Tony blinked out of his thoughts and sat up straighter. “Yeah, sorry. Long night.”
He’d been home by ten, but he hadn’t slept much. Jacked off three times, but not slept. He’d kept checking the time, thinking about going back to West Egg, forcing himself to stay put. Then, around two a.m., when the place was closed but she was probably still up, the urge had been so intense he hadn’t been able to stay in bed. He’d stalked around his place for a good two hours before finally crashing out on his sofa.
Angie had called before seven. Wanted him at his place by eight.
So yeah, long night. And his brain still preferred playing over those kisses, in full, star-spangled detail, to doing literally anything else, including getting the details about a hugely important job coming up.
“No excuse. This is your chance to make up for last fall. It’s my chance, too, so get sharp, and right now. Neither of us survives another fuckup, Antony.”
“I’m sharp. I’m good.”
“Good.”
Angie had a nice house in one of the older neighborhoods in the Cove. Not on the beach, or particularly close to it, and not up Greenback Hill, where the richies lived. Just a nice house not far from the one he’d grown up in, and not far from the houses of his sister and brother.
He’d called four enforcers over this early on a Saturday morning: Tony, Mel, Ricky, and Keith. They were the fittest and fastest enforcers, with the best gun skills and, collectively, the most kills. Angie had put this team together because the Bondaruk sit-down was a go, and Nick had very particular plans about the agenda for this event.
And damn, Nick Pagano was done fucking with the Ukies, and he meant to put an exclamation point on that statement. He had the backing of both the New England and the New York Councils, but from what Angie had just laid out, that backing was way back, the second front. Nick wanted Pagano Brothers to handle it alone, unless it went to hell.
If they carried this off, Tony thought Nick Pagano could write his own ticket anywhere in the US. Maybe anywhere in the world.
He’d heard the rumors, and believed them. Nick wanted to make his half-blood nephew, Trey Pagano, and eventually anoint him to take over the organization.
Tony hated Trey, that arrogant, entitled bastard who thought he shat gold. He’d hated him since high school, when the kid, two years younger than he, had walked around with a chip on his shoulder, as if the whole goddamn world wasn’t rolling out before him on a red carpet. He was rich, he got straight As, everybody loved him, he had a huge family full of decent human beings, he was a fucking Pagano, for fuck’s sake, and still he’d slouched around the school like somebody had kicked his dog.
Then, after he’d gone to a fancy college, he’d come home and decided he wanted to be a Pagano Brother, mick mother notwithstanding, and here he was. He wasn’t even fucking made yet, but he’d spent his first years in the organization hanging out with the don. Not under any capo. Just the head office, like a fucking half-blood prince.
Tony had very much enjoyed it when Trey had fucked up a couple years ago and gotten kicked down under Marty Bianchi, the capo for the runners. Tony was made, and an enforcer, so he doubly outranked the smug bastard now.
He hated Trey, and he hated the thought that someday Trey would be made and brought back up to hobnob with the don again, and maybe someday even be the don himself, but Tony was impressed with Nick. If the rumors were true—and come on, of course they were—Nick Pagano meant to force all of La Cosa Nostra to shape to his will. He meant to put his shoulder to generations-old tradition and push until it gave way.
And the thing was, Tony thought he could pull it off. If anybody could, it was Nick. Nick Pagano gets what he wants—Tony had been hearing that all his life in Quiet Cove, and had never seen it to be disproved. Nick Pagano got what he wanted.
Talk about a shark.
Tony hated Trey, but he’d fight like hell to help Nick get what he wanted.
And Angie had just laid out a plan that could be the first step in making that happen. What would follow this act would be an explosion that could send shocks out across the Atlantic.
Angie glanced around his living room, at the men taking up his furniture and drinking his coffee. “You understand the stakes here?”
Tony nodded. He understood.
The others nodded, too.
Their caporegime slapped his hands on his thighs. “Good. We got a few days to get ready and sharp. Do what you need to do to do that. We’ll meet again to go over the details and do a ready check, but I don’t want chatter about this anywhere. You do not speak a word, even to each other, outside a secure location—and by that I mean a location I tell you is secure. Capite?”
