by Keri Lake
At five-foot-five, Franco doesn’t seem like much of a threat, but considering his connections, he isn’t someone to piss off, either.
Unfortunately for him, I never really had what I’d call a healthy appreciation for the line that separates life from death, so I anticipate this meeting to go over like a porno mag at a Catholic school. Makaio waits within shooting distance, and Rand sits alongside him, probably ready to respectfully chide my ass when he finds out what actually went down. I’m not stupid enough to come alone, despite sitting here by myself.
“Thought it’d be quiet out here,” I say.
Franco plops down at the other end of the bench, lights up his own cigarette, and looks around the pier, no doubt gauging the proximity of ears that might be listening. “Sorry I’m late. Got some shit going down with one of my distributors who skipped town with about fifty grand worth of product.”
“Sounds like a management issue.”
“I had a bad feeling about this kid, but he was buddies with my best guy. Who’d have fuckin’ thought? Just goes to show, you can’t put in a good word for anyone these days.” Leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, he flicks his ash onto the deck. “So, we got a shipment coming in. Big. Over a mil, direct from Columbia. Your guy told me they loaded it on a container two days ago.”
For the last few years, his family has relied on my father’s shipping company to bring in pallets of cocaine straight out of South America, by offloading a few miles offshore and having local fishing fleets deliver and, in some cases, distribute the drugs, while offering a modest cut for our troubles. It’s a system that has existed below the radar, fortunately, but I believe a man’s luck only lasts so long.
I turn my attention toward the kid again, who stands holding the fishing line at the railing of the pier. Arms crossed, his father stands beside him, shaking his head like the kid’s doing something wrong. “This is the last job I’m running for you, Franco. I want you to let your uncle know.”
“What?”
On a sigh, I turn to face him and take another drag of my smoke. “You’ll have to find another company to run your shipments.”
With the usual Scarpinato theatrics, he throws himself back against the seat, then leans forward again, tossing his cigarette to the ground. “Are you fucking kidding me? Do you even realize what you’re saying right now?” Holding up a finger, he shakes his head when I open my mouth to answer. “I’ll give you a minute, because I think this fucking fresh air is messing with your brain.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing. You’re to find another company.”
“That’s not the way it works, Lucian. We’ve been partners a long time. You can’t just back out.”
I stretch my arms across the top of the bench and look out at the water. “It’s a big ocean, Franco. I’d hate for a million-dollars-worth of cocaine to get lost at the bottom of the sea somewhere.”
He shoots up off the bench. “Are you fucking nuts?”
As I turn to look up at him, the sun hits my face, and I’m forced to squint. “Depends on who you ask.”
“My uncle isn’t going to let you just walk away. As someone who’s known you a long time, I’m urging you to reconsider.”
“And I’m urging you to lower your voice.”
He looks around, as if he’s suddenly aware of the man and his son standing off from us. “This is big, Lucian. Bigger than you realize. You fuck with my family’s livelihood, it’s not going to end well for you.”
“I’m not out to fuck with your family’s livelihood. It’s no longer worth it to me.”
Plopping back down on the bench, he moves in closer. Too close. Asshole is about one hard shove from my personal space. “We’ll talk about a bigger cut. Is that what you want? More money?”
“No. I told you what I want. I’ll deliver this shipment, as promised. And we’ll part ways. Amicably. Seeing as we’ve known each other a long time, that’s not too much to ask, is it?”
Groaning, he strokes his hands over his head, like he intends to rub the hair right off his skull. “Look. I can’t go back to my uncle with this. He’s going to go ape-shit, and your face will be on every hitman’s shit-list in Boston.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s a fact.”
I slide my arms down from the bench and rest them on my thighs as I lean in closer. “Well, since we’re sharing facts, let me offer one, as well. I have more money than the entire New England Mafia combined. Certainly more than your scrappy ass. If you even think of retaliating against me, know that I will seek out the most skilled hitmen in the world to hunt down every one of your family members, and your henchmen, and have your heads mounted on stakes as a lesson for why you should never fucking cross a Blackthorne again.”
