Fire with Fire (New York Syndicate Book 1)

by Michelle St. James

  “Some might say he did.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He turned to look at her and she almost flinched. His face was all raw beauty — the chiseled jaw, the infinite eyes, the full mouth.

  “The shelter is a bit of a… pet project of mine.”

  She sensed weight behind his casual tone, but her curiosity was overshadowed by the possibility that Primo would do such a thing. That he would risk hurting innocent women and children as part of his war against Damian Cavallo.

  “You think Primo did this to send a message?”

  It was a question she almost didn’t want him to answer. Because what was she supposed to do with it once she had it? Her entire life depended on a certain level of oblivion. She hated to admit it to herself, but she had no choice in the face of Damian’s accusation. She didn’t want to know the details of her brother’s business.

  Had never wanted to know.

  “It’s the only thing that makes sense.” He hesitated, then added quietly. “The fire department has already determined it was arson.”

  There was something gentle in the last sentence, and she understood that his hesitation had been for her. That he had been trying to find a way to break the news without being needlessly harsh.

  Something like affection flooded her chest and she had to force herself not to go to him.

  Not to reach up and hold his face in her hands.

  Because there was no room for tenderness for Damian Cavallo. He wasn’t her family. Primo was, and she owed him her loyalty until Damian’s accusations had been proven.

  “Primo wouldn’t do that,” she said.

  He drew in a breath, and she sensed that he was losing patience. She almost held her breath through tension, felt the weight of Damian’s potential anger hovering over them like a storm cloud.

  She was still waiting for him to speak when he crossed the room slowly toward her. She was backed up against the workbench she’d been using to clean the tools, but she felt no desire to escape when he stepped close enough to box her in.

  He was right there, his body close enough that she could feel the heat of it. That she could smell him— warm bourbon and cedar and smoke. It was intoxicating, and she reached a hand behind her, bracing herself against the workbench both to keep herself from touching him and to ground herself in the here and now. To remind herself that she lived in the real world.

  And the real world would never, ever let her touch him.

  He stood over her, his eyes unreadable. There was a moment when she thought he might kiss her. When his gaze skimmed her face, landed on her lips, lingered there.

  Then he spoke.

  “Someday soon your desire to remain ignorant won’t absolve you of wrongdoing. I would prefer to keep you out of my war with Primo, but you’re running out of time.”

  He reached into his pocket and withdrew something, and she held her breath as he leaned toward her. His body was nearly covering hers, close enough that she felt the brush of his shirt against hers, his breath near her shoulder.

  Close enough to make her want him.

  She heard him set something down on the workbench behind her. He hesitated as he straightened, lingering near her collarbone. She was paralyzed, and not with fear.

  Fear would have made sense. Fear would have been explainable.

  But this… this lust storming her senses, her body, was anything but explainable.

  He stepped back, putting a few more inches between them, and she sucked in air like she’d been underwater too long, hoping he couldn’t see the rise and fall of her chest, the flush she felt expanding across her face, the desire that had clouded her need for anything but him in the few seconds he’d been suspended over her body.

  “That’s my card,” he said. “My personal number is on the back. Call me if you change your mind.”

  She watched as he stepped through the doorway of the shed, disappearing into the twilight.

  14

  Damian had to force himself to leave the garden.

  To leave Aria.

  He wanted to throw her over his shoulder, take her somewhere far away where she couldn’t be hurt by what was going to happen.

  Because she would be hurt. That was a certainty.

  The only thing left to determine was whether it would be as collateral damage to his war with Primo or at the hands of her brother and Malcolm Gatti.

  He got in his car, slammed his fist against the steering wheel. “Fuck!”

  He took a few deep breaths, looked around to make sure no one had witnessed the embarrassing outburst. Then he put the car in gear and screeched into the intersection, cutting off a cab that was forced to slam on its breaks. The cabbie laid on his horn and Damian resisted the urge to stop in the middle of the street, go back and beat the man just for daring to exist when he was becoming increasingly pissed at the complications of having someone new in his orbit.

  Namely, Aria Fiore.

  He kept his foot on the gas and navigated the car toward the Upper West Side and his meeting with Farrell Black, none of which removed the image of Aria, somehow both strong and fragile, in the shed at the garden. She’d been in worn jeans and a tank top covered by a flannel shirt. Her hair had been loose, her cheek smudged with what looked like oil.

  He’d never been so attracted to a woman in his life.

  He’d also never been so frustrated by one.

  She wasn’t stupid. He didn’t know her well, but he had seen the intelligence in her eyes, had heard it in the argument she’d made for more time when she’d come to his office. It had been a risky strategy, one she probably hadn’t made lightly. Which meant that she knew she was in danger but was willing to accept the risk for Primo.

  It was an impulse Damian didn’t fully understand. He didn’t have any siblings.

  He didn’t have anyone.

  There had only been his mother before her death, and while he would have done anything for her, the nature of the parent/child relationship meant that she had shielded him from much of the danger associated with their situation, downplayed it in an effort to make him feel safe. It didn’t always work, but her efforts had blunted the worst of the impact.

