by Amber Morgan
Rattler grunted, which Nash decided to take as acquiescence.
“Tanner, take the door,” he ordered. “I wanted them thoroughly searched before they take a seat at our table.”
Tanner gave himself a shake and went to man the door. Skids followed him, tail wagging happily. Nash wished he had the dog's optimism.
Small-fry or not, Alessi looked the part of the slick mob boss. Nash paid close attention as he led his goons in, stepping aside to let them be patted down first. Alessi was dressed in a deep, rich crimson suit, set off with a crisp white shirt and black tie. Gold cufflinks glinted at his wrists, matching the sheen of his heavy designer watch. He was handsome, in a sharp, hawkish way, and the way he surveyed the room as he entered told Nash he was observant and cautious at the very least.
His goons looked the part, too. One was Anthony Bello. Nash had seen pictures of him online in a few news reports. He had a long juvenile record but had avoided the police as an adult. So far, anyway. He looked like a true mob heavy, intimidating and solid as a rock. The other two were smaller, but both were built like prize-fighters, and their expensive suits did nothing to hide their brute strength. All three men wore black suits with red ties, and it crossed Nash's mind that they looked like a wedding party.
The thought made him smile, something Alessi didn't miss.
“Share the joke,” he said, brushing past Tanner and taking a seat opposite Nash. “We should start off on a friendly note.”
Nash dropped his smile. “My Sergeant at Arms needs to check you for weapons.”
Alessi waved his hand dismissively. “I don't get my hands dirty. That's what I pay these men for, and you'll see none of them are carrying. I'm here in good faith, Nash.” He smiled. It was glacial and poisonous, and Nash knew he was lying. Alessi had a gun.
Well, that was fine. Nash had one too.
He waited for Tanner to finish searching the goons. They all submitted with silent sneers, and sure enough, they were all weaponless. Nash didn't offer them seats and they didn't take them. A thick, tense silence filled the room while Alessi sniffed at a beer and set it down again with a grimace.
Nash had resolved not to speak first. It was always interesting to see which men let the silence linger and which ones were compelled to break it.
Alessi was a breaker. “So you've got the Markham brats stowed away here somewhere, have you? You know, I'm more than entitled to my pound of flesh. Kayden's run up quite the bill. And little Freya owes Anthony here a dance. I don't like rule-breakers, or people who can't pay what they owe.”
Bello grinned and cracked his knuckles. “That little cunt hurt my feelings,” he said. “Think I'm owed something for that, right boss?”
There was a crash somewhere nearby, like tin cans falling off a shelf. Punk jerked upright, alarm on his face, and the nameless goons twitched. Nobody else reacted, and Nash ignored the noise. He ignored Bello, too. If the man thought he could shock or aggravate him, he was going to be disappointed. He kept his focus on Alessi.
“You're gunning hard for one junkie and a stripper,” Nash said. “Business must be slow.”
“Don't you worry about my business,” Alessi said, pointing at him. “The Markham kids need a lesson in a manners, that's all.”
“So does whichever of your guys drove a car at one of our guys yesterday,” Pigface said mildly. “That's a strong statement, sir.”
“Very strong,” Nash agreed. “Right here on our property, in broad daylight. Hell of a thing.”
Behind Alessi, Bello twitched, and Nash figured he'd been the driver. Made sense. He clearly had a hard-on for Freya. For his part, Alessi's lips curved into a frown, but it was gone almost too quickly to catch. Interesting. Had Bello gone rogue with the hit-and-run?
“Are you suggesting a trade, then? I take the Markhams, you take the driver? We dish out etiquette lessons as we see fit and draw a line under the whole thing?” Alessi smiled now, lazy and predatory.
Bello twitched again. “Boss...”
“Not now, Anthony,” Alessi said, waving him silent. “Fair is fair. What do you say, Nash? We can move on without too much fuss, I think.”
“Is it fair?” Nash asked, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “You get two bodies, I get one. I feel short-changed.”
“And we haven't tried to kill anyone on your team,” Rattler said. “Yet.”
