His heart had stopped. He’d died.
But they’d brought him back, and they’d been able to remove the bullet and repair the damage. He was in critical condition, and the doctor had said it was too early yet to offer a prognosis, but if Nick held through the next twenty-four hours, he’d be ‘encouraged.’
Angie, too, was out of surgery. One bullet had torn through the meat of his shoulder, and the other had chopped his liver pretty good, but he’d been in recovery a good three hours before Nick, and he was already in a regular room. Nick was going to ICU after the recovery room.
While they’d been waiting, Donnie had made his calls. Several of them to Washington, D.C. There would be no federal interest in the events in Quiet Cove.
Though they ran most of the usual underground schemes, that was bottom-rung stuff. What the Pagano Brothers traded in more than any particular product, illicit or otherwise, was power. Power was clean and largely untraceable. Power was the oil that made the machine of society run. And Nick Pagano had amassed great stores of it. Even now, while he lay unconscious, half dead, his power shaped the world to his will.
Thus the Ukrainians, as much damage as they’d done, had not won the war tonight.
Tony hadn’t been a great student in school. It was boring, and the nuns and priests were mostly assholes, and he hadn’t cared much. But he’d liked history, especially American history. So much of history was the study of war.
Right now, the Vietnam War came to his mind. The more he thought of it, the more it seemed to fit. An entrenched war between two sides whose comparative strengths should have been wildly uneven, and yet no clear victory seemed imminent. Bloody battles full of collateral damage. Splashy offensives that didn’t accomplish anything. Tonight was like the Tet Offensive—a shocking assault, but ultimately a failure.
But Nick was no reckless, blithely arrogant General Westmoreland. Once he was back on his feet, he would find a way to win.
What they’d do in the meantime, however, Tony couldn’t fathom.
Slender fingers laced with his, and he turned to see Billy at his side. Her beautiful dress was a ruin now, and she’d lost the silver chain from her neck. He had no idea where her shoes had gone; she was wearing a pair of hospital-issue slippers. At some point, she’d washed up, but there were still streaks of red in her hair. Fatigue had dug hollows beneath her eyes.
“Do you think you can go home now?” she asked. “It’s almost five in the morning.”
At the least, he needed to get her home—though the thought made an alarm pip in his head. He didn’t want her on her own right now. West Egg hadn’t been hit, nor CBSD, probably because Tony wasn’t important enough to rate the Bondaruks’ attention, but if that changed ...
“If you’re thinking about the club, I don’t want you on your own.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to be. I’m going to close the club for awhile, until this is sorted out. I can’t put my people at risk.” A little laugh, soft and weary, slipped from her lips. “It’ll probably ruin me to be closed, the club’s still in the red, but right now I couldn’t care less about that.”
“You’re in the red? But it’s a hit!”
“I overspent on the build-out, and I haven’t been in business long enough to recoup that. And it’s expensive to be protected by the Paganos, Tony.”
He knew that was true. But they gave the service they were paid for. “But you are protected by the Paganos. And not just because of the vig.”
“I know. It’ll work out, one way or another. I just ... I need to be somewhere quiet and comfortable. I need a shower. I need to get out of these clothes. I need ...” Tears closed off her words, and Tony pulled her into an embrace.
“Let me talk to Donnie, and if he doesn’t need me, I’ll take you home. If he does, I’ll get somebody else to do it, but I’ll get you home.” He kissed the top of her head and smelled blood.
“I don’t want to go home. Cain is there, and he’s called me eight times. I can’t talk to him yet. I told him I was okay, but I don’t want to get into more than that with him.” She lifted her face so she could meet his eyes. “Can I go to your place?”
It had been a long time since he’d had a woman at his place. He preferred to be the one to come and go, on his terms. But he and Billy were beyond that, weren’t they? Even before tonight, they’d been beyond that, and if she was still with him after what they’d just gone through together, then maybe they were in entirely new territory now.
“Yes, you can. I’ve got a couple t-shirts you will look fantastic in.”
