Golden Eagle (Sons of Rome Book 4)

by Lauren Gilley

  They walked back to her place, which was quickly becoming their place, what with first Jamie, and now Alexei using Lanny’s apartment as a home base.

  Inside, in her cramped, cottage-inspired little space, Lanny had started to fill up the already-tight corners. A gym bag under the kitchen table; razor on the bathroom counter; smelly sneakers and clunky boots spilling out of the rack at the front door. At moments she felt halfway to suffocated; at others, she found herself smiling as she plucked one of his sweatshirts off the back of the couch and tugged it over her head, its sleeves hanging down past her hands. Love was a give and take, and she didn’t mind the compromise.

  “You’re being awful quiet,” Lanny observed, once they were inside, and she was making room in the fridge for his – takeout. She refused, on principle, to even think doggy bag.

  She stowed the steaks away and stood, reaching to pull the elastic out of her hair and shake it out over her shoulders; ah, the bliss of a taken-down ponytail. “I’m thinking.” She frowned to herself, and leaned back against the face of the fridge. She looked at him; really looked. “What did you think of those guys?”

  He stood over the coffee table; he’d pulled another gym bag from beneath it – the underneath of every table held duffels of sweat-wicking clothes – and sorted through its contents, sniffing at a shirt, shrugging, and putting it back in. “The little one was a shithead. But it’s the pretty one I don’t trust.”

  “I thought he was nice,” she said, just to see how he’d respond.

  He paused, and lifted his head, already scowling. “What was it? The hair?”

  She lifted a single brow, a move she’d seen Nikita execute with startling familiarity; a genetic trait, she guessed. “You’re the one who called him pretty.”

  He stared at her a moment, then seemed to realize she was giving him her interrogation face, and resumed sorting through his bag, scoffing loudly.

  “I can only look at them as a human. As a detective,” she reasoned. “So to my mind, the little one – Much – resents being fifteen forever, and is a shithead about it, yeah. But I didn’t feel like they were lying to us. Did you?”

  He paused again, corner of his mouth hitching up in a thoughtful way. When he glanced up again, it was without heat this time. If anything, if she hadn’t known better, she might have said he looked intimidated.

  “He wasn’t lying,” he said, gaze fixing somewhere in the middle distance. “I don’t even really know how I know that, but I do.” He frowned. “But he’s not telling us everything, either. I don’t trust him. And I definitely don’t think Nik and Sasha should trust him.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed. “That’s what I thought, too.”

  Lanny shook his head, looking frustrated. Then heaved a deep breath and picked up the bag. “I dunno. I’m gonna go change.”

  “For what?”

  “I’m working out with the guys tonight, remember?”

  “Oh.” She’d forgotten, in the drama of dinner with two of Robin Hood’s friends. “Right.” She went to sit down on the couch as he headed for the bedroom. “Why the sudden surge in fitness for Jamie?” she asked, calling over her shoulder through the door he’d left open. She leaned forward to reach for a magazine on the coffee table. “He’s got super strength now. What does he need to lift weights for?”

  He snorted. “He needed the super strength just to be able to lift weights in the first place.”

  “Don’t be an ass, Roland,” she said automatically.

  Beside her hand, his phone lit up on the table. An incoming text. She didn’t touch it, didn’t read the screen on purpose – but it was right there. And she saw.

  The text was from a number listed as private. It read: password 2nite is aftershave.

  The screen went black.

  Trina held very still – held her breath – and stared at the blank-faced iPhone. Trying to decide if she felt any particular way about what she’d just read.

  On the one hand: not her phone, not her business. Lanny was an adult; they were in an adult relationship, and she trusted him. Didn’t need to keep tabs on him. She wasn’t his mother…who he needed to call, but that was another issue entirely.

  On the other hand: password for what?

  She heard the floorboards squeak as he moved toward her, and she sat back, letting her hand fall into her lap, magazine forgotten.

  He reentered the room wearing basketball shorts and a fitted t-shirt with the sleeves cut out. She took a moment to look at him – to admire – to see the cut of muscle in his arms, and in his back, through the thin shirt; to notice the ruffled mess of his black hair and the stubble growing in along his strong jaw.