  Was there anyone he would risk his life for now? His men, of course, but that was duty, a more selfish kind of loyalty. That left Cole, although he wondered if his willingness to risk himself for Cole had more to do with the fact that he owed the other man his life.

  He wanted to think of himself as courageous, but it would have been a lie. He was motivated by one thing: a desire to build his criminal empire as a fuck you to his father. He couldn’t change the fact that his father had amassed a fortune on a foundation of lies, but he could cast a dark cloud over his memory with a criminal legacy.

  Aria was different, willing to sacrifice her personal safety out of love and loyalty for her brother when her own interests would be better served by running. It wouldn’t be hard. The Fiore’s must have money stashed. A lot of it. She was smart enough to tap into it, get a new passport, disappear.

  And yet she stayed.

  The enigma of her loyalty only made him want her more, adding a layer of mystery — and yes, admiration — to the attraction he’d felt for her since he’d first seen her at Platinum, although attraction was beginning to feel like too mild a word for the way she set his blood on fire.

  Still, that’s what it was. What it had to be. He didn’t know her well enough to feel anything for her, and that was assuming he even had the capacity for such feeling.

  It took him nearly forty minutes to get across town. By the time he reached The Plaza the sky was dark, the streets alive with the lights and energy of the city at night.

  He pulled up to the valet, handed over the keys, and made his way into the hotel bar. He’d been surprised when Farrell had suggested The Champagne Bar, but this is what it would be like if he took the Syndicate up on their offer — meeting guys like Farrell Black at the drop of a hat, asking how high when Farrell or Nic
o or the others told him to jump.

  Not appealing to say the least.

  He strode across the lobby’s expansive marble floors, chandeliers twinkling overhead, and made his way to the bar. He spotted Farrell right away, dwarfing the frame of a diminutive wing chair and still managing to look perfectly at ease in an obviously bespoke suit. Damian lifted a hand in greeting, then detoured to the bar for a drink. When he had it in hand, he crossed the room to the area Farrell had claimed.

  He didn’t rise as Damian approached, and Damian took the seat across from him without ceremony. He took a drink from the glass in his hand and looked around, taking in the high ceilings and paneled walls, the too-precious furniture and objet d’art.

  “Interesting choice,” he said.

  Farrell took a drink, rattled the ice in his glass. “I fucking hate this place.”

  “You picked it,” Damian said.

  Farrell grew silent, and Damian had the feeling he was deciding how much to say.

  “I have company,” Farrell said. “Can’t have my wife and daughter at a two-bit hotel. Won’t leave them alone in this city for long.”

  Damian nodded, trying to picture the woman who was married to Farrell Black. Trying to picture Farrell playing with a child. It was virtually impossible.

  He understood Farrell’s concern. New York wasn’t under the control of any one family. Some of the organizations vying for a foothold didn’t play by the rules of the old school mob — Fiore being one of them. Farrell was one of the most notorious crime bosses in the world.

  And one of the most dangerous.

  He and his family would be a target in the city until the Syndicate got it under control. Still, he wasn’t surprised that Farrell would allow his wife and child to come to New York. He didn’t strike Damian as a man who bowed to fear. More likely had occupied an entire floor of the Plaza and outfitted it with enough guards to take down an army.

  “Anything I can do?” Damian asked.

  “Yeah, you can take out that fucker Fiore so we can get this city in hand.”

  “I’m working on it,” Damian said. “You got the plans?”

  “I did,” Farrell said. “You sure you’re ready? You pulled it together fast. There are a lot of targets. It’s a big operation.”

  “No choice. The timeline had to be escalated. But yeah, we’re ready. The initial strike won’t be the hard part. They won’t see it coming. Not on a scale like this. It’s the aftermath that will be dangerous.”

  “Not if you do it right,” Farrell said.

  Damian set his glass on the table between them. “We’ll do everything right, but Fiore and Gatti will go into hiding as soon as they realize what’s happening. It’s possible we’ll find them. It’s also possible they’ll go deep underground. Then it will be a matter of how many of their men survive and how quickly and effectively they strike back.”

  “You prepared to flush them out?” Farrell asked.

  “Yes.”

  Farrell nodded. “Anything else you need from us?”

  “Just the extra men noted in my report.”

  “Staging at the old Vitale headquarters in Brooklyn as we speak,” Farrell said. He reached into his suit pocket, withdrew a card. “Leader of the task force is Marco. That’s his number. He’s been instructed to follow your orders.”

  “Thank you.”

  Damian was surprised to realize he meant it. He hadn’t planned to come after Fiore this soon, but now he understood that doing so was critically important to his operation. He tried not to think about Aria. About her haunted eyes and the loyalty that would probably get her killed.

  She wasn’t his problem.

  Primo and Malcolm Gatti were his problem, had always been a problem; he’d just been putting off dealing with it. Farrell’s offer had forced Damian to look more closely at the Fiore organization. Turns out there was more there than met the eye.

