Carter: A Mafia Billionaire Romance

by Shanna Handel

  Ironically, years later, he’s the one who brought me into the Bachman family. And taught me everything I know about thievery and organized crime.

  John raised me. We were born Clark and Chet Page. When I was six, our parents were killed in a car accident—or so I was told.

  When I was old enough to be let in on the truth, I’d been stunned. My father had been the victim of a political scheme. He’d been planning to vote on the wrong side of a huge pharmaceutical company. He wanted tougher restrictions on the environmental impact on a small town that housed the medical companies.

  His body was found in the very same river they’d been polluting.

  My mother, unable to live without my father, ended her life with a razor blade in the bathtub. John had been the one to find her.

  If anyone asks, John says she died of a broken heart.

  John has never forgiven the men who’d taken our father’s life. He works in local politics, not only to pull strings and garner favors to protect the secrecy of the Village, he’s also hoping to one day find the man who killed our father. And avenge his death.

  Tonight, we’ve got word of a shipment of cocaine, coming in via a fishing boat on the Hudson. The police had confiscated it, and as per their agreement, sold it to the Highflyers, as we refer to them. They are the country’s most powerful politicians, and they base their activities out of NY.

  Bachmans don’t do drugs. We certainly don’t sell them.

  But we are more than happy to destroy them. I love watching the white powder cascade into the river, swirling as it dissolves.

  Tonight’s mission won’t earn us any money, but John’s doing it as a favor for a man. A guy who’s completely fed up with the high baller politicians showing up to meetings, coked out of their minds. Locking up dealers while they spend their evenings in penthouses, powder covering the glass tables.

  In exchange for the destruction, John will earn an important ally.

  Another player in our game. One who will ensure our safety. And give us information.

  A name and address he’s desperate to know.

  It’s a moonless night. Clouds move across the dark sky, blocking out even the star’s light. We’re on a seldom used part of the river. The man driving the boat is Bachman friendly, and we’ve arranged for him to meet us here.

  Brett is with John and me. He usually leaves missions to us younger guys, but Tess is working late, crunching the numbers of this month’s pulls. Brett wanted some guy time; he’s brought along a fifth of rum and a deck of cards, always one to create an impromptu party. It should be a tame evening, so it’s a good one to have him along. He has a battery-operated lantern and sets it up on a folding card table we keep beneath the boat. We could be here awhile, and John and I are happy to have the company. Brett’s got us both rolling, telling us stories of his first botched mission—one that took place twenty years ago.

  We’re just a few hands into a game of 313, when Brett begins clutching at his chest.

  “You okay, man?” John asks him, putting his hand on Brett’s shoulder.

  The color is quickly draining from Brett’s face but he says, “I’m good. Just a little heartburn. I knew I shouldn’t have eaten that second helping of eggplant parm, but you know what a great little cook my Tessie is. Even though she’s swapped her butter for olive oil, I still love it.”

  John looks to me. I shrug. Because I have several degrees in health and wellness, the family treats me like the residing doctor.

  I’m not a doctor.

  But I don’t think we need one to see that this man is struggling.

  His face is turning pale, almost green in the glow of the lantern. Once more, he clutches at his chest.

  John’s eyes cut to mine. His gaze echoes my own thoughts. Brett isn’t looking too good.

  We need this shipment destroyed. We need this new ally on our side. It’s imperative.

  Brett senses John’s and my concern. “Look, fellas. I’m fine. Truly, I am. I just get these pains every—”

  Without warning, Brett’s doubled over. He’s making a strange groaning sound and he’s holding his left arm.

  I meet John’s gaze. “He needs medical attention. Now.”

  Fear flashes in John’s eyes. Brett is like a father to him. He’s been mentoring John for years. I feel a pang in my own chest at the look on John’s face. “Let’s get him to a hospital.”

  “Of course.” I leave them and go to the driver, telling him to get us to the nearest dock. I call for an ambulance, giving them directions of where to meet the boat. Then I pace the small floor, while John sits, his arm around a moaning Brett.

