Saints and Savages (A Mafia Series Book 2)

by A. C. Bextor

  “Chase,” I ask next. “You haven’t seen him around here either?”

  Shaking her head with pursed lips, she admonishes, “That boy is trouble. The tenants around here try to keep this court clean, but I’m telling you that boy brings in the filth. He’s out all hours of the night, stumbling out of his car, tripping up the stairs. If he weren’t high all the time, you’d think he needed a cane. Man’s lost all the sense God saw fit to give him.”

  Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my wallet. Her eyes widen in greed, so I draw it closer to my body before reaching in to grab my business card.

  Handing it over, I state, “If you see either of them, you call me.”

  “Sure,” she answers on a slight. “But I won’t make you any promises unless he pays me back. I gotta get what he owes me first. Grandkids gotta eat.”

  Searching deeper in my wallet, I pull out a few small bills. Without care, I hand over three twenties. “Here. This covers what Chase owes as well as money for your grandkids.”

  “She didn’t look to be awake when they took her,” she whispers, studying my reaction. She folds the cash and secures the bills in her coat pocket. “She looked so tired the last I saw her. Thinking she was passed out.”

  “They?”

  “The men in black vests. Those men Chase runs with. Justice something or other.”

  Fuck.

  With her attention centered, I don’t waste another second. “Then you’ll call me if you hear anything coming from this address. Vests, Chase, Wren. Anything.”

  “Will do,” she assures, then looks down to my card. “When you find Wren, tell her Mrs. Evers says hello and she’s invited to dinner this Sunday.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  I watch as Wren’s neighbor carefully turns around and maneuvers through the ice and snow in nothing but a pair of beat-up muddied boots which aren’t even tied in the front.

  Grabbing my cell phone, I quickly send Mike a message informing him of what little I’ve found. His return text is immediate, and it’s obvious he’s unhappy.

  Mike 7:31 a.m. Stay the fuck out of this.

  Ignoring his advice, I carefully make my way up to Wren’s small, rundown wooden porch. Rubbing away the snow and ice from the window next to the door, I use my hand to shield the sun in order to get a look inside. My breath fogs the pane before I’m able to get a detailed inventory.

  Walking to the door, I grab the screen, then test the silver handle to find it unlocked. The wooden door opens without much prodding. Once I’ve entered her home, my chest strains heavy. The beat-up furniture, the smell of gas from her furnace, and the breeze from the draft inside sicken me.

  Leaving the front door open to aid in airing it out, I make my way down the hall, stopping at the broken thermostat mounted to the wall next to the washer and dryer. Per the dial, it’s a balmy fifty-eight degrees in here. Wren has no business living in these conditions when she could be staying with me. And once I find her and explain this, I may also wring her neck for doing it for so long.

  The bedroom is as much a mess as the bathroom. On the dresser next to Wren’s bed is a picture of those who fit the mold of parents. Looking to be a new teenager, Wren sits between them, the backdrop showing a brightly painted sunrise and large overly exaggerated pine trees. They were on vacation.

  Wren is looking warmly up to the man at her right as he looks down at her with the same adoration. The woman is smiling directly into the camera. Wren’s expression is that of trust and love.

  Definitely her parents.

  Grabbing the picture, I make my way out of her home and once again curse the day Wren Adler met Chase Avery.

  Ciro’s anger is palpable. His hands are balled into fists, threatening to crush the phone into scattered bits and pieces.

  “Break her,” he instructs again, this time louder. “Her spirit, her body, her mind. Whatever needs broken, you break. I want her scared for her life before she comes here begging for me to save it.”

  Ciro despises having to repeat his demands, especially to the man he had a hand in raising. Ciro is used to giving orders and having them followed through without question.

  For reasons of his own, Ciro wants her broken. To hold Wren over the head of his nephew with not only a crushed spirit but a broken body would further his resolve. Liam will no doubt accept a position in the family if Wren is damaged, in need of his personal care and protection.

