My Every Breath

by Brittney Sahin

  Slight tremors scrape down my arm, like needles pricking my fingertips. I know this isn’t my moment—my moment to run. I need to be patient. Shooting Rory isn’t part of the plan, even if I’d like to kill the bastard right now.

  And so, I lower the gun and set it on his desk.

  Rory’s eyes flit from the gleaming metal up to me.

  Hopefully I bought Cade enough time to get away before Rory does something stupid like chase after him.

  I didn’t have a choice but to grab the gun Rory keeps in his bottom drawer, acting like I was on his side. I can’t let someone else get hurt because of me. It’s happened too many times.

  “Should we resume the conversation we were having before that asswipe interrupted us?”

  I hiss too low for him to hear. “Nothing has changed. I don’t want to be with you.”

  Before Cade blasted into the room like a tornado—a sexy storm—Rory was making his usual attempt to get me to sleep with him.

  But tonight, he didn’t want to take no for an answer. He was jealous when he saw me at the bar with Cade. I don’t normally make the mistake of talking to another guy like that.

  “I’m tired. I’d like to go home.” I start for the door, hoping he won’t say—

  “No.”

  The one word I didn’t want to hear, and it’s enough to make me stop in my tracks.

  His heavy footsteps from behind have my skin crawling.

  A hand trails down my arm as he presses up from behind and shifts my hair to one shoulder. His hot breath is at the shell of my ear.

  “Rory.” His name is more like a plea from my lips because I have to walk such a fine line between appeasing him and standing my ground—just enough to try and keep him at bay without infuriating him.

  “The only reason why I don’t bend you over and take you on my desk right now is out of respect for your father.” He nips my earlobe. Bile rises in my throat when he jerks me around to face him. “But you better believe my patience is wearing thin. You either get on board with the idea of being with me and soon, or I’ll take matters into my own hands.”

  I curb my urge to remind him that my father would kill him if he ever forced himself on me—consequences be damned.

  My dad might be a ruthless hitman, but he’d walk through hell and back for me, which is something I’ve learned over the years.

  A large hand slides up my chest. He forcefully grips my chin, holding my eyes with his. I try to swallow back the desire to spit in his face.

  He’s breathing harder. The want in his eyes is there, the violence storming in his irises, thick and heavy.

  He deliberates, but releases me and steps back, raking a hand through his dark hair before turning away. “Be sure Malcolm takes you straight home.”

  The tension starts to drift from my shoulders, working its way down as I try to reclaim a sense of safety and walk toward the door.

  “Gia?”

  I pause and look back. “Yeah?”

  “What was the name of that wanker?”

  My spine bows at his question. “He didn’t say.”

  “Are you lying?”

  “No, of course not.” And he should believe me after the stunt I pulled with his gun.

  He can’t hide the cool smugness that’s taken up residence on his face since I obediently sided with him. He’s relishing in the win.

  But, it was a small price to pay to keep Cade safe. “Good night,” I mutter and head out into the hall.

  I start to close the door all of the way but hesitate.

  Something inside of me says this might not be over, and so I listen through the crack, waiting for what I’m worried might happen next.

  “I need a favor after you drop Gia off at home.” He must be on the phone talking to my driver. “Pull the surveillance cameras from the last thirty minutes and get me a name on the guy who was talking to Gia at the bar. He’s familiar, and I want to know why.”

  3

  Cade

  Mya’s lips twist at the edges and her eyes widen from the shock of my recent statement. “Can I quote you?” She lifts her pen and starts writing.

  “No.” My mouth tightens and I lean back in my desk chair and study her.

  She’s gorgeous. Long, strawberry-blonde hair, dark brown eyes, tan skin, and amazing curves.

  But I can’t make a move on her.

  She’s not only a journalist but my friend’s daughter.

  I need to get laid, though. I reach for my phone, remembering Lydia texted me right before Mya came into my office ten minutes ago.

  Lydia: Are we on for drinks tonight?

  Lydia’s the perfect friend with benefits. Reliable, noncommittal, and never jealous. She knows how I like it in bed and never asks for more than sex. She’s not clingy or after my money. Hell, she’s richer than I am.

  So, yeah—the perfect woman. Just not someone I want to marry. And she’s not eager to run to the altar either.

  It works for us.

  I consider replying to Lydia’s coded text for fucking, but tonight might not be the best night for it, even though I’ve developed a serious case of blue balls since meeting Gia.

  Gia’s beautiful on an entirely different level than any woman I’ve met, but I need to get her out of my head after what happened at the club.

  Thinking about a woman who pointed a gun at me is a waste of time.

  I set my phone back down when I notice Mya’s eyes skate down my chest before settling on my hands.

  Her cheeks turn a little pink when she realizes she’s been caught.

  She’s shy. Too innocent for me.

  “Mya, the only reason you’re here is because your dad is one of the only decent judges in this city, and he called me last night requesting this last-minute meeting with you. I never take interviews, but he asked, and so—”

  “Wait! What?” She taps the notepad against her thigh. “I thought I got this interview on my own. I hate when he interferes.”

  I cock my head, studying her. “Have you ever heard of me giving an interview before?”

  “No.”