  This is bad.

  I call Tess. I call Rockland. I call Bronson.

  They will all be at the hospital before us.

  We shouldn’t have let him come.

  But how could we have known? Hell—his ailment isn’t even from the mission. It’s the result of too much fat and sugar over the years. I’ve told him, how many times, to come down to Barbells and get on a treadmill? He’s one of the most lethal men I know. And now, his life is at risk because of his love of street food and overeating his wife’s cooking.

  My anger is misplaced. I love the man and I’m worried.

  I run my hand through my hair. We are pulling up to the dock. The ambulance is waiting. Its lights flash red, its sirens wail in the night.

  There’s a stretcher and three EMTs. John and I each duck under one of Brett’s massive shoulders, hoisting him from the bench and helping him out of the boat. His face is colorless. His eyes glassy. The EMTs take over, and moments later, he’s in the ambulance and the doors are closing. They pull away and John and I are left standing, watching the red lights disappear.

  There will already be three Bachmans at the hospital, waiting for Brett.

  John’s thinking what I’m thinking, and his voice is thick as he says, “There’s not much we can do now, except get in the way. Let’s go see if we’ve missed that boat.” He swallows hard and when he gives the driver directions, his hands are trembling.

  John wants nothing more than to be at the hospital with Brett. Watching over him in case the situation takes a dark turn.

  He can’t be there.

  He needs to be here.

  This is the Bachman way.

  We have work to do. The Village is still counting on us to secure this tie with the senator. And personally, we need this information.

  We stand on the boat, holding onto the rails, as we glide over the water. As we gain speed, the cold air turns bitter against my face. I pull my jacket tight around my torso. We’re looking for the other boat, but there’s no one in sight. John tells the driver to slow to a stop. We’ll sit and wait a bit.

  I want to comfort my brother. Tell him Brett will pull through. But the words won’t form in my mouth.

  I gaze over the water, searching.

  A heavy silence hangs between us. Neither of us want to speak of Brett.

  John clears his throat. I know what John will say before he asks it. With Brett gone, he goes into older brother mode, asking about my life, keeping his mind off his ailing father figure. “How are things with Sasha?”

  “Excellent.” And they have been. I try to play it cool, but a smile stretches across my face. I can’t hide it from him anyway—he’s always known how crazy I am for her. Things are finally right between her and me.

  He smiles back. “Good to hear. And how are things going with the lifestyle changes?”

  “Also excellent.” I give him a nod. “Everything is as it should be.”

  “And she couldn’t be happier?”

  “Yes. Except one thing.” The issue that’d been nagging me for weeks comes into my head and for whatever reason, I always spill my thoughts when I’m with John. “Sasha has an... idea.”

  “That sounds dangerous,” he laughs.

  “When it’s Sasha... yes.”

  “What’s this idea of hers, then?” he asks.

  “She wa
nts to know why Bachman women can’t participate in criminal activity.”

  “And you’ve explained that as the head of the household, we protect our women, including excluding them from illegal activities?” John snaps.

  “Of course I did,” I say.

  His brows raise. “But she wouldn’t take no for an answer?”

  “She wants to come on a mission. And I have half a mind to let her. She’s faster than any of us. She’s sharp as a whip. She’d be great,” I say. And she would. But John and I both know this won’t be happening.

  John’s eyes lock on mine. He holds my gaze. “You need to get rid of that notion as fast as possible.” His brow narrows at me. “By any means necessary.”

  It’s a threat. And the end of the discussion.

  I give him a nod, showing my acceptance.

  I believe in the hierarchy. Though I find our ways a bit archaic and sexist at times—probably why it took so long for me to finally punish Sasha—they work.

  And I’ve committed to them.

  I told Sasha I would take the idea to the men. I have.

  When I get home, I will tell her how it’s going to be. And enforce the rules.

  As harshly as I need to.

  And I’m perfectly comfortable with that.

  We see the boat.