  “You’re a sick fuck,” Leglas claims. Ciro listens as the man exhales smoke and sneers to himself before he continues. “You wanted her, we’ve got her. And you’re lucky Elevent has agreed to that. Nothing about the bounty on her man’s head said she was to be broken.”

  “I’m not lucky in anything. This is a plan. It’s my bounty now. Purchased with my money which, I’ll remind you, Elevent already accepted. And the delivery is late. I see no Wren Adler standing before me, do I?”

  “Elevent needed more time. And I’d advise you to calm down, old man. But somethin’ tells me you’re too stupid to take advice from me, so fuck it.”

  Elevent is not only going against an agreement, he’s doing it as if he has any power between us at all.

  Which he does not.

  “We won’t do more business if the order I’ve put in isn’t followed through just as I’ve given it.”

  “Sick fuck,” Leglas states again, this time with an added edge of ire. “We’ll be there soon enough. When we’re en route, we’ll call. Have one of your men meet us at your gate.”

  “Good enough,” Ciro decides.

  Leglas, not letting his point go, sneers, “I don’t like you.”

  Ciro, not giving in, mocks, “My heart weeps the loss.”

  “Dear God, give me a reason to fuck you over. Do it.”

  Without a response, Ciro drops the phone on his desk. When he looks up, he finds Demetrius, his current second-in-command, standing inside the door to his office. His eyes are wide after listening to his cousin delve out such a heinous order.

  Demetrius Marcos genetically inherited his position in the Palleshi reign, as blood is the only tie that binds him to the family business. Ciro’s younger cousin hails from New York, soon outcast there and sent to Boston, only to be rejected again due to his preference in men, not women. Though Demetrius doesn’t find women appealing in any way, it doesn’t stop Ciro from wishing he was the monster he needs for him to be.

  Male unions aren’t welcome in family leadership roles, Ciro and other prominent members of his family believe. However, as he promised Demi’s distressed widowed mother, he took the man into his Chicago family and taught him as much as he’s been able.

  “You’re going to piss Elevent off with your outlandish demands, cousin,” Demetrius rightfully observes. “And you must know that could leave us vulnerable to Saint’s Justice.”

  Ciro inwardly scoffs at the coward’s observations.

  Spinning his gold pen between his fingers, Ciro thinks for only a moment before returning, “Elevent is being paid to do a job. This job is important. You offering me your unsolicited advice on the matter, when it should be you I trust to do these duties, greatly offends me, Demi.”

  “You think I’m not worthy,” Demetrius claims the truth, shamelessly owning it for the first time Ciro can remember. “You think because I love—”

  Ciro’s intentionally drops the pen to fall against the desk in a loud clap. “You love,” he sneers through a callous laugh. “Love.”

  “Yes, cousin. Love.”

  Ciro levels Demi with a disgusted glare. “Your life hangs in precarious balance in my hands. You know this, yet you continuously test the boundaries of it.”

  “If ending my life for loving a soul, not a sex, is worth more than you feel my allegiance to you is, I beg you to end it.”

  Ciro’s disgust turns to admiration, but only in his mind. He’d never admit to Demi that hearing him state his convictions with such bravery has made him proud—maybe for the first time.

  Oft
en he’s been forced to disregard Demi, giving him only menial jobs at best. It wasn’t until Pete’s illness took full effect that he needed Demi to step in and step up to the position he’d been given.

  Xavier, his tried and true soldier, would’ve been his first selection as his second, but leaders must be dignified in nature and cunning in character. Xavier is an animal, a rabid tiger in the jungle of this life who yearns to tear apart the flesh of others on his master’s word.

  “You should consider a trip,” Ciro suggests, sitting up in his chair and spinning it until his full body is facing Demetrius still standing at the door. “Maybe an extended visit to Sicily. A few months’ time away may do you good. Maybe then you’d grow to appreciate your place here.”

  “Am I such a disappointment? You’d send me to another country rather than have me stay here and work for you?”

  “Your work within the family is as tainted as your soiled cock,” Ciro protests calmly, though he feels anything but.