In various ways, they all told Angie they understood.
When Tony got to his car, he called CBSD. It was Saturday, so Del Sweeney wasn’t there, but Ben answered the phone.
“It’s Tony. Set up a stealth scenario in the basement. I’ll be there in an hour.”
~oOo~
At two-thirty that night—the next morning, actually—Tony pulled onto the West Egg back lot.
He’d spent a good chunk of the day at CBSD, running a couple stealth scenarios, then sparring with one of the regulars. After that, he’d gone home and crashed, sleeping through the later part of the afternoon and most of the evening. Then he’d met Chubs and Sandy, Pagano guys he hung out with sometimes, at Quinn’s for bar food and booze.
They’d closed the place, but Tony wasn’t drunk. A little loose, but no more. He’d paced himself, because he’d woken from his deep, long nap with an intention. Over the course of the evening, the intention had become a plan, and he was here now to execute it.
But there was another van besides Billy’s in the lot. She drove an old VW van, a total hippie-chick ride that didn’t suit her at all. Parked a bit off from it, still close to the building, but in the corner of the small lot, away from the street, was another van.
Billy’s was old enough to be cool, from the right perspective—not Tony’s perspective, but he knew some people would think so. It was definitely vintage. The other van was a garden-variety POS.
At first, he thought one of her employees was still there, or maybe had left it behind for some reason. He hoped for the latter, because he had a plan, but if they were still there, Tony would simply make them go away.
As he pulled in, however, the sweep of the Giulia’s headlights caught movement behind the van. There was a guy back there, and Tony was fairly sure he was pissing in the lot.
He parked next to the hippie van and got out. Pulling his brass knuckles from his pocket and sliding them on, he strolled over to the trespasser. Now that he was out of his car, he could hear the stereo playing in the van, some loud shit Angie would have loved.
The guy came around from the back of the van just as Tony arrived at its side. He was still closing his jeans—no, they weren’t jeans. Not denim, anyway. The fabric gave off a sheen in the security lights on the building. They were leather. In fact, this guy was decked out like the saddest has-been rocker Tony could imagine. Leather pants, point-toed cowboy boots, leather vest, shirt mostly unbuttoned to show several necklaces on leather cords and a chest that had sunken while the belly beneath it had grown. The night, and weird lighting, made colors wash out, but Tony thought the whole ensemble was probably black. Sad sack Johnny Cash wannabe. Jesus.
This guy wasn’t in the band—he knew the same band had been scheduled to play on Saturday that had played Friday, and Tony had seen them on Friday. He hadn’t clocked this guy around the club. Maybe a roadie? Did regional bands have roadies? Even so, everybody else was gone, so why was he still here?
He didn’t notice Tony until he’d finished with his pants. When he looked up, he jumped back a good two feet.
“Whoa, brother! You just took ten years off my life!”
“I’m not your brother. You need to get gone, old man. You’re trespassing.” He had a plan for the night, and it didn’t include playin
g around with this lump, so Tony raised his hand and made a fist, letting the light hit the weapon around his fingers. “Don’t make me make you.”
The guy’s hands came up. He wore a couple rings, too—one on a thumb, and another on one pinky. Not for weapons, then. Just bling. To go with the cuffs around his wrists.
“I don’t mean nobody any harm, fella. But I’m not trespassing. My daughter owns the building. She’s letting me stay here.”
That rocked Tony back a little, and his fist came down a few inches. Her father? He’d known the guy was out there somewhere, but he’d thought they’d been out of touch for a long time. Then again, they couldn’t have been too close, if she was making him sleep in that piece of shit, right next to her own home.
When Tony’s fist lowered, the guy dropped his hands, too, slowly. “I saw you with her the other night, at the fireworks. You two got somethin’ goin’ on?”
Tony only glared. His mind churned. He didn’t know how this new wrinkle changed things, about tonight or anything else.