  I lift my palms. “Any more questions, then?”

  “Yeah. Why did you and Veronica break up?”

  “That’s old news.” The governor’s daughter—the engagement I never wanted—is another reason I’m not looking to get serious with anyone in the foreseeable future.

  My father strong-armed me into being with her for business purposes since he views relationships as marriages of opportunity. But as soon as I kicked him out of the company, I ended things with Veronica. I can’t say she was too upset about it. She knew I didn’t love her and never would.

  “And you haven’t answered the question in the two years since you split.” She straightens in her seat, taking on a greater air of confidence.

  “And I’m not about to start.”

  “Are the rumors true, though? Can you at least answer that? Are you really screwing all of New York?”

  “Only the good half,” I mutter.

  She starts scribbling on her pad.

  James, my publicist, is standing in the doorframe of my office, and he’s glaring at me. “Don’t write that shit down.”

  Mya looks over her shoulder at him and stops writing.

  “Sorry I’m late. Any questions you have about the company should be directed to me,” James says while approaching the desk, his forehead creasing with anger—probably at me for starting the interview without him.

  He’s my go-to for fixing shit, and my love life is the kind of shit he’s been dealing with lately. My brother is the one normally in the public eye, but ever since he left the business and I took over as owner and CEO, the media has been all over my case.

  Manhattan is known for being a rumor mill, and my sex life is front-page entertainment news.

  Can’t a guy get laid without social media needing a play-by-play?

  “Come on.” James flicks his wrist, motioning for her to stand.

  Her gaze
moves over her shoulder and across the room to someone else instead.

  Corbin. Looks like my brother decided to make a rare appearance today.

  “Uh, one last question before I go.” She clears her throat and redirects her attention to me. “What were you doing with Jerry Chase at a strip club Friday night?” She reaches into the bag at her side, retrieves her phone, and slides it across my desk.

  My jaw tightens at the image of Jerry, Corbin, myself, and the guys in front of the club. “How much do you want for that?” I can feel the tic in my cheek as I clench my teeth. “And were you seriously following me?”

  I stand and come around my desk before I know it. I’ve been wound tighter than normal ever since meeting Gia, so adding this to the mix is not the right damn time.

  “Easy,” Corbin says as James snatches the phone off my desk.

  “Why would Jerry go to a place like McCullens, unless it was for work? I didn’t see him escort anyone out in handcuffs.” Mya rises and holds her hand out, palm up, requesting her phone back from James. “That’s obviously not my only copy.”

  After James hands it to her, she shoves it into her purse. Then she looks me square in the eyes, not a speck of intimidation evident. Maybe I had the judge’s daughter all wrong. Maybe she’s not so timid. But she should be fucking terrified, because I’m hanging on the edge right now.

  “So, you were following Jerry?” This doesn’t piss me off any less. Jerry’s a good guy, and a damn workaholic. He doesn’t need this shit right now.

  Corbin comes up next to me and wraps a hand around my forearm for a brief moment, urging me to back down. He can probably tell by the gruff sound of my voice that I’m losing my temper.

  Her brows pull together in defiance. “Answer my question first.”

  Who the hell does this woman think she is?

  A judge’s daughter. I release a breath and step back.

  “It was a bachelor party,” Corbin answers for me as I go to the wall of windows and press my palm to the glass, looking down at the city while it continues to roar to life as if some little journalist didn’t just fuck up my day.

  So much for doing friends favors. It clearly bites you in the ass.

  “How much for the photo?” James repeats my earlier question.

  “Not for sale.” She sputters out a response fast, and I can tell she’s going to be trouble.

  “Everyone has a price,” I say casually and tuck my hands in my pockets.

  “Even you?”

  She’s got me there. Now that my father isn’t in New York—the only person who has ever been capable of pulling my strings—no, I can’t be bought. But I’m an exception to the rule.

  “Why’d you go to that club?” Mya asks.

  I drag up images of Friday night, and with the memories comes the aching familiarity in my gut again.

  When I face the room, James is eyeing me, giving me that don’t say shit look he’s mastered so well over the years. He had to work for my prick father before me—so he’s familiar with these kinds of situations. And he’s one of the few people who aren’t afraid of me, which is good. I need someone to call me on my shit when need be. It’s a rarity, but still . . .

  “We. Went. To. A. Strip. Club,” Corbin says slowly, enunciating each word to be a dick.

  And she’s not fazed. “But why that one? There are plenty to choose from.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I interject, my patience paper thin. “If you want to keep your job, I’d suggest you not share that image with anyone else.”

  I surge forward and come to an abrupt stop in front of her, so close I can smell her flowery scent.

  She sucks in a deep breath and holds it. Good. She’s finally scared.

  I grate out, “Back off whatever story you’re working on. Leave Jerry alone. And do yourself a favor: find a nice cushy job writing reviews for movies or something. It’ll be better for your health.”

  “Did you know that club is run by the Irish mob?” she continues to press.

  Her question strikes me hard. And now I know why she’s really here. It has nothing to do with me or Jerry. This should ease my frustration, but it doesn’t.

  Irish mob.

  Gia.

  Fuck . . .

