Flesh and Blood (Dixie Mafia Series Book 1)

by Cynthia Rayne

  “Yes, I’d appreciate your assistance.”

  “I’m happy to help—if you’re properly grateful.”

  Belle was torn between arousal and humiliation. Kept women had to sing for their supper, so to speak, which meant she couldn’t give him an acidic reply.

  “I’d be very grateful.” Her tone was even, but not flirtatious.

  “Then I’ll send a tow truck, and Rebel will pick you up. Keep your phone on in case he has trouble finding you.”

  Then he ended the call.

  Belle wrapped her arms around herself and waited for Rebel. She’d gotten soaked, and the temperature always plummeted at night.

  A few minutes later, a black van pulled up in front of her, and a man got out. Belle couldn’t see well due to the rain and dim light. The man had his jacket wrapped around his head. When he stepped up to the driver’s side window, she rolled the glass down an inch or so.

  “Hey there. Need some help?” He peeled the jacket back.

  Belle gasped. It was Trucker Hat—the creepy man from the gas station. And she was trapped on a lonely highway in a non-working vehicle.

  An alarm bell rang in her head.

  Oh, God.

  Had he been the one following her the other night? Belle forced a smile.

  “I’m fine, thanks. I’ve got help on the way.” She willed him to walk away.

  “Don’t be silly, I’m right here. I’ll drive you back into town. I’m David. What’s your name, baby?”

  As a student of human behavior, Belle knew someone who refused to respect her wishes was dangerous. David, if that was his real name, had a menacing air. She’d sensed it at Lickety Split, and her instincts were almost never wrong.

  “I said, I’m fine. Good night.” Chewing her bottom lip, Belle waited for him to walk away—or prove her intuition right.

  “I woulda preferred to handle this the easy way, but I can adapt.” His gaze locked on hers through the thin pane of glass.

  For a long, terrible moment, neither one of them spoke or moved.

  Then David lunged for the door latch.

  Chapter Twelve

  Quickly, Belle threw the lock in place then scrambled across the bench seat to lock the other door. When she turned around, David was gone. Belle glanced in the rearview mirror, hoping he’d fled the scene, but his van was still there.

  The window smashed to jagged smithereens. David swung a tire iron over his shoulder and reached inside to unlock the vehicle.

  She dove for the passenger door, but he snagged her ankle. Belle kicked with her other foot, but he grasped both ankles and hauled her across the seat, the broken glass biting into her legs even through the denim.

  “Who are you? What do you want with me?”

  He chuckled darkly. “I’ll tell you in the van, baby.”

  Oh, hell no. Belle knew if she got into his vehicle, he’d drive off with her, and she’d never be seen again. Hissing in pain, she grasped the console, trying to hold on to something.

  He kept tugging, yanking her further away from safety.

  A shot rang out.

  David glanced up, and Belle peeked over the seat to see Rebel approaching the truck with a handgun. He fired again, and David released her, then raced to his vehicle and jumped in. Tires squealing, he took off down the highway. Rebel got off another shot at the van, shattering the rear windshield, but it didn’t slow David down.

  “You okay?” Rebel stepped up to the window.

  Belle started to shake—she really wasn’t.

  ***

  Thirty minutes later, Belle sat in a chair in Dix’s foyer while Ten patched her up. He’d introduced himself before he started working on her legs, but she hadn’t paid much attention.

  Belle was in a daze.

  Her knees still felt like jelly, and she wanted to go home, crawl into bed, and pull the covers over her head as if it’d somehow protect her. Belle wondered if she’d ever feel safe again. Her childhood had been hell, but she’d never experienced anything quite like this.

  Byron and Dix were in his office; she couldn’t hear exactly what they were saying, but their voices sounded angry and loud. Every now and again, she recognized a word but couldn’t quite focus on the conversation. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion.

  Rebel informed Dix about what’d happened on the drive back to Crimson Creek, and when she’d arrived, he’d already been in a meeting with Beauregard. He hadn’t asked about her injuries, just ordered Ten to help her.

  “The cuts are superficial.”