  And he wasn’t just talking about Primo’s sister.

  “So tomorrow’s the day,” Farrell said.

  Damian nodded. “That’s right.”

  He’d spent the first half of the day getting Carol and the women and children from the shelter settled in the Greenwich apartment building and talking to the contractors about speeding up the rest of the work. Extra guards had been placed in the area just in case Primo got any big ideas about hitting them again. Once they were situated, he’d gone back to the office to make sure everything was in order for tomorrow’s strike. They were as ready as they would ever be.

  Farrell stood, and Damian followed suit.

  “Keep us posted.” Farrell said, shaking his hand. “And try not to get yourself killed.”

  “Your confidence in me is inspiring,” Damian said.

  Farrell shrugged. “We’re not accountants.”

  He turned to leave and Damian watched him amble across the lobby, trying to ignore the fact that the meeting had left him strangely reassured. It never hurt to have more men. More resources.

  That didn’t mean he was getting all warm and fuzzy about the idea of joining forces with the fucking Syndicate.

  15

  Aria paced the apartment, lit only by the lights of the city beyond the big windows. It had been dark when she’d finally arrived home after pacing the city, Damian Cavallo’s words echoing in her mind.

  He set fire to a women and children’s shelter last night.

  She didn’t want to believe it. Had told herself she didn’t believe it.

  But that was in the heat of the moment, the accusation fresh, the image of a burning building filled with women and children unformed in her mind. Hours walking had negated both of those things, the accusation seeming less far-fetched as the night wore on, the image replaying with horrifying clarity over and over again in her mind.

  She’d used her phone to look up details of the fire, had read every article she could find on it, some of them twice. No one had been killed.

  But they could have been.

  There had been no mention of Damian in any of the articles, but more than one had cited a benefactor as having moved the women and children to an alternate location.

  It had to be him.

  The shelter is a bit of a… pet project of mine.

  There had been that briefest of hesitations, like he was trying to find an innocuous word to describe an interest that was obviously very personal to him. It was a mystery she would have to come back to later. Right now there was only Primo and the words she’d rehearsed in her mind as she’d walked the streets. Words that would force him to answer the question of whether he’d been involved in the fire at the shelter.

  There was a possibility Malcolm would be with him. But while part of her felt anxious at the thought — the memory of his teeth sinking into her flesh, the bulge of his erection insinuating itself against her stomach — another part was almost looking forward to a confrontation.

  She would order him to leave if she had to. This was her house. Hers and Primo’s. Most of the time she accepted the reality of the situation, understood that treading lightly around Primo was necessary for her survival.

  More was at stake now, namely the survival of women and children already traumatized by abuse. Primo would answer for that to her. If it set him off, so be it.

  The jangle of keys at the door pulled her attention away from the city spread out below. She turned her back to the window, watching a sliver of light leak into the foyer from the hall, listening as the door shut and Primo’s footsteps came closer.

  He stopped at the entrance to the living room and flipped on the light, then blinked in surprise when he saw she’d been standing there the whole time.

  “Ari, what are you doing in the dark?” he asked, moving toward the bar.

  She’d been ready to face down Malcolm. Now she was almost sorry he wasn’t there. There would be no preamble. No warm-up to the question she would have to ask Primo.

  “Did you do it?” she asked.

  He walked to the bar against o
ne wall, poured himself a drink. “Do what?”

  “The fire at the Franklin Street shelter,” she said. “Did you do it?”

  She had no expectations for his response. He could just as easily throw his glass across the room as he might answer her question calmly and rationally.

  He did neither of those things. Instead he gazed at her dispassionately, like she was an equation he was trying to calculate.

  A problem he couldn’t solve.

  Finally he downed the drink and walked farther into the room, tracing his fingers along the back of the couch as he went.

  “You’ve been a busy little bee, haven’t you, Ari?” he asked.

  “I don’t have time for your games. Just tell me.”

  Her voice was calm and she was glad she’d had time to down a couple drinks of her own before he’d gotten home.

  “How would you know anything about anything?” He continued his patrol of the room, picking things up, studying them as if he’d never seen them before, putting them down. It set her on edge, and she held her breath with each object, wondering if this would be the one he would hurl in her direction.

  “I know things, Primo,” she said. “Don’t let the fact that I keep quiet make you think I’m stupid.”

  “I don’t think you’re stupid,” he said. “You’re just selfish like the rest of us.”

  “Selfish?”

  He circled the room, made his way back to the bar where he poured himself another drink.

  “I don’t blame you,” he said. “We all want things.”

  A bitter sigh escaped her mouth. “What have I ever wanted from you?”

  “Safety, security, time to work in your little garden.” He smiled. “Don’t worry, Ari. I’m not judging you. I want things too.”

  His words sent a wave of shame through her body. He was right. She’d been a frightened adolescent when their parents had been killed. She hadn’t looked too closely at what Primo was doing because she hadn’t wanted to know. Knowing would mean she had to do something.