  “You’re not making Jamie feel bad about himself, right?” she asked.

  He dropped his bag at his feet and sent her an offended look. “No.”

  “I’m just asking.”

  “I might be an asshole, but I’m not, like, a monster.” He paused in the act of reaching for his phone, and his brows knitted together. “Or, well…”

  She felt a twinge of guilt. “Lanny–”

  “Anyway,” he said, smoothing his expression and nabbing the phone. He dropped it in the bag with the rest of his gear. “I’m the right amount of asshole for a personal trainer.” He hiked the bag up over his shoulder and turned to her. “I’ll be back late. Don’t wait up.”

  “’Kay.” She smiled, and he leaned down to kiss her goodbye.

  But even an hour after he’d left, she kept thinking about that text she’d seen. Password.

  Nobody needed a password to go lift weights with his friends.

  ~*~

  Super strength, he’d called it. That sounded cheesy, but Lanny hadn’t yet come up with a better way to describe what had happened to his body after Alexei turned him.

  He’d always been strong. His mother – God, he was going to have to call her – had old home movies of him at age five, wrestling with his older brothers, and pinning them. He’d been ruthless even then, crowing about his victories, little fists raised over his head. His mother’s laughter rich and musical from the other side of the camera.

  It was Dad who’d gotten him into boxing. Probably because it was a “gentleman’s sport,” as he’d put it, his accent lending extra credence to the idea. But really it was because Lanny hadn’t had the body type for wrestling; his shoulders too wide, his arms too heavy. And once he’d started hitting things, well…grappling lost some of its appeal. The hit, that satisfying smack, and crunch; watching the other guy’s head snap to the side…that was beautiful. That was a thrill nearly better than sex – and for him, certainly more addictive. He’d been quick on his feet, he could take a hit, and he’d leveled a kind of strength in his own hits that had left trainers delightedly baffled.

  He’d never been a genius; never been a pretty boy. But he could knock the shit out of people, and so he’d poured every ounce of himself into doing just that.

  Until the bar fight. Just stupid, drunken bravado. A long-time rival. And his hand…

  He curled it tight in his hoodie pocket now, as he approached the open gate; he’d always bear the surgical scars down the back of it, but it didn’t hurt anymore. Not even a little.

  Two excessively large and beefy guys stood sentry on either side of the gate; they smelled like protein powder and body spray, and had no necks to speak of. Their plain black shirts, and stances with hands folded loosely in front of them, made Lanny think bouncer. This was a side gig, standing watch at a nine-foot, barbed-wire topped chain link gate at the back of a slimy alley. Not a terrible way to earn extra cash, really.

  “Aftershave,” he told them, as he approached, never slowing, and they nodded. Even without the password, they recognized him by now; he’d been coming at least twice a week for three months, now.

  The alley ended in a brick wall, a wooden door set at its center, peeling green paint. When he gripped the knob, he felt sticky, and greasy, and grit under his palm. He went in, and through a ramshackle on
e-room apartment, old porcelain sink in the corner streaked red with rust stains, bare bulb flickering; voices came from behind the closed door of the bathroom. Another door at the back wall opened up into what had once been a large courtyard, one that serviced all the surrounding buildings that encircled the place like castle walls.

  Big cracks marbled the pavement, and through them pushed dead and dying weeds, crumbling to dust beneath the feet of the spectators. And spectators there were: a crowd of about fifty or so, tonight. Men in ballcaps and leather jackets; blue-collar workers blowing steam after a long day, wannabe mafia types, bookies, and trainers, and fans. Women, too. Some of them looking for work, most of them with their boyfriends.

  You could place bets at the folding tables set up along one wall; buy lukewarm beer and mixed drinks from another. Red plastic cups rolled along in the occasional breeze like tumbleweed.

  And in the middle of it all: the ring.

  It was ugly. Built of plywood and cinderblocks, laid over with mats that stunk so badly of feet he thought they must have been fourth-hand from a gym demolition. It was boxing, yeah, but there was a chain-link cage that closed the fighters in. And there was no bell, and no one was getting disqualified if they threw a low blow.