  The approaching vessel flashes lights, twice, as per our directions. It pulls up next to us. The exchange is made. They vanish into the dark night. Silently, shoulder to shoulder, John and I work as brothers to dispose of the goods. The deed is done. We give our driver the signal.

  We head for home. John gets a message on his cell.

  A text.

  Brett Bachman is dead. Massive heart attack.

  A heavy silence sits between us. The boat speeding over the waters. The air is frigid. My arm is around my brother’s shoulders. I pull him in to me. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as a single tear rolls down his cheek.

  We both know what this means. It’s all been laid out to us from the beginning.

  Not only have we lost Brett, but John will move up. Take his place as Bronson’s right-hand man.

  Joshua will move up, joining John.

  I’ll replace Joshua.

  Putting us in more danger than ever before.

  The boat takes us to our car. John makes a call on his burner phone. Informing his contact the deed is done. And receiving the information he’s hungered for.

  To soothe the ghosts of our past—the name and address of the man who was responsible for our father’s death.

  My hands shake. My gut turns. I know what’s next.

  We kill the man who killed our father. Avenging the lives of both our parents.

  John’s eyes cut to mine. He speaks softly as he drives. “You don’t have to go with me if you don’t want to. You were just a kid when it happened.”

  “There’s no way you’re going without me. Just tell me, one more time, why he needs to die.”

  John sighs, leaning back in his seat. His fingers wrap so tightly around the steering wheel, his knuckles go white. When he speaks, his tone is murderous. “I got word that he’s up to his old tricks. Another good man voted against him. And as a result, another son lost a father.” His eyes cut to mine and what I see in them wrenches my gut. Then he says, “An eight-year-old boy and a four-year-old girl.”

  Ice forms in my heart. My hand goes to his glovebox, extracting what I’ll need to do what I have to do. “Let’s go.” I turn my gaze to the road before us.

  My jaw clenches, my palms sweat. The weight of the gun is heavy against my hands. It isn’t always easy being a Bachman.

  * * *

  Sasha

  Carter said no.

  The heads have denied my request to go on a mission.

  Even though I could kick most of their asses.

  My mind wanders to that punishment fuck Carter gave me, and how he can hold both my wrists between only two of his fingers.

  I swallow hard. So... I can’t kick their asses, but still... I could have been there with Carter last night. John would have been free to go to the hospital and be with Brett as he took his last breaths. I totally could have handled that mission. Carter knows it. John knows it. And I know it. But because I have a vagina and tits, I’m not going to be having any exciting changes in careers.

  I guess I’ll stick with teaching classes.

  Oh, and my latest hobby. One Carter has forced on me. Cooking.

  I despise it.

  Poor Tess lost Brett. Massive heart attack. She’s beside herself with grief. We’ve all tried to reach out to her—I even baked her a casserole that looked almost edible—but she’s become a recluse. Bronson’s called Rockland, asking him to pay a visit and check on our residing widow.

  John’s moved into Brett’s slot, Joshua has moved up to John’s position, and Carter to Joshua’s.

  Which means he’s working longer hours. He’s grown tired of takeout. Since he’s busy with family stuff, I don’t see him as much at the gym. But every night at seven o’clock, whether he has to go back out afterwards or not, he comes home for dinner.

  And he demands a home-cooked meal.

  It’s healthier, he says. It’s good for you to learn to cook, he says. Mary will teach you.

  Well, it turns out Mary is a better baker than cook. And I suck at cooking.

  So far, after a week of failed attempts, save the casserole, I’ve given up. I’ve taken to buying takeout from places a bit further from the Village. Hole in the wall eateries we’ve never been to. And serving them in our dishes.

  Carter has been none the wiser.

  Tonight, we’re having a delicious chicken and asparagus pasta. It’s light, fresh, and will pair nicely with the bottle of white wine I’ve chilled. And the bread Mary baked this morning.

  I’ve laid it all out on the table, fine china and all. Now, I’m just waiting for Carter.

