, and he’d passed along their plans to the Syndicate through Farrell and received their approval only hours later.

  Not that Damian was looking for permission.

  He still hadn’t decided if he was going to take the Syndicate up on their offer. The alternatives were few: he could abandon the business he’d built or he could fight the Syndicate for the New York territory.

  The former was unappealing for a number of reasons. He’d grown to like his business, the raw honesty of it, the hands-on aspect of making decisions that in a company would be delegated to a bureaucratic hierarchy, the opportunity to beat someone senseless when the need arose.

  Fighting the Syndicate was no more appetizing. He might be able to pull it off — he was a powerful man with plentiful resources and the money to acquire more. But it would be costly and even if he won he’d be operating alone, an island in the sea of Syndicate territories. How long before they came for him again? How long before his distribution channels and other revenue streams were shut down by players loyal to the history of the Vitale name, the Syndicate leadership of old?

  They were questions for which there were no answers. Not yet anyway. He would proceed as planned. Take out the Fiore organization — beautiful sister be damned — and see where they stood.

  He was feeling strong in his resolve when another knock came from the door.

  “It’s open.”

  Cole stood in the doorway and a moment later, Aria Fiore walked past him into the room.

  Which was exactly how long it took for Damian’s resolve to waver.

  She was even more beautiful than he’d remembered, her hair swinging against her collarbone, making him wish he could duck his head to the hollow there, lick the velvety skin. She’d been poured into black jeans, a silky blouse half tucked in, revealing just enough of her figure to make him want more. A black bag was slung casually across her body, heavy boots adding to his impression of steel over velvet, the armor she used to make everyone think she was all hard edges when he was positive he’d find plentiful soft spaces underneath it all.

  He stood as she entered, using all his discipline to appear unfazed by the electricity of her presence.

  “Miss Fiore,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. Please sit.”

  He indicated the chairs in front of his desk and she hesitated before choosing one.

  Damian looked at Cole. “Leave us.”

  He bowed out of the room and Damian sat down in his chair, steepled his hands in front of him as he studied her.

  “I can’t imagine why you’re here,” he finally said.

  She drew in a breath, nodded slowly. “It’s… unconventional, I know.”

  “More than that,” Damian said. “It’s been more than twenty-four hours and your brother hasn’t accepted my offer. I’m sure you know what that means.”

  Her throat rippled as she swallowed. “War. It means war.”

  “That’s right. And that makes you either a traitor or a pawn.”

  Her dark eyes flashed. “I promise you I’m no pawn.” She looked at her hands. “I’m no traitor either.”

  Admiration coursed through him. She was right.

  She was a queen. She just didn’t know it yet.

  “Then perhaps you should explain,” he said.

  She looked down at her hands, twisting the strap of her bag. “You don’t know him,” she said. “He’s… not well.”

  “I gathered as much.” He chose his next words carefully, wanting to be kind in spite of the conflict between their organizations. “And I’m sure you understand that isn’t my problem.”

  She looked up, met his eyes. “It will be your problem,” she said. “That’s why I’m here. To warn you.”

  He couldn’t hide his surprise. “To warn me?”

  She nodded. “There is no honor code for my brother, not with Malcolm pulling the strings.”

  “This is not news to me,” Damian said.

  She shook her head, frustration visible in the furrow of her brow. “You don’t understand.”

  “Help me understand then.”

  She took a deep breath. “I don’t want to see my brother hurt. He needs help, but he’s not a bad man. If you extend the consideration period, I may be able to convince him to take your offer.”

  Damian turned his palms toward the ceiling. “The terms were set in our meeting.”

  She hesitated and he sensed there were things she wasn’t saying. He was surprised to find that he wanted her to say them, not as a way to use her against
her brother but because he wanted to unburden her. Wanted to smooth some of the lines from her brow, banish the shadows from her eyes.

  “They’re your terms,” she said. “Which means you can change them.”

  “I won’t.”

  She rose suddenly, a whirl of activity that took him by surprise as she stalked to the window overlooking the neighborhood.

  “You’re making a big mistake,” she said, her back still to him.

  The words caused an unexpected flood of anger to rush his body. Who did this woman think she was coming here to his headquarters? Challenging him? Upsetting the careful balance of his life?

  He rose to his feet. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”

  He saw her breath in the shudder of her shoulders. When she turned, her eyes were glistening, an observation that left him with only two possibilities; either Aria Fiore was a world class actress or she was scared. He was still trying to figure out how to address the show of emotion when something on her face caught his eye.

  For a minute he could only stare, his whole body still, his fists tightening at his side. He was hardly aware of stalking across the room to where she stood by the window. Hardly aware of taking her chin in his hand, tipping her cheek to the light. The bruise was faint, covered by makeup and more red than purple.

  But he’d seen enough flesh marked by violence to know what it was.

  “Who did this?” He sounded strangely calm, even to himself, particularly given the floodgate that had opened on his rage.

  She froze, her eyes downcast, her breath soft against his wrist. He was torn between wanting to lower his mouth to hers — to kiss her tenderly in a vain attempt to make up for whoever had dared to hurt her — and the desire to drive to Platinum and kill Primo and Malcolm and anyone else who had done this or let it happen on their watch.