Alessi didn't hide his frown this time. “I'm a busy man. I have more important things to do with my time than slum it here drinking warm horse-piss.” He flicked his fingers dismissively at the bottle in front of him. “Get to the point, if you have one.”
So he was impatient. Nash appreciated that. He had more important things to do as well. “Let's be real. This is about pride. Bello is cut up because he can't even make it with a woman he's paying, and you're sore because a pathetic junkie is getting the better of you right now. But I know your business, Alessi. You don't need Kayden's money. You're doing just fine without it.”
“That's hardly the point.”
“But it's small shit, Alessi,” Nash said, softening his voice. “And men like us don't need to sweat the small shit.”
Rattler leaned in, taking over before either Alessi or Bello had time to react. “Right now, you're running drugs and one strip club in Wakefield. Wild Blood does a little smuggling here and there, and we've got room to expand. We've also got a profitable underground fight ring and a sheriff who looks the other way. We're looking to buy land to expand on that, too. And the fights come with a betting ring, of course.”
Alessi looked curious, but his response was carefully disinterested. “So?”
“So drop the pride and look at the potential here,” Punk said. “Numbers don't lie, and ours are good. I bet yours are too.” He pressed his fingertips together. “But everyone's could be better, I bet.”
They had his attention, Nash saw. Alessi drummed his fingers on the tabletop, wheels clearly turning in his head. “And in exchange for a business relationship, I look the other way on the Markhams' debts?”
“The money we can make together make their debts look like chump change,” Punk said.
“Boss, seriously?” Bello said, glowering at Punk. “Why do they give a fuck about the cunt and the crackhead?”
“We protect our people,” Tanner said, shooting a fierce look of his own at Bello and the other two goons.
“I can admire that,” Alessi said. “But let's be honest here, Kayden Markham isn't going to clean up out of gratitude to you. He'll keep using and he'll keep piling up the debts, and he's not ashamed to throw his charming sister under the bus for it. So you can see my predicament. I don't give freebies, and your offer doesn't fix much.”
“Put him on probation, then,” Tanner said, catching Nash off-guard. That hadn't been part of the discussion. “We'll keep him clean and put him to work. As long as he stays clean, anything he earns gets split between you and us until his debt's cleared. If that takes the rest of his fucking life, so what? It'll be a better life than dying of an overdose in the gutter.”
Nash made a mental note to smack Tanner later. His white knight syndrome would turn the club house into an orphanage at this rate.
Still, he wasn't going to contradict one of his officers in front of Alessi. “Sound good?” he asked him.
“What about the girl?” Bello asked.
“Shut up, Anthony,” Alessi said. He steepled his fingers and regarded Nash thoughtfully. “I can see the benefit of having a motorcycle gang on side,” he said. “It opens new avenues, literally and metaphorically. But the Markham boy won't stay clean, and I won't overlook his debt just because we're playing nice, Nash.”
Nash shrugged. “If he fucks up, he fucks up. If we offer to help him and he spits it back in our faces, I'm washing my hands of him.”
Kayden wouldn't fuck up, though. Whether the kid liked it or not, he was getting clean. He owed it to Nash and everyone else here who'd stuck their necks out for a junkie they didn't even know. He'd keep
Kayden out of Alessi's hands, and Kayden would pay his debt back to Wild Blood. At least they wouldn't take it out of him in flesh.
Alessi straightened his tie, appearing to come to some internal decision. “I can't commit to anything today. My accountant will need to meet with you. I want proof that this can be a profitable arrangement.”
“Seems fair,” Nash said. “Punk, you can have the honors.”
“Delighted,” Punk said. “Working with a Mafia accountant should be a real education.”
Alessi nodded, rising. “Good. I like a man who knows how to make a deal.” He snapped his fingers at his goons. The silent two flanked him as he stood, but Bello hesitated, face thunderous.
“And what about the girl?” he asked, barely-smothered anger in his voice. “I got made to look a—”
“Well, that was your fault,” Punk said pleasantly. “You go sticking your dick where it's not wanted—”
Bello lunged for Punk, wrapping his meaty hands around Punk's throat and dragging him up out of his chair.