  It was perfect.

  Lanny wended his way through the crowd, headed for the long row of benches where fighters could set down their bags and get ready. A slim crowd of prospects, he saw tonight, only four men taping knuckles and shaking loose. An awed murmur followed his progress: regular viewers who recognized him.

  “…that guy,” someone said.

  “Oh, is he the one who–”

  “That’s him!”

  “Dude’s a beast!”

  He suppressed a smile and kept going.

  Alexei and Jamie were already here; Alexei sitting on the bench, one foot bouncing, working on the last nub of a cigarette. Jamie stood with his hands in his pockets, shoulders slumped, looking caught between anger and anxiety.

  Lanny really didn’t want to deal with whatever was causing that.

  “Fellas,” he greeted, tossing his bag down. “What kinda money are we looking at tonight?”

  Behind him, Jamie muttered something too low for even Lanny’s new vampire ears to pick up. He wanted to sulk? Fine. Screw him.

  Alexei stubbed his cigarette out on the sole of his boot and said, voice laced with excitement, “A good bit. See that guy over there?” He nodded and Lanny turned to follow his gaze.

  To the far end of the bench, where a fighter sat pitched forward, flexing his already-wrapped hands, a heavyset guy massaging his shoulders from behind.

  “Supposed to be going pro,” Alexei explained. “Everyone’s betting he’ll wipe the floor with you tonight.”

  “Pro?” Lanny said with a snort. “Then what’s he doing here?”

  Alexei grinned, a fast wedge of bright teeth in the dark. “Likes easy pickings, maybe? Wants an ego boost?”

  “Broke, most likely,” Jamie chimed in. He flopped down on the bench beside Alexei with a deep sigh.

  “What’s your problem?” Lanny asked, hackles lifting. He shouldn’t have asked, had planned to ignore him, but the guy’s attitude was worrying at already-keyed-up fight night nerves.

  Alexei nudged Jamie’s shoulder with his own. “Our sweet Jamie is having an attack of the conscience, one might say.”

  “Having a what?”

  Jamie lifted his face, gaze almost pleading. “I’m starting to feel really shady for this.”

  “Yeah, you looked real shady last time stuffing your pockets with cash,” Lanny said.

  He shrugged, like his jacket was uncomfortable, but met Lanny’s gaze without wavering. “What happens when Trina finds out?”

  “You’re really gonna do this?” Lanny pulled his shirt off over his head and Alexei took it from him, to fold it away into his bag. He swapped it for the tape, and Lanny held his hands out to be wrapped. “Really?”

  Jamie winced. “I’ve been thinking–”

  “After I won you all that money, huh?”

  “I don’t care about the money,” he said, his hesitance giving way to true frustration. His jaw set. “I thought you were doing this a time or two. Just to see if you could. But now…Lanny….” He stood, and leaned in close, voice quiet. “This isn’t fair. None of these guys stand a chance against you. You know every time that you’re gonna win.”

  “Fair,” he said with a snort. “You’re worried about fair.”

  “You’re not?”

  Fair.

  “Don’t pick on your brother,” Mom used to tell Pauly. “He’s smaller than you and it’s not fair.”

  But Lanny had been able to take it. He’d been big for his age, and strong, and he’d put his brother on his back. It was picking on the truly scrawny that wasn’t fair. Bullies at school breaking kids’ glasses, spitting in their lunches. It wasn’t fair what he did for a living, standing over bodies that had been raped, and stabbed, and shot, and mauled to death. It wasn’t fair that wars happened, and babies got cancer.

  And it wasn’t fair that one stupid night in a bar ended his boxing dreams. And that illness had almost killed him.

  “Life’s not fair,” he said to Jamie, staring him down. “You drink blood. You could pick that bench up if you wanted and chuck it clear across this courtyard. Is that fair? We’re stronger than other people. Why shouldn’t we get to use that?”

  Jamie’s eyes widened, brows leaping.

  “Leave if you want,” Lanny said. “But I’ve got fights to win.”