  Belle focused on the Mafioso nearest her.

  Ten was a handsome man, if strange. He stood well over six feet tall with a long, lean build. Ten had thick, dark hair and sported a pair of sunglasses—indoors, at night. Weird. Like the rest of the mafia men, he wore an expensive suit, though Ten had scruffy hair covering his chin and cheeks.

  After he’d handed her a robe to wear, Ten picked the glass out of her legs with tweezers and cleaned the wounds with soap and water. Then he slathered the skin with antibiotic ointment and placed bandages over the cuts.

  “What’s going on in there?” She nodded to the office.

  His face was grave. “It’s best you don’t concern yourself.”

  He was probably right. At some point, she’d be on a witness stand describing this night. Getting involved with the Dixie Mafia was the stupidest thing she’d ever done. And it was coming back to bite her on the ass.

  “Shouldn’t we call the police?”

  He stopped working. “That’d be a real bad idea.”

  Oh, yeah, criminals. “Right.”

  They had to be the reason for the attack. Weren’t mafia families always at war with one another? Or was that only in the movies? No one had ever come after her before. And yet, she’d seen David before she’d even met Dix—something didn’t quite add up.

  While Belle was a ball of jangled nerves, Ten possessed a supernatural sort of calm. The news of her near kidnapping hadn’t ruffled him, nor had Dix’s terse instructions. He tended to her injuries with a cool detachment she’d only seen in medical professionals.

  Belle envied his composure. Right now, she felt ready to bust out of her own skin.

  Ten kept his supplies in a black leather messenger bag, the kind a businessman might carry to a meeting. He had bandages, ointment, scissors, and the like. And in another pocket, she’d glimpsed several syringes, along with a selection of medical blades—the kind surgeons used.

  “Looks like your cat or dog left you a present.” Belle gestured to a stray tuft of hair on his shoulder.

  Ten had a slow, creaky smile. “She loves to lay on my clothes.”

  “My cat, Quaxo, loves to lay on my interview outfits. I’ve spent a fortune on lint rollers.”

  “You and me both.” Ten chuckled.

  Belle relaxed a little, soothed by the normal exchange. Anyone who had a cat couldn’t be so bad, right?

  “Thanks for taking care of me. Do you have medical training?”

  “In a manner of speakin’. I know a lot about human anatomy.” He said the words slowly, carefully—and her warm feelings vanished.

  That’s what the bag is for with all the syringes and blades. The man carries around a murder bag.

  What am I doing with these people?

  “You need a drink.” He crossed to the wall and poured her a shot of moonshine, along with one for himself. “It ain’t my world-class wine, but it’ll do in a pinch.”

  Ten knocked his back, and she did too. Belle needed a lot more than alcohol to get through this—some holy water, maybe some garlic.

  After a bit, Dix and Beauregard walked out of his office with grim faces.

  “I’m puttin’ a guard on you.” Beauregard nodded to Rebel who was seated across the room. “Go home and get some things. You’ll be livin’ with Ms. Nunn for the foreseeable future.”

  Dix wasn’t even going to ask her about this?

  Belle opened her mouth, but Dix held up a h
and.

  “It ain’t up for discussion.”

  Belle didn’t want a house guest, especially one who worked as a mafia soldier, but she didn’t want to be by herself either. And after Rebel had rescued her, his presence would be comforting. He might be young, but he’d saved her butt.

  Belle really didn’t want to find out what David had planned for her. Her imagination filled in the blanks, and it ended with her body lying in Crimson Creek.

  ***

  After everyone had left, Dix pulled her into his office.

  “Want a cup of coffee?” He crossed to the counter, ready to pour some.

  “God, yes.” She’d feel better after she had a cup or…twenty. Belle sipped while he paced. Her icy fingers felt warmer, and she finally stopped shaking.

  Dix came to a halt. “I have a lot of enemies.”

  “David came after me to get to you?”