  “There’s still an Irish mob in New York?” Corbin glances at me and then back at the eager reporter. “Thought that was a Boston thing.”

  Her shoulders sag. “Well, there is, but it’s different now. They’re not like the Westies from Hell’s Kitchen. They’re more modern and a lot wealthier.”

  “Honestly, none of this matters right now.” James arches his shoulders back and lifts his chin to gain another inch. “You need to leave.”

  I’m not exactly shocked to learn the asshole in the suit is a criminal, but hearing it right now is like a punch to the gut. What the hell is Gia doing mixed up with the mob?

  Mya looks at me for a moment as if I’ll be the one to save her, to offer her a chance to stay longer. Good fucking luck with that.

  “We’ll pick this up another time, then.” A puff of air escapes her lips and she leaves.

  “Jesus,” Corbin says under his breath before dropping onto the couch by the bar. “She’s hot, though. Maybe I can get her number.”

  “She’s Judge Vanzetti’s daughter. You know, the one who dropped the charges against you last year for that illegal race you were in.”

  “No shit?” Corbin smiles. “Well, she doesn’t look anything like her father.”

  “You think I better call her dad? Let him know his only child could end up at the bottom of the Hudson if she’s looking into the mob?” James asks, scratching his graying beard.

  “No. It’s her life.” Guilt has my stomach twisting at the possible thought of something happening to Mya, though. “Shit. I’ll call him.”

  “Okay, good. Try and stay out of trouble.” James heads for the door. “That goes for both of you.” His words hover in the air even after he’s gone.

  “Why are you here?” I eye my brother, waiting for him to lay some BS on me.

  “Heading to Vegas for a race, and I wanted to let you know.” He shrugs.

  “Like, warning me you might need to be bailed out of jail?”

  Why does he have to be an idiot and do this shit? I mean, word is he’s one of the best streetcar racers out there, and so I know he’ll be fine . . . well, fine is a broad term, but damn it, I can’t keep him out of prison forever. And his racing is going to give our sister an ulcer one of these days.

  “I’ll be good. No worries.” His attention deflects to my assistant standing in the doorframe with a folder in hand.

  “Not now,” I bark, too much edge to my voice.

  She immediately turns away, closing the door behind her.

  “I thought you were turning over a new leaf and trying to be less of a douche at work. You know, less like Dad.”

  Dad.

  A word that rarely passes between us.

  My heart grows thick, hardening like my arteries are clogged, as I think about my father and the shit he put us all through.

  It still kills me that even to this day my brother and sister don’t really know the real me. Of course, I’m not even sure who the hell I am anymore.

  But ever since I took over the business, we’ve been trying to build a relationship again, to start fresh. I’m trying to do better at being less of a dick to the people in my life.

  I’ve had walls up for so long, though, I’m not sure if I can really ever let anyone in, which is why I stick to my pseudo-relationships. No personal questions, nothing too intimate, no opening up old wounds by dissecting feelings.

  And no matter how much my mother has tried to stay in my life, even though I don’t want her here, and no matter how much I try to allow Corbin or my sister into even one corner pocket of my mind, it’s hard.

  Walls. Ten feet high. Thick and concrete.

  We don’t do emotions in this family, Dad once told me when I tried to talk to him. We do
money. Yeah, that’s the fucked-up shit he’d say to us kids. I was eight when he spoke those words, and I never opened my mouth about my feelings again after that fantastic heart-to-heart.

  I drag my attention back to my brother who is staring at me, waiting for my typical asshole response. “And I thought you were supposed to stop screwing the grad school therapists the courts keep assigning to you whenever you get your ass in trouble.” The mere mention of my father is like a cool whisper through my veins, making all my organs fucking freeze.

  “Hey, at least they’re not undergrads.” He smiles. “Cue eye roll . . . Yup, there it is.” His mouth broadens even more as he approaches my desk.

  “Get out of my office,” I grumble.

  “Sure, as soon as you tell me what the hell is going on with you. You’ve been high-strung—well, more than normal, since Friday night. You ever gonna tell me why we had to bail like a bat out of hell from the club—a club that’s apparently run by the mob?” His brows rise as he braces the desk, attempting to bait me into a conversation we both know full well won’t go far.

  I swallow, tightening my grip on the cell I just picked up, clutching it like it’s a stress ball.

  “You got that look, man.” He pokes the air.

  “What look?”

  “When we’re at the gun range and you’re focused on a target, or when you’ve seen a woman you decide you”—he pauses to use air quotes—“have to have.”

  He shoots me a grin as if he’s pleased he’s cracked me, that he’s figured me out.

  “You look determined, bro. You want to tell me what’s going on?” He glances left, then right, and shrugs. “Because I don’t see a woman, and I’m pretty sure you don’t have a pistol hidden in your desk. Plus, there’s no bull’s-eye in here.”

  I crack a smile. “You so sure about that?”

  I do have a target in my mind.

  Well, targets. Plural. One I’d like to screw, and one I’d like to shoot. But neither will happen, so . . .

  He chuckles. “I don’t know. Something is off with you.”

  I shake my head. I can’t have this conversation right now. “Just go win your race, okay? And don’t fucking die.”