  He started to turn away. Alexei had wrapped one hand – expert at it by now – and was working on the second. But he caught Jamie’s fast look of disgust.

  “You sound a lot like your sire lately,” Jamie said, before he moved off.

  Alexei froze. Lifted his head, locked eyes with Lanny.

  Lanny felt a sudden lightning flash of aggression. His hands tightened into fists of their own accord as he listened to Jamie’s footfalls recede.

  “Here.” Alexei tapped the back of his hand, and he flattened it again. “Ignore him. He’s being stupid.”

  “Yeah,” Lanny agreed. But as fast as it had come, that spike of anger faded, and as he stood, watching the top of Alexei’s head, dark hair shining beneath the construction lights, disquiet took its place. After his turning, the first thing he’d done upon sight of Alexei was try to beat the guy to death. And now? He was siding with him over Jamie.

  Probably he ought to reevaluate some things.

  Alexei sat back, looking up at him with an excited smile. “Ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  Behind him, the emcee, a little rat-faced guy named Connor who everyone called Connie, shouted, “Next match!”

  The big man at the other end of the bench stood, face contorted with an eager snarl.

  Alexei slapped Lanny lightly in the chest and said, “Go win our money.”

  In the ring, the winner wiped blood off his mouth with the back of his hand, and his opponent was bodily dragged out, unconscious. Lanny passed the victor on his way in, and the guy grinned at him, nastily, and spat a thick glob of blood at his feet.

  Lanny grinned back. “I’ll see you after I get done with this asshole.”

  ~*~

  Lanny was toying with his opponent.

  Alexei hooked his arms over the fence board rail that kept the crowd off the cage and smiled to himself. Fuck Jamie for trying to bring down the mood tonight. Being a goody-two-shoes choir boy going on about fairness. Alexei still remembered, with aching clarity, what it had felt like to land on the hard stone floor, pinned beneath his papa’s weight, after the bullets tore through Nicholas’s body.

  Fairness had no place in life. Only strength.

  Lanny was quick. For such a muscular man, he stepped lightly on the balls of his feet, almost dancing. So far, he’d only been blocking, moving in, threatening, then moving back. Circling. Drawing more and more forceful punches from his opponent – punches tha
t didn’t land. Vampirism made him strong, and fast, but the technique – the effortless perfection of each movement – was born of expertise and long practice.

  The opponent threw another punch that didn’t land, and grunted in frustration, his already-sweating face going red. “Fuck you, chicken shit,” he said. “Fucking fight me already!”

  Lanny grinned. “’Kay.” And then he launched his offensive.

  He moved in close; no longer dancing, but taking a bold step. The opponent swung, and Lanny batted him away like he was a child. Lanny’s punch caught him on the jaw, and snapped his head back.

  For a moment, the man went limp with shock; he fell back against the cage, hands dropping, not even protecting himself.

  Lanny moved away. Gave him a chance to blink glassy eyes, shake his head, and regain his balance.

  A low, excited murmur had started up in the crowd, bodies pressing along the rail. The champion, undefeated, was stepping back; giving his opponent a chance to recover himself, rather than pressing his advantage.

  The show of mercy enraged the other man; he lurched forward, clearly still dazed, and brought his hands up. “Come on!” he roared.

  And Lanny came.

  He moved in with a few fast, effective jabs that sent his opponent back against the cage with a grunt. But the other man finally got off a lucky shot; his taped fist landed square on Lanny’s jaw. A good hit, from a big hand, and a strong man. Anyone else would have staggered back, half-blind from the sudden burst of pain.

  But Lanny grinned, baring all his teeth, and didn’t budge an inch. Two more hits, and his opponent slumped to the ground, boneless and unconscious.

  A cheer went up from the crowd, underscored by the groans of those who’d bet against him tonight.

  Alexei felt a twist of satisfaction, as Lanny grinned and let Connie lift his bloodied hand up in the air. That was his offspring; his own blood had turned that champion – that warrior. Not just satisfaction, no, but pride. He felt almost like a glowing, proud parent, as Lanny sent that mean, fighter’s grin through the chain link to him, and Alexei grinned back.