Punk kicked out, landing a blow to Bello's knee that the bigger man barely seemed to register.
Shouts erupted. Nash tuned them all out and stood. He drew his gun, aiming it squarely at the back of Bello's head.
“Put him down,” he ordered.
“Oh dear,” Alessi said. From the corner of his eye, Nash saw the man had his own gun trained on him. “And it was going so well, too.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Slater had observed the meeting with mute, rising rage. It was bad enough seeing two of the men who'd made Freya's life a misery without being able to lay his hands on them. But to hear Nash make nice with them—make a fucking deal with them—was almost more than he could stand. He thumped his fists against the wall, biting his lip in an effort to swallow the curses he wanted to spit.
Next to him, her body pressed warm and tight against his, Freya rested her hand on his chest.
“This is for the best,” she whispered in his ear, although he heard the worm of doubt in her voice. “Nobody else gets hurt this way.”
“Some people deserve to get hurt,” he said, glaring through the spy hole at Bello. Just one shot at the bastard. That was all he wanted...
But he held onto his temper, the rational part of his brain knowing she was right. Avoiding bloodshed had to be the best course of action. The animal part of his brain would just have to sit down and shut up. Freya's touch helped, reminding him what was at stake here.
He held on right until the second Bello attacked Punk, and then his control slipped away. Pulling free of Freya, he stormed for the door, murder on his mind.
“No! No!” Freya grabbed his arm, her voice a squeak. “They'll know we were watching!”
“I don't give a shit.”
He'd seen Punk in plenty of fights. His friend was more than capable of holding his own. But the first fight he'd ever seen him in, that was the one he always thought of when fists started flying. The first fight, the first time he'd seen Punk's dad lash out at him, the first time he'd seen Punk bloodied and bruised at his parents' hands, that was the memory that always came rocketing into his head. Slater had done nothing for years, because Punk had hidden it all so well.
So now, he could never do nothing again.
He stormed out of the storeroom with a fire in his blood and Freya on his heels.
She grabbed at his cut, trying to slow him down.
“Slater! Nathan! What if ... they have guns in there, for fuck's sake!”
The terror in her voice slowed him down, but only long enough for him to turn and gently pry her fingers loose from his cut. “Stay back then,” he said, cupping her face briefly in his hand. “I'm not going to risk you.”
Her blue eyes shone, but tears didn't fall. She set her perfect lips into a determined scowl. “I'm not risking you, either.”
Slater's heart could have choked him, it rose so fast in his throat. He dropped a kiss on her forehead and marched off, toward the church. He adored her, he fucking loved her, and he wasn't wasting time arguing with her. “Stay here,” he ordered.
The sound of her feet on the floorboards was her only answer. He cursed under his breath and ran for the church door. The image of Bello with his hands around Punk's throat ground at him. The thought of him dead, like Judge, ripped at him.
He barged into the room in time to hear a gun go off, in time to hear a bellow of pain. For a second, he couldn't make sense of the scene. Too many bodies, too much yelling. He heard footsteps thunder behind him as his brothers were summoned by the gunshot. It took a minute, a long, icy minute, before his eyes met Punk's, and a tightness he hadn't realized was gripping him loosened.
Punk rubbed his throat with one hand, glowering down at Bello. The asshole lay on his back, clutching his knee. Blood gushed, staining the floor. Nash and Alessi still had their guns pointed at each other, and over the furious roars of Tanner, Rattler, and Alessi's other goons, Slater heard Nash yelling for order.
Nash hadn't shot. Alessi hadn't shot.
Just before he was rammed aside by another Wild Blood brother, Slater glanced down to Punk's free hand. He almost laughed when Punk flashed the .38 Special at him. He'd bought Punk the fucking gun himself.
But the chaos in the room robbed him of any humor. Nash's calls for calm were lost as Alessi swung his gun around to point at the nearest brother, a panicked wildness in his eyes. As he did, Rattler ploughed into Alessi, knocking him to the floor. Alessi's guards pounced, and Rattler disappeared under their bulk.