“I’m Cain.” The guy held out his right hand. “Cain Jones.”
Tony didn’t shake with him. His right hand was curled around brass knuckles, but he wouldn’t have shaken hands in any case. Nor did he offer his name.
Billy’s father let his hand drop. “Okay, well ... I’m not in your way, fella. Billy’s her own woman. She wouldn’t give me a say in what she does even if I wanted it, and I don’t. So if you’re not gonna break my face, I’m just gonna climb up in Esmeralda here and get some shuteye. That okay by you?”
Tony answered by dropping his fist to his side. Cain watched it go. Then he nodded and opened the side door.
His shitty music got louder, and the lights came on inside the van. By the look of it, Cain Jones, father to an heiress, had been living in his old van for quite some time.
“Good night, then, fella.”
The door slid closed with a heavy metallic thunk and several loose-part rattles. Tony left that mess which was not his concern and got back to his plan. He pocketed his knuckles, went to the back door, and pressed the buzzer. Standing under the security light, he looked up at the camera and waited.
“What are you doing here?”
As he’d expected, her voice was clear, without the weight of sleep; he’d chosen to arrive now because he figured the club would be closed and empty but she wouldn’t have had time to turn in for the night herself.
With the exception of her father, he’d been right.
Tony locked his eyes with the camera’s, and let that look linger for a second before he answered, “Let me in.”
She didn’t answer.
Tony stood where he was, under that spotlight, with her father probably watching from his sad berth behind him, for a minute. Two minutes.
And then the locks in the door began to turn.
~ 10 ~
Before she turned the last lock and opened the door, Billy paused and asked herself if she really meant to let Tony in, and, if so, why. It was the middle of the night. She was alone in the building. Beyond it, she had only the dubious help of her father. If Tony was dangerous, this was the worst possible situation in which to be alone with him.
Of course he was dangerous. His job was to be dangerous. He’d threatened her directly.
So why was her hand on the lock, ready to let him in?
That kiss.
Not the way she’d kissed him, but the way he’d kissed her. She’d expected him to hurt her, to make her pay for attacking his mouth the way she had, but he’d been gentle. Tender, almost. Even romantic. He’d walked away then, with barely a word, no look back, but for those few moments, Billy had been entirely wrapped up in him, literally and figuratively.
More than twenty-four hours had passed since, but she hadn’t shaken the feel of him, the taste, the scent of him. The memory glittered and sparkled with the fireworks that had gone off around them.
Tony Cioccolanti was the very definition of a ‘bad boy.’ He was dangerous. It would be colossally stupid to hook up with him even once, much less start something remotely more involved with him—and that was why she was standing at this door right now, wasn’t it? Not for a hot quickie with Danger Man, but because she’d felt in that kiss, maybe even somewhere, sometime, before it, a flicker of something deeper.
She should go back upstairs. This was nuts.
Three slow steady knocks on the door. Knock ... knock ... knock.
“Billy.”
The door was fairly thick, and Tony’s baritone was muffled, but her name was clear.
Billy turned the last lock and opened the door.
He stood there under the spotlight of her security lamp, dressed more casually than she’d ever seen him before. Jeans, straight, but not skinny, and a long-sleeved Oxford, standard blue, untucked, two buttons undone at his throat. A nice pair of casual shoes—leather, in a cognac-y brown. She liked that—not sneakers or Timberlands. A grown man’s pair of shoes. He had some style.
Since he was without a tie, Billy saw he wore a silver chain around his neck, with a crucifix pendant. Not big or garish. The cross rested just beneath the notch at the base of his throat. A hint of chest hair showed in the same space.
She got all that in a glance before she met his eyes.
For her part, she’d been halfway through her undoing routine, standing at her bathroom mirror in her underwear with a face coated with makeup remover, when he’d buzzed.
Now, all she wore was her underwear and her robe. At least she’d taken the time to rinse off her face.
He gave her the same one-second scan she’d given him. “Let me in,” he said when their eyes met.
Not a request. A demand.