~ 20 ~
“This is your place?” Billy asked, peering through the windshield of Tony’s Alfa. He’d pulled into a condominium complex on the south side of the Cove. It was a nice place, but kind of bland.
“Yeah. Why? What’s wrong with it?”
His tone was defensive, so she diffused it with a smile—though she was so tired and stressed the muscles in her cheeks shook with the effort. “Nothing at all. It’s a nice place.”
She hadn’t exactly pictured his home in any detail, but he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d buy a condo in a development that advertised on television. A bit too ‘Wonder-bread-and-mayo’ for a hired gun.
A hired gun. Less than twelve hours ago, because she’d let Tony Cioccolanti, hired gun, into her life, Billy had been in the midst of a shootout that had killed and wounded more people than she had full count of. Not simply ‘bad guys killing bad guys’ but innocent people who’d been minding their business, enjoying a nice evening out, or just working a shift. A sweet young woman who’d just been on a date. Billy was still wearing parts of that sweet young woman’s brain.
And here she was, in his car with him, at his home. She hadn’t shoved him away at her first opportunity in the aftermath. She’d sat by his side all night, worried for him as he’d worried for his injured friends and mourned those who’d been killed. She’d fought with her father, who’d wanted to come to the hospital and collect her, who hadn’t understood why she wasn’t running as fast as she could away from this man and his bloody life.
Billy didn’t wholly understand it herself, but she’d fought with Cain nonetheless.
She could have died tonight. She’d held death in her hands tonight. She still reeked of it now, as dawn dyed the sky pink and gold.
Suddenly, her head was too heavy, and she let it sag until her chin landed on her chest.
Tony reached over and slid his hand under her chin, taking the weight of her head and lifting. “Hey.” His thumb brushed her lips.
She slid her eyes toward him. “I’m okay. I’m just tired.”
“I don’t think anybody’s okay tonight. Let’s go in.”
~oOo~
She was surprised again when Tony ushered her into his condo. It was a nice unit, with gleaming wood floors and cabinetry, but she’d seen that in the ads. What surprised her was his taste. She’d been prepared for either a bland, buy-out-the-store-demos aesthetic, or for midcentury frat-house, but instead, it looked like he’d made choices of things he truly liked, and the result was eclectic and comfortable.
For the past few weeks, what she’d known of Tony was what he’d allowed her to see. He’d come to her every time, controlled their contact every time. This was her very first glimpse of Tony in his natural habitat.
“This is great,” she said, walking into the middle of the large living area. The kitchen and dining area were right up front. The kitchen had dark granite countertops and a peninsula bar overlooking the living/dining space. There were two nice barstools at the counter, but the dining area was empty. He didn’t entertain much, then—that, at least, was not surprising.
An area rug in a colorful, abstract pattern was laid out near a gas fireplace, and he’d made a seating arrangement there, with a comfortably worn brown leather sofa and a couple of slouchy arm chairs, mismatched but complementary. On the wall across from the fireplace was a substantial shelving unit full of electroni
cs: television, gaming console, receiver, and more—and an excellent, vintage Bang & Olufson turntable, and a long shelf at the bottom of the unit packed with LPs. Serious speakers framed the unit.
Billy had grown up around music and musicians; she could appreciate an excellent sound system.
“You want a drink?” he asked, from a few feet away. He was in the kitchen.
“Ice water would be amazing.” Her throat had been dry and sour since the night before, and the bitter bite of hospital coffee hadn’t helped any.
While he filled glasses, Billy continued to look around. The art on his walls seemed to be all photographs, mostly enlarged landscapes, framed in sleek black. Some, she recognized as local areas—the Quiet Cove lighthouse, a few scenes from the Cove Beach, or from the little islands nearby. Others, forest scenes and mountains, were a bit too generic to be recognizable. There were several cityscapes, too, and most of those, Billy knew. The photographer had done some world traveling.
“Did you take these?” she asked as he brought their glasses over.