  “It’s a theory anyway. The guy sounds like a professional, a contractor. I would’ve taken precautions, but things have been calm lately. We had an issue with—well, never mind—but it got resolved. At least I thought it was.” He squeezed her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  Belle blew out a breath. “You didn’t know what would happen, so there’s no need to apologize. You know who’s behind it?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss this with you.”

  Right. Super-secret mafia business.

  “Okay, how do we keep it from happening again?”

  “Rebel’s gonna guard you.”

  “That’s good for tonight, but it isn’t a permanent solution.”

  “No, it ain’t. This is a temporary fix.” His face became shuttered, eyes flat, features placid. “I’ll handle the rest.”

  The hair prickled on her scalp. Dix was going to hurt—probably kill—someone.

  “I don’t know what you’ve got in mind, but I don’t want anything illegal on my conscience.” Her stomach quivered.

  “It won’t be on yours. It’ll be on mine.” Dix squared his shoulders. “Someone attacked you on my watch, and it’s my problem.”

  “Dix—”

  “I got this.”

  It couldn’t be any clearer—Belle didn’t belong in this place. In her world, people settled matters with legal means. Dix settled vendettas with blood and violence. It was like the old saying…If you lay down with dogs, you’re gonna get fleas.

  “Let me make it up to you.” Dix sat beside her and angled his chair to face hers.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I want to.” He placed a hand on her knee and squeezed. “Being my mistress can be risky, but it has perks. Tomorrow, one of the guards will take you to the dealership in Canyon City, and you can pick out any car on the lot.”

  “I’ve had Blue since high school, and he’s tougher than he looks. I’ll take him to the mechanic and fix him up.”

  Dix shook his head. “I insist. I want you to drive somethin’ safe and reliable. Do what you like with your truck—sell it, donate it. Hell, I’d shoot it and put it out of its misery, if I were you.”

  “I….” Belle decided to stop arguing. It was time for a new vehicle, and if she couldn’t feel safe, at least she’d have a consolation prize.

  “Thank you, Dix.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Then he shocked the hell out of her by kissing her cheek and stroking her hair. Belle eased back in the chair and closed her eyes. Her heartbeat started to slow, and her breath came easier. It was the best she’d felt in a couple hours. His touch was soothing, and she drifted, giving in to the sense of security.

  After a few moments, Dix cleared his throat.

  “I’m fond of you, Red.”

  Funny, didn’t seem like it the other night.

  Belle opened her eyes. She wasn’t sure what to make of the statement. After they’d had sex, he’d hurried her out of here so fast it’d made her head spin. Belle got the feeling his affection for her—if that was the right word—troubled him.

  “I got this urge to protect you.” Dix kissed her forehead then pressed his mouth to hers. “I’ll make you a promise—it’ll never happen again.” Then he stood and walked behind his desk.

  Belle wondered if it felt like some kind of emotional barrier for him. After all, it’s where he wheeled and dealed with the denizens of Crimson Creek’s underworld.

  Dix picked up his phone. “Rebel will take you home. I’d do it myself, but I got some things to handle.”

  “Got it.” Belle didn’t want to know what he was plotting.

  “Call me if you need me, even if it’s to talk. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Belle drained the rest of her coffee and walked to the door. She paused to glance back at him on her way out. “The authorities could take care of it, you know. There’s no need for you to do anything.”

  “They could, but they won’t.” Then Dix pulled a Glock from the desk. “Trust me. My solution will be a lot more permanent.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  A bit before nine the next morning, Dix parked his car in front of Jumbles. After the morning meeting, he’d be taking a trip down south with Jasper and Byron.

  When Dix walked in, Moss Mosley was counting the cash drawer. At one time, he’d been the most feared hit man in the outfit. Now Mossy fenced stolen goods, puttered around Jumbles, and had a whole born-again thing going on since his wife had died. Dix wanted to believe in forgiveness, but the cynic in him doubted he’d ever receive it.

  “How’s it goin’, Mossy?”

  “Fair to middlin’.” The reply was gruff, but so was Mossy. “I’ll be at the meetin’ as soon as I finish.”

  “See you in there.”