“Why?” she asked.
He took a step closer and leaned against the frame. “You know why.”
She did. How she felt about it, what she thought of herself just now, she hadn’t decided. She wasn’t ready to decide. So she stepped back and let him in.
He went for her at once, reaching out, taking hold of her arms, meaning to pull her to him, but Billy put her hands to his chest and held off. “Hold on. This ... I need to understand what this is. Why you’re here—and you know what I mean. Why do you want to be here? Why do you think I want you here?”
“You let me in.” A smirk skidded up one side of Tony’s cheek. Arrogant.
Billy added a little shove to her hold and broke free of him. She put the island between them. That hadn’t helped much the last time Tony was in her kitchen, but it was what she had.
“What are we doing, Tony?”
He came to the end of the island and set his hand on the corner but didn’t come closer. “What are you looking for me to say? I want you. I know you want me. That’s why I’m here, that’s why you let me in, that’s what we’re doing.”
“Why? How? We have not had a single conversation that wasn’t you being threatening—either at me or somebody else.”
“Not true. We talked about golf.”
Billy laughed. She couldn’t help it—the way he’d offered that example was so ... earnest. “Because I stabbed you, and you made a crack about me filling my divot.”
“Right. You fixed me up.” He came closer, close enough that if they both reached out, they could catch hands. “You want to have a conversation? Is that what you want, baby?”
“I hate that you call me that.”
Another step. He reached out and caught her hand. “Billy. Is that short for something?”
Billy watched as his fingers laced with hers before he took another step and stood directly before her. Without her five-inch heels on, she was only eye level with his chin. There was a notch there, under his carefully tended three-day stubble.
God, he really was hot. Billy was attracted to a lot of different people, for a lot of different reasons. Tony was flipping a lot of different switches. Her heart thumped, her breath chugged. She felt a little swoony, even. Any of those was also a fear indicator, but it wasn’t fea
r giving her the vapors. She was so hot for him her knees shook.
He was a professional hitman. The man hurt and killed people for a living. Nick Pagano’s hired gun. This was not okay. Maybe she really did need to find a therapist, because apparently she had some issues to work on.
Feeling too small, too vulnerable, she looked up and found his eyes. The thundering scowl he’d worn for weeks was gone. She wouldn’t describe his look now as gentle, but there was no threat. He was enjoying this, and confident. Self-assured. He knew what was going to happen in these last hours of the night.
Billy knew, too. She was trying to get her head and her body aligned here, but her body had decided what it wanted. Her body had been waiting for this since he’d walked away the other night.
“Wilhelmina,” she answered. “But I’ll stab you again if you call me that. Got a kitchen full of knives right here.”
“I believe you. You’re particular about your name.”
“Of course I am. Aren’t you?”
He leaned down and in, until his lips hovered just above hers, and she felt the soft caress of his breath. He’d been drinking, Irish whiskey, but the scent was light and pleasant; he wasn’t drunk. “You know what? I am. I don’t like to be anything but Tony.”
“Then I’ll call you Tony, and you call me Billy.”
“Deal.” He leaned even closer, and brushed her nose with his. “Hey, Billy.”
“Yeah?” She fought the urge to let her eyes flutter closed.
“Is this enough of a conversation?”
Finally, her mind shrugged and gave in, let her body have its way. “Shut up and fuck me.”
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
With an audible, visible sigh of relief, matched to hers, Tony covered Billy’s mouth with his and kissed her. This kiss was different from the other night. It wasn’t attack or defense, not surprised or conflicted. His tongue sought hers, but without demand—leading, not forcing. His lips were eager, but soft. This was wasn’t a contest of wills. It was seduction.
He let go of her hand and coiled his arms around her, and she lifted her arms to circle his neck. He drew her tight to his body, but seemed wholly content for the moment to hold her and kiss her. His hands didn’t wander. He didn’t dominate. Billy felt something almost serene flowing from him, as if he were relaxing into this moment, as if he’d found something here he wasn’t used to, something he needed.
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