  Ignoring his cousin, Demi tersely charges, “Elevent isn’t a nice man, Ciro. You and this family know that more than anyone. You remember what he’s capable of. Further, his loyalty to you or anyone else can’t be purchased.”

  As Demi walks away, Ciro’s left alone, his blood running hot. With the lamb being led on her way to the slaughter, there isn’t time to contemplate the ridiculous advice given by such a weak link in the family for long.

  There is too much work to be done.

  “Il cuore di una leonessa,” I hear a voice from behind me quietly utter. The heart of a lioness. “Ma ancora solo con la saggezza della sua giovane.” But still only with the wisdom of her young.

  That voice. I know that voice.

  Closing my eyes, I turn around. Startling visions disappear. Those of myself lying in a dirty bed, trapped inside a dark and damp room and suffering against its punishing chill. My heart no longer aches with pain and despair, but flutters with excitement and surprise.

  “Si sono perse?” he questions. You are lost?

  When I open my eyes, my gaze meets his, and I watch in rapture as he stands alone along a deserted city’s skyline. The sun shines brightly above him, marking the sky with its golden rays. He’s standing with his back to a vast amount of water—the Chicago Bay, I recognize.

  “Liam?”

  Nodding, he walks toward me. The familiar scent of him carries with the breeze, causing me to shiver. I stand in place, anxiously waiting to hear his voice settle over me again. I yearn for its calming effect.

  “You are lost,” he states this time.

  “I am. I don’t know how I got here.”

  Liam’s features gentle as he reaches forward and rests his warm hand against my chilled cheek. His small, reassuring smile further lessens the tension, taking me farther from where I’ve been.

  “You’ll find your way, Wren,” he assures. “But you must find your way to me.”

  The empty ache in my stomach pushes me awake to the assaulting smell of salt and spice. My mouth waters, and I swallow hard before waging an attempt to open my eyes.

  I’m so hungry.

  There’s no way to know how much time has passed since I’ve been locked in this room. There’s no reason to guess. So far, the thin light of hope hasn’t diminished completely, but it’s been frayed nonetheless.

  The blinding pain I’d almost forgotten was there, fires across the expanse of my thigh. Fearing what state the wound is in, I run my finger gently across the two gaping holes beneath the now tattered and crusted material of my silk shorts. My touch makes the surface sting. The wound is angry and still bleeding.

  The tattooed older woman Gypsy had sent in was a slight shade less than scary. She didn’t say a word as she ripped off my dingy blanket, grabbed my arms for support, and helped me to the bathroom just across the hall. She cursed a man named Leglas and another named Viper the entire time.

  She never mentioned my wounds or the fact that a man here caused them.

  I’ve never had close girlfriends, so I’ve never experienced trying to go to the bathroom in such close proximity of another. It was awkward. Once I finished my business, the woman didn’t give me a chance to so much as wash my hands or see my reflection in the mirror. I was ushered out, put back in the bed, and then she walked away. Still without ever saying a word to me, yet cursing all the others.

  “You’ll need to eat something as soon as it’s ready,” Gypsy’s uneven voice states, followed by what sounds like a pile of papered trash near my bed being crumpled and kicked away. “It won’t be fancy or what you’re used to, but it’s food and it’ll do.”

  I turn my head in the opposite direction. Thankfully, I’m no longer tied down. With help from Thanatos, I’m sure those here must agree that even if I wanted to run I’m in no condition to do it.

  “Woman,” Gypsy informally addresses, this time using a terser tone. His voice gentles slightly as he directs, “Sit up for me. I need to know you’re okay.”

  Releasing a weighted and burdened sigh, I give in to the temptation of food being offered.

  Once I’m able to focus on the man who’s come to visit, I find Gypsy pointing to my leg as he holds out a fistful of meat.

  His mouth is full, but he still takes another bite before explaining, “I need to look at that. I’ll try not to hurt you, but those cuts need to be cared for and cleaned.”

  “Cleaned,” he says. If my spirit wasn’t so beaten, I’d laugh. Nothing about this place is clean. Now isn’t the time to challenge, though.