Shaking his head, he backs away, eyes wide with what I surmise as disbelief and perhaps a small bit of fear. “You really are the Mad Son, you know that? You’re fucking crazy.”
“As I said before, Franco. Depends on who you ask.”
Rand stares out the window, as Makaio drives along I-93, heading back toward the Manor. He hasn’t said a word since we left Boston. Not that he would. If anyone knows how crazy I am, it’s him.
“You believe it was foolish of me to cut ties.”
Clearing his throat, he drags his attention from the window, but doesn’t bother to meet my gaze. “Reckless perhaps, but not foolish.”
“If I’m to run this company, this mess my father left me, the days of financing criminals are over.”
“I understand. I just wish … you would have consulted me. I feel useless in these matters, Lucian.” The gulp of his throat betrays his boldness.
I respect his honesty, though.
“You’d have told me not to do it. Just as you advised my father to stay connected with them all these years.”
“For his own protection. Not because I agreed with the arrangement.”
“Look at my face. Look at me.”
He lifts his chin in the same indignant manner of a scorned puppy.
“Do I look like a man who has anything left to fear? I’ve lost a wife and my only son. There isn’t a man who can look me in the eyes without flinching. If they decide to retaliate, I’ve got nothing to lose.”
“With all due respect, Master, your decisions affect more than just yourself. They affect all of us. I don’t have access to the kinds of funds it would take to protect myself against a family like the Scarpinatos.”
Leaning back against the seat, I stare out the window at the green blur of trees that pass on the highway. “They’re not stupid. I expect they’ll try to negotiate.”
“To which I expect you’ll decline.”
“Of course. In the meantime, Franco is anticipating a shipment this week, worth over a million. I want it dumped offshore, watertight containers, far enough that their fleets can’t sweep for it. We’ll hang onto it for a bit, and when they realize how crippling it would be to lose it altogether, I suspect they’ll play nice.”
“I wasn’t aware of this shipment.”
“Neither was I. Your second task this week is to find out who dropped the ball and can his ass.”
“I’ll look into the matter, Master.”
“Good. In the meantime, don’t worry about Franco Scarpinato. He’s my problem. And I don’t let problems fester for long.”
Chapter 23
Isadora
The sliver of the moon is high, and a slight chill on the air ruffles the thin fabric of my shirt, as I sit out on the balcony, keeping an eye out for Nell. She should’ve been back an hour ago, and I feel like every second that ticks off in between is one second closer to Laura’s next nightmare. The last thing I need is to have Lucian storming down here in search of the nurse who skipped off to do God knows what. There’s no way I can lie to a man like that.
A man who’d see right through me.
All my life, I’ve constructed walls to protect myself from a world that has no regard for bou
ndaries. Some have ‘dozed their way past my barriers with little care. But never has a man seen through them, as if they’re translucent.
The sound of yelling steels my muscles, and I freeze in my chair, until it occurs to me that the voice belongs to a man, not Mrs. Blackthorne. Reaching me from somewhere above.
Pushing up from my chair, I lean over the railing of the balcony, craning my neck toward the roof of the turret, and Lucian’s office above.
My heart skids to a stop, and a gasp flies from my mouth.
With trembling hands, I attempt to reach out, but draw them to my face in shock.
Balanced on the edge of the parapet, Lucian sways with a drink in his hand, shouting obscenities that are so slurred, I can’t even entirely make out what the hell he’s saying.
To avoid startling him, I don’t bother to call to him, and instead scamper inside, making a beeline toward the elevator.
“Fuck!” Halfway there, I stall and turn around, hustling back toward the balcony to close and lock the door so Laura won’t escape, before darting around to the elevator again.
Oh, God, please don’t jump. If I get to the damn roof and find him lying in a pool of blood on the ground below, I’ll probably end up in a psych ward after.