“My sister, Kiki. She took a class in college. She’s single and still lives at home, so she goes off on a trip every year. Someplace different every time. She takes a lot of pictures. I think she’s pretty good.”
She heard his protective affection for his sister, but he needn’t have worried. “They are good. She’s got an eye. Is she older or younger?”
“Younger, by four years. She’s a graphic designer. I have an older sister, too—Aurora. She works pretty close to you—she manages Boardwalk Tees.”
“Oh, yeah. Cool. Is it just the three of you?”
Tony nodded. “Yep.”
A lot of questions tumbled inside Billy’s skull. She thought of the little she knew of Tony’s father, the man who’d beaten scars into his back. His parents were still together, and his little sister lived at home. She wanted to ask if Kiki was safe, but she held her tongue. This wasn’t the night for that talk—and maybe that wasn’t her business at all.
But she was twining her life with this man’s, and vice versa, and everywhere she looked in his there was violence. The kind that lasted.
Except here. This place, a cookie-cutter condo, was neat and quiet, and showed the man who was more than his gun or his fists or his anger.
Billy finished her water, and almost choked as a yawn took her over mid-swallow. Tony chuckled and took the glass from her. He went back to the kitchen and set them on the counter. “Come on. Let’s shower and go to bed.”
~oOo~
His bedroom was more in keeping with her cookie-cutter expectations; he’d put much less of himself in here. The furniture was a matched set of sleek dark wood, with a smooth, solid wood headboard on a king-size bed. The only thing on the walls was a crucifix. The bed was made, with a thick comforter in stripes of blue, grey, and white. The sheets were white.
He led her through that room to the master bath, which was roomy, and typically high-end suburban, with dual sinks and a large shower separate from a whirlpool tub. Towels were folded neatly in a shelving unit on one wall, solids in alternating white and blue.
Either Tony was naturally neat, or he had a maid service.
Still dressed, he leaned into the shower and turned on the water. “Go ahead and get in. There’s soap and shampoo on the shelf in there. I’ll come in, too, in a sec. That okay?”
There was no scenario Billy could conjure in which she’d want to fuck right now, after everything, but she also didn’t want to be alone. Not even for the length of a shower.
“Yeah. Where are you going?”
“Just gonna check in.” He hooked a hand around her neck and kissed her. “Be right back.”
She watched him go, and marveled. How could this sweet, attentive man be the same man who’d fought a gunfight mere hours before, who’d jumped into the fray and killed more than one man scant feet from where she’d cowered? How could this caring man be the same man who’d tried to force himself on her earlier in the week?
In the back of her mind, she could admit that, while she hadn’t wanted to leave his side all these hours, she’d also been a little afraid to be alone with him. The last time he’d done something violent in the service of Nick Pagano, he’d come at her so hard in the midst of his own aftermath that she’d been sure he meant to rape her.
But tonight, he was calm. Worried for her. Tender.
She stripped off her ruined dress and the black satin thong she’d worn under it. Kicking the little pile of clothes away with the flimsy slippers a nurse had brought her—she had no memory of taking off her strappy sandals, but she’d been sitting in the ER waiting room barefoot—Billy stepped into Tony’s shower.
He’d even gotten the water temperature right.
As she let the water run over her body, Billy thought of the night, not even a week earlier, when Tony had come to her still streaked with blood and full of fire. He’d washed that all away in her shower and come out calm and able to talk.
At dinner, Brenda—poor Brenda—had asked how long they’d been together. Billy had given her a vague answer because she hadn’t known what the right one was. But now, as she watched blood swirl into Tony’s drain, she thought she new. That night, when he’d tried to force her, and she’d let him stay anyway—that was when they’d become a couple.
She was falling for him. A killer. Who would bring violence into her life. Who already had.
Lately, even before last night, she’d found that refrain echoing in her mind: he was a killer. Tony was a killer. But the strange thing was, the refrain brought with it no shock or disgust. It had no more impact than any objective fact. Her name was Billy. Wilhelmina Alexandra Jones. She lived in Quiet Cove, Rhode Island. She had a BA from Smith. Her hair was naturally blonde. Her favorite color was black. And she was sleeping with a killer.