  Nodding, I use all my strength to sit up. Before my arms give way to my weight, Gypsy tosses his food on the beaten table next to my bed and helps me upright. His rough hands don’t cause pain or fear.

  Oddly, in comparison to Thanatos, nothing about this man’s touch is painful or scary.

  Once he gets himself situated at my side, he reaches toward the waistband of my shorts with his muscular hands, adorned with rusty silver rings. He tugs on each side only once before I cover his wrists to get his attention.

  “What are you doing?” I question, my voice sounding hoarse, sick, and tired.

  Gypsy exhales and lets me go, sits back a few inches, and then runs his hands over his face. He gives me another exhausted sigh before placing his hands on either side of my legs. When he draws his face closer, I note his eyes are tired and his skin is pale.

  “I said I wouldn’t hurt you,” he says low, then pauses. “You want me to give you my word that I’m going to try not to do that, then you have it.” Moving the ratty sheet aside, he holds it up for me to take. “Use this to cover yourself if you think you need to. While I’m gone to get your dinner, get out of those shorts. I’ll bring you something else to wear after, and you can eat while I’m dressing your wound.”

  “Why are you helping me?” I ask, accepting the sheet along with the fact that he’s going to do whatever he wants, my blessing granted or not.

  Once he stands, he walks to the table to grab the hunk of meat he was eating minutes ago. The black vest he’s wearing fits tight; it’s worn from wear and in need of a good cleaning.

  “It’s not just you I’m helping, sweet pea,” he explains quietly, almost endearingly. “Elevent called me in on this.”

  I don’t understand how he’s helping Elevent or with what, and decide not to question it. Sometimes less knowledge is good. And in this case, ignorance really is bliss.

  “Get out of those shorts and I’ll be back.” He points to my leg again before walking away.

  After he’s cleared the door, closing it softly behind him, I take in a breath and release it slowly.

  With careful caution, I hide as much of myself under the sheet as I can. The material tugs at the still-open wound and I hiss quietly while pulling the dried blood and silk from my skin. Getting a closer look, I find these aren’t just cuts, as Gypsy referred to them.

  These are goddamn stab wounds.

  I don’t want or care to know where Thanatos has gone. As long as he’s kep
t far away from me, I’ll happily do whatever Gypsy says. He’s done nothing to intentionally hurt me, and being that I’m in a dangerous position, I’ll take any help he’s willing to lend.

  Once my shorts are off, I toss them to the floor, then drape the sheet tightly around my upper thighs and hips as much as I’m able. Winded and tired from all the effort the small task took, I close my eyes and set my hands firmly in my lap.

  Liam’s face flashes in my mind just as it did in my dream. His soft words of kindness and encouragement are lost amidst the reality of smoke and dirt. The gentle touch of his fingers, splayed along my jaw, acted as only a short-changed comfort, hurting more now in memory as I sit in the dingy light of this room.

  Is he okay? Has he been looking for me? Has he found Chase?

  What about Georgia and Ed? They must be going out of their minds. I don’t know what day it is but if I’m not back to work on time, they’ll worry.

  The softness of Liam’s care disappears behind the betrayal of the man who put me here. I have no clue where Chase is. The anger that he hasn’t come for me—as I knew he wouldn’t—eats away any good memories I once had of us together. For all I know, Chase is dead—or worse. For the first time in my life, I’ve come to find there are actually worse possibilities than dying.

  The door to the room opens, pulling me from my thoughts.

  Carrying a tray with a plate piled with food and a large glass of water, Gypsy uses his boot to close the splintered wooden door behind him. Beneath his arm, trapped against his ribs, is a tan, padded envelope.

  “Here.” He nods to my hands and his chin lifts, signaling me to raise my arms. “You gotta eat something, but do it slow.”

  When he sets the tray across my lap, I look down to what he’s prepared. The fresh garlic bread still steams next to a plate of just-as-warm spaghetti.

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me till you’ve tried it. Viper made it.”

  Curiousness has me questioning, “You didn’t eat?”

  Gypsy smiles, his dimples showcasing his brilliant white teeth. He also has a prominent dimple on his chin.