  Dix walked down the hall to the boardroom. He crossed to the sideboard and started the coffee brewing. Unlike the junk shop out front, this space was pristine with a mahogany table and leather chairs. It looked like a meeting room in any other legit business, except a star and two pistols had been engraved in the center of the table—symbols of the northern Texas outfit.

  On the walls hung several quotes from great but misunderstood men. “Before all else, be armed,” by Machiavelli. “Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt,” by Sun Tzu. “You can get much farther with a kind word and a gun than you can with a kind word alone,” by Al Capone.

  Unlike the Italian mafia, the Dixie boys had a more fluid organizational structure. The members weren’t all connected by blood, though some people like Beauregard and his father were. Potential Dixie Mafia members offered themselves up as soldiers and worked their way up the ranks.

  Dix had a seat and watched as his colleagues filed into the room one by one. The first to arrive was Vick with a well-ordered stack of folders in her arms.

  “I still don’t think it’s fittin’.” Mossy sat down across from her and folded his arms over his chest. “In my day, we protected womenfolk. We didn’t put them in danger.” He had trouble adapting to modern times.

  “How sweet, in a slightly misogynistic way.” Vick glanced up from her files with an acidic smile.

  Dix bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing—until she scowled at him. Apparently, he was still in the doghouse.

  Byron walked in carrying a pink and green Sugar Daddies pastry box. Coffee and a pastry of some sort was a staple at these meetings.

  He placed the box in the center of the boardroom table. “I got us some hummingbird cakes.” He opened the box to reveal twelve cupcakes topped with nuts. Hummingbird cake was a uniquely southern desert—stuffed full of pineapple, pecans, bananas, and topped with cream cheese frosting.

  Salty Mosley snagged one on his way in the room. Salty was Mossy’s son and looked like a forgotten member of ZZ Top with his long, rusty-red beard and loud taste in fashion. Today, he wore a suit with a skull on the breast pocket, along with a matching tie.

  Rebel Jackson sat down next to Jasper. It was his first meeting with the outfit. Reb was young, in his early twenties w
ith balls of steel, even if he was a bit of a lunkhead.

  “How’s Belle?” Dix asked.

  “Fine, we had a quiet night. I passed her protection detail off to a security guard this mornin’.” He had circles under his eyes and still wore his rumpled jeans and T-shirt from last night.

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Reb gave Jasper Tan the eye.

  Jasper had worked his way up from soldier to boss over the past few years. He called himself “whasian”—a mixture of Chinese and white. He had black hair and pale skin, and his clothing had a hipster vibe. Today, he wore a black suit, a red button-down shirt, and a tongue-in-cheek belt buckle with the words Secret Asian Man embossed on the front.

  “You speak English?” Reb asked.

  Dix palmed his face and let Jasper take this one.

  “Yes, and Spanish, and Mandarin.” Jasper grabbed a hummingbird cake from the box. “Got somethin’ to say about it?”

  “You got a Southern accent.” Reb scratched his forehead.

  Byron rolled his eyes.

  “My forefathers built the railroads, and my family’s been in Texas a hundred or so years, so yeah, I’m a mix of cultures. And since I’m a made man, and you’re a no-account soldier, I’d shut my fuckin’ mouth if I were you, cho san ba.” Jasper looked down his nose at Reb.

  “What’d you call me?”

  “Look it up—if you can spell it.”

  Byron pointed to Reb. “I know you’re new, but dress the part, son. Buy a fuckin’ suit. If I see you in jeans again, we’re gonna have a problem. In this outfit, we’re old-school. We got some style and class.”

  “Here, here.” Dix raised his cup of coffee. “We ain’t bikers or gang bangers.”

  “And if you get in, you gotta get the tats.” Colt Dawson yanked off his jacket and lifted the tail of his shirt to reveal two crossed guns at the small of his back with a star between them. They all had the same tattoo, which matched the boardroom table.

  Colt was in his early thirties and was the boss of his own crew. He had spiky black hair, light brown eyes, and a neatly sculpted beard. He wore a brown suit with matching loafers.

  “Ya’ll got tramp-stamped?” Reb’s lip curled in disgust.