  Six fifty-five and the door opens. I jump up from my chair to greet him. He looks worn out but happy to see me. I can’t imagine the stress he’s under with moving up and I wrap my arms around his neck, kissing him.

  “Mmm, smells delicious,” he says, eyeing the table.

  “Sit, sit,” I say, ushering him to the table. “We don’t want it to get cold.”

  He sits down, eyeing the meal. “You cooked all of this? Wow—Mary must be some teacher.” He lifts his fork, taking a generous bite. His eyes light up. “It’s delicious.”

  I try it for myself. It’s creamy and garlicy and amazing. A little too amazing. I feel my cheeks flush. “Mm hmm,” I murmur, nodding my head and reaching for my wineglass.

  He takes another bite. He’s looking down at his plate. He asks me, “How did you cook it?”

  I gaze over the plate, studying the foods. The chicken has grill marks on it, as does the asparagus. There are little flecks of green in the cream sauce. “I... grilled the chicken and vegetables. Then I chopped up some herbs. Baked the noodles, and voila!”

  “And the sauce?”

  “Just melted a little cheese.”

  “What type?”

  “Velveeta?” I ask, my brow furrowing.

  He puts his fork down. His eyes meet mine. “If I went into the kitchen right now, I wouldn’t happen to find a Café Fresca bag in the trash can, would I?”

  Oops.

  “I... er... um...”

  He looks over his plate. “Because, if I’m not mistaken, this is the same dish I ordered there today, at lunch. That café is run by a man who’s shown interest. Bronson took me with him to check the man out. He saw this dish and wanted to try it.” His gaze locks on mine. His left eyebrow is rising high.

  There are a lot of takeout bags in the trashcan right now. Probably a whole week’s worth. I decide to come clean. My fork drops to my plate with a clank. I heave a sigh and fess up. “I’m a lousy cook, Carter.”

  “I know, baby.” He smiles.

  Relief washes over me. I smile back. This is one of those cute little thin
gs we will laugh about. I can already picture Mary chatting with the girls about our failed experiment. Carter wanted Sasha to cook, but she’s just terrible. He caught her faking takeout for her own cooking and the two of them laughed and laughed—I reach for my wineglass. The wine is sweet and tart and cool. Just laughed and laughed—

  “Baby girl?” he says, using that tone that makes knots tie up in my stomach.

  I swallow my wine too hard. Choking on it and spitting it over my plate, I reach for my cloth napkin and dab my lips. “Yes, darling?”

  He says, “I’d like to have a little chat with you. Upstairs in ten.”

  The knots in my stomach become an impossible tangle.

  He’s been even more strict since he’s risen to second in command. He worries about me. That if I can’t do as he says, I’ll put myself at risk.

  And judging by some of my past decisions, I can’t say he’s wrong. I lift my napkin from my lap, folding it and putting it on the table.

  A lie is a lie.

  I stand on weak knees, giving him a demure look, and turn to go upstairs.

  He’s watching me leave. “Good girl.”

  I trudge up to the third floor. I sit on the bed. I wring my hands in my lap.

  I wait.

  Ten minutes has gone by. He hasn’t come.

  I start squirming. My eyes go to the wall. Where the strap hangs. It’s beautiful. Italian leather. He’s hung it where it’s visible from passersby view on the street.

  A reminder to the Village that Sasha’s been taken in hand.

  I swallow hard. Icicles form on the knots in my stomach.

  The sound of heavy footsteps makes my muscles tense.

  He’s here. And he’s huge.

  He stands before me. His arms cross over his chest. His biceps bulge. His left brow goes up, up, up as he stares at me.

  My gaze drifts down to my hands in my lap.

  “Baby girl. You’ve been lying to me.”

  A flush warms my chest, creeping up to my cheeks.

  “Judging by the evidence in the trash, you’ve been lying to me for quite some time.”

  I bite my bottom lip. My hand goes to my hair, tugging.

  He says, “Look at me.”