My finger jabs the up button, my whole body shaking with adrenaline, while I wait for the goddamn car to slide to a stop and open its doors. Once inside, I press the third button, and when the doors finally open again, I glance around the dark office, hardly taking in much of the surroundings, and find a door at the opposite side of the room. I don’t even know if it leads to the roof, but I head toward it anyway.
Another quick sprint through the door and up a flight of stairs brings me to the flat roof of the turret. Ahead of me, Lucian stands with his back to me, his black suit in disarray, the coat falling off one shoulder.
Careful, so as not to startle him, I tiptoe closer.
“N’body fuckin’ threatens a Blackthorne. Isn’at what you said t’me? Fuckin’ lyin’ prick.” Bottle of liquor in hand, he attempts to balance himself as he sets the mouth of the bottle to his glass like he’s trying to fill it. A small bit trickles over the edge of the glass, and he chucks it off the roof, tipping back the bottle, instead.
My heart is beating so fast I can scarcely draw in a breath, watching him teeter on the edge. Approaching him might make him stumble, though.
“I wanted t’be free of this shit. B’you … y’had one more punishment t’dole out, didn’ you? One more fuckin’ hell f’me t’walk through.”
I quietly clear my throat and step closer. “Mr. Blackthorne?”
His arm flies out as he spins to face me, and he loses his footing just enough that I reach out on a wheeze of breath, before he catches himself.
Holy shit, that was close!
Balanced again, he stares at me for a moment, his eyes dark and appraising, and I can’t even begin to imagine what thoughts are running through his head. “Isa. Isa Bella.” Snorting a laugh, he chugs his drink again. “The fuck’re you doin’ up here?”
“I heard you yelling. Look, whatever is going on right now, you don’t have to do this.”
Brows crinkled to an incredulous frown, he chuckles, and in spite of the fear thrumming inside my veins, the low-pitched sound is a brief distraction. I hate that I like the sound of his amusement, even if it’s meant to mock me. “I’m no coward. I’m Lucian. Fucking. Blackthorne. I make shit happen. People cower t’me.”
“I know. I know that.”
“Y’know that.” His voice is tinged in disbelief, and he licks his lips, his gaze raking over me in disdain. “What things d’you know, Isa Bella?”
“Well, for one ... I know that … alcohol and heights don’t mix.”
His lips stretch to an incredibly dashing smile, despite his scars, and he rubs his eye on the back of his bottle-toting hand, swaying unsteadily. A long moan, like the end of a laugh, spills from his lips, just before his tongue sweeps over them. “’S’how I get off. Bad decisions like this.”
“You’re saying that standing at the precipice of death is arousing to you?”
“Oh, yeah.” A long blink, and his bottom lip slips between his teeth. “What’d’you know, anyway? You’re young. Excessively beau’ful. Men probably pay you t’fuck. Not th’other way ‘round.”
A flare of embarrassment heats my cheeks, the conversation taking an uncomfortable turn. “No … that’s prostitution ... and I don’t consider that good reason to tempt death.”
“Fucking?”
“There’s more to life.”
“Well …” He lifts the bottle for another sip and pauses halfway to his mouth. “Then, you haven’ been fucked properly.”
Another blast of humiliation burns beneath my skin. I try to ignore the clench of my thighs, or the truth in his words, coming from an older man who’s probably had far more practice with countless women. I’ve been used, mostly, and nothing more. “Can you …. Can you come down from there now? You’re making me nervous.”
“Wha’re you afraid’f?”
“Oh, I don’t know … that you might die in front of me tonight?”
Staring down his nose at me, he seems to chew on the inside of his lip. “That’d bother you?”
“Yes. Very much.”
Huffing, he sways again, craning his neck to look back over the edge, toward what I’m certain would be instant death below. “I know why you’really here. Y’came t’haunt me, haven’ you?”
“What do you mean?”
He turns his attention back on me. “The bird. When I was jus’a kid. I hurt it. Now you’re here. Raven beauty. T’get me back for what I did. My curse.”