Without thinking, Slater dived in, lunging for the nearest guard. He grabbed a handful of the big man's jacket and hauled him back, slapping him in a headlock before the guy had a chance to break free. The man struggled, and his beefy neck made it hard to keep a proper chokehold on him, but Slater managed to yank him away from Rattler before he escaped.
Blue in the face, the goon straightened up and swung for Slater, connecting hard. Slater was rocked, pain exploding through his skull, and he swung back instinctively, slamming his fist into the man's gut. He sent him reeling back, and the goon tripped over Rattler, still sprawled on the floor.
A gun went off somewhere in the thick of the madness, and a shower of dust rained down on Slater. He glanced up to see a sizable hole in the ceiling and Nash standing on the church table, face thunderous. The gun shot killed the chaos. Alessi's men were vastly outnumbered anyway, and Alessi was still down. There was no motive for his goons to fight.
That didn't stop the adrenaline flowing through Slater. He shook with it, looking for a new target. Bello still lay on the floor a few feet away, whimpering in pain. Not enough pain for Slater's liking, not after what he'd done to Freya, after how he'd talked about her.
In a red mist, Slater shoved his way past Tanner and Punk, and brought his booted foot down hard on Bello's wounded knee. The man's shriek of agony was the most satisfying sound Slater had ever heard.
“Enough!” Nash's voice was white-hot with anger. “Everybody back the fuck off and calm the fuck down.”
Alessi clambered to his feet, face pale, perfect suit ruined. “Pick him up,” he snapped at his guards, pointing at Bello. Then he pointed at Punk, face squeezed tight with fury. “You gutless piece of shit—”
“Enough,” Nash said again. He stepped down from the table, long legs making it easy, and stepped up to Alessi. He was taller, much taller, than the mob boss, and he used his height to his advantage, looming over Alessi. “You need to think very carefully about your next move, Sammy.”
Alessi fussed with his tie, feigning boredom. “Oh, believe me, I will.” He sneered at Punk. “I think we're done here for now, don't you?”
“Take your trash and get out,” Nash said.
The crowd of brothers parted and Alessi stalked out, his goons following with Bello limping between them. Without needing to be asked, Tanner and two more brothers trailed them to make sure they left without any more trouble.
“Well, that was a clusterfuck,�
� Punk said.
Nash swung toward him, fists clenched, and for a second Slater tensed, waiting for the hammer to fall. Punk stood his ground, clearly prepared to take the blow. But it never came. Nash dropped his fists and all but fell into the nearest chair. He raked his hands through his hair and laughed.
“Somebody get some whiskey in here,” he said, loud enough to send a pair of prospects scurrying for the bar.
Slater rubbed his throbbing face carefully. He was going to have a hell of a black eye, but he thought that was the worst damage. Then something soft collided with him with a squeal, and he looked down to see Freya clinging to him, her face buried against his chest.
“I'm fine,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. She felt good there, right and true, and he decided that even if this was a clusterfuck, he didn't care as long as he could keep holding onto Freya Markham.
“You may be fine,” Rattler said sourly. He was still on the floor, leaning against the wall and sporting a nasty cut to the forehead. “But what happens now? That went exactly the opposite of how it was supposed to.”
“First,” Nash said, drawing the room's attention to him, “we drink.”
“All of us?” Freya asked hopefully.
“All of us,” Nash confirmed. “Sure as hell isn't going to make things any worse.”
****
Later, much later, Slater and Freya sat outside the mill, listening to music and yelling within. It was hard to say what the mood in the clubhouse was. Some men buzzed off the rush of it all, the idea of a fight, the idea of some action. Others were more subdued, the officers among them. The women had decided the best way to handle it was to keep the liquor flowing, and Slater's feeling was that either a fight or an orgy could break out at any second.
He was content to keep out of it for now. He and Freya sat on the hood of his wrecked truck. He'd drunk enough to feel better about the damage, and having Freya next to him, tucked under his arm, took away any cares he had left over.
“Everything is going to be okay, isn't it?” she asked anxiously. “The way Nash talked about me and Kayden back there, it didn't sound like—”