It didn’t matter. She was falling for him anyway.
The shower door opened, and Tony’s strong body came up behind her. He kissed her shoulder and skimmed his hands down her arms. Billy sighed, closed her eyes, and stopped thinking.
His hands gentle on her shoulders, he pulled her back against him, taking her head out of the spray. Then she felt his hands in her hair, and smelled the sandalwoody aroma of his shampoo. The same brand as her own.
He was washing her hair.
It didn’t matter that he was a killer, that his life was violent, that he would make her life violent. Because he was also this man. He was full of contradictions, of light and shadow, and she was falling for it all.
She rested against him. His fingers moved in slow swirls, spreading the shampoo through her short locks as he massaged her scalp. The shower sprayed over her chest, sharp jets from the stream striking her breasts, and Billy began to conjure a scenario in which she’d want to fuck right now. She could feel his interest, pressing on her ass.
Moaning, she lifted her arms, intending to loop them back around his neck, to arch into the sensations of this sensuous bathing, but Tony caught them and turned her to face him. He tipped her head back and rinsed the shampoo away.
She brushed the water from her eyes and opened them. Tony looked down at her. His hair was still mostly dry, sheened with beads of spray and mist. Sandpaper stubble roughed his cheeks, his beard already growing back in.
But it was his eyes that held her captive. Billy saw turmoil spinning in their blue depths, the same kind of turmoil she’d seen the night he’d come too hard at her. The same kind of turmoil she felt now. Life was chaos. Outside this single moment, the world spun wildly.
His eyes left hers as they watched his fingers trail down from her shoulders, slowly, over her chest, her breasts. His thumbs brushed her nipples, back and forth, until she trembled.
“Tony,” she breathed, but didn’t have anything else to say.
His eyes came back to hers, and his hands cupped her face. He bent and covered her mouth with his.
For the first breath, the kiss was just that touch and no more. But it wasn’t enough
, Billy needed something more, something that would meet the madness of the night they’d just spent, the bloodshed and violence and terror. She needed to master it somehow, find a place for it inside her.
In a flash, she understood what Tony had needed the night he’d come to her wearing blood, when he’d been rough and wild and frightening. It was this feeling, this need she felt now to process a horror and make it part of herself, part of her experience, part of who she was now. It was like a primal scream in an argument, or clearing a table in a blast of anger. It was a way to clear out the poison. An antidote.
Tony hadn’t meant to hurt her. He’d thought she was like him. He’d thought she’d understand. And now she did.
She threw her arms around his neck, dug her hands into his hair, and made the kiss what she needed it to be, grinding her mouth against his.
Tony flinched and pulled away. His gaze bored into her, and Billy saw his confusion, his fear of misreading her again.
So she twisted her fingers more tightly in his hair, until he winced from the pull, and she said, “Fuck the shit out of me, Tony.”
He gave it one more beat to study her eyes, and then he gave her what she wanted. His mouth crashed over hers, and he slammed her to the back wall of the shower. His hands dropped from her head to her hips, and he hoisted her up, spreading her wide. And then he was inside her, a forceful thrust as deep as she could take him, so deep and hard it was like a blow to her core, and she reared back, out of the kiss, and cried out.
“Did I—” he gritted as he went still.
She didn’t let him finish. “It’s good! I want more!”
He took her mouth again in another feral frenzy, and he gave her more, until they were both grunting into each other’s mouth with every blow of his body into hers. It hurt, every thrust was a bruising impact, but he reached something she needed, and the pleasure that burst from each surge was deeper and wilder than she’d ever known.
Frantic to have more, have all of him, Billy twisted every part of her body around him she could and writhed and rocked to make each slam of their bodies together as powerful and raw as it could be. She dragged her hands from his hair, pulling strands that stayed tangled in her knuckles, and dug her nails into his back.
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