The words make no sense, nothing but drunken rambling, but his eyes implore me. “I don’t know what that means,” I whisper. “Please. Just come down.”
A long blink, and he chuckles again. “Fine. You win.” The second he steps forward, he loses his footing.
His body slips behind the parapet.
My heart seizes in my chest, but I rush forward.
Over the edge of the building, he dangles from the parapet, held only by his arms. His bottle of liquor lies in a scatter of broken glass on the ground below him. Muscles tremble and stretch as he holds himself from falling.
“Mr. Blackthorne!” I kneel down to put most of my weight on one side, and lean against the wall to reach over the edge. “Take my hand.”
The guy probably weighs twice as much as I do, but I don’t care. Watching him fall to the cement below is a sight that would stay with me for the rest of my life.
“Take my hand, Lucian.”
Still holding onto the edge with one hand, he hoists himself enough to clutch my arm, and I grasp onto him with both hands, straining and flexing to keep him from slipping.
“If this ain’t some shit karma.” He chuckles again, slipping enough to yank me forward until my breasts are pressed into the stone wall.
“Somebody, help! Help us! Makaio!”
“Makaio can’t hear you. He’s on th’other side of th’castle.”
“Rand!”
“Rand, too.”
“Jesus Christ, somebody help!”
“Stop yellin’, girl. Fuck.” Jaw hardening with the effort, he pushes himself up, perhaps exerting most of the pressure on the hand clutched to the parapet. Still, I brace myself on the wall of the roof and tug him until my muscles are weak with the effort. My wrists burn where he grips my skin, but once his shoulders breach the edge, I slide my hands beneath his armpits and drag him toward me.
“Don’t slip, Lucian. Use your legs!”
Every muscle in my body is both hot and cold with the toil, until his entire upper half is finally on my side of the wall, and he drops down. The gravelly bed crashes into my spine, and his big body topples onto mine, held up by his massive arms planted at either side of me.
In the pause that follows, I pant to catch my breath and look up to see him staring down at me, his eyes dilated, swirling wit
h the excitement of a wily cat, before they shift toward my lips.
“Say my name again,” he whispers, eyes riveted on my mouth.
“Lucian.”
Stiff and paralyzed beneath him, I watch as his gaze leads his body closer, and he lowers himself, until the first gentle brush of his lips feathers across mine. The scent of him is an intoxicating mix of liquor and cologne, his breath a sweet whiskey that waters my mouth for a taste.
His tongue circles my parted lips, as if he’s sampling me, and my stomach clenches with the contact.
My heart is pounding so hard inside my chest right now, it’s a wonder he doesn’t hear it.
My boss, the Devil himself, the wealthiest, most reclusive man on this island. And he’s kissing me. Muscles still trembling, I try to calm my breathing, as the air stutters through my nose on each shaky exhale.
He slants his face over mine, his tongue dipping past my teeth, deepening the kiss. Nothing like the sloppy, gagging tongue-dives of boys my age. Expert and unrushed, his maturity shines through in his focus and attention. I feel so juvenile and inexperienced with this man who’s clearly perfected the art of the French kiss.
Air expels from his nose on a groan, and he presses me harder into the gravel, but I don’t care. I taste everything pouring out of him, into me--the desperation, the sadness, the loneliness. His kiss speaks to me beyond the slurs of his drunkenness from moments before.
It tastes of whiskey and longing.
A whimper escapes me. I’ve never been kissed this way before in my life. Boys have taken from me, stolen kisses in teasing and play, but never with so much passion as this. I want to consume it all, commit every second to memory, so I’ll never accept anything less again.
The weight of his body presses down on me, trapping me beneath him as his kiss turns aggressive. Forceful. The moan from his throat vibrates in mine, making me dizzy with want. A warm, strong hand slides up the edge of my body, beneath my shirt, and I gasp in his mouth when his fingertips reach the edge of my breast.