Saints and Savages (A Mafia Series Book 2)

by A. C. Bextor

  “Ciro,” I hiss. Lowering my voice, I whisper. “You know I love you, Pete, but your boss isn’t very friendly.”

  Pete laughs, covers my hand on the bed with his, and replies, “I love you, too, little bird. I’m betting the old man has already figured out you’re a pain in the ass.”

  Smiling, I slap his arm. “Well, it looks like I’m your pain in the ass, at least for a few days.”

  Pete’s happy expression transfers to worry. When he catches that I’m following his reaction, he smiles, but it’s not genuine.

  “So, you wanna tell me where Liam’s run off to?” he asks. “I haven’t seen him in a couple of days.”

  “Nope. No idea.”

  Pointing to my bandaged leg, then up to my bruised but healing face, he asks, “What’s happened to you?”

  “Oh, that. It’s nothing.”

  “Wren,” he starts, indulging in a fatherly tone I’ve rarely heard him use. “What happened to your leg?”

  “Really, Pete, I’m fine. Liam’s taking care of it.”

  “But yet you have no idea where Liam has gone?”

  “Nope. No idea. He left a while ago. I’m hoping he brings Cliff back with him.”

  Pete’s eyebrows furrow. “So he plans to stay here at Ciro’s, then.”

  My face reddens. I can’t hide my relief, or what Liam and I have growing between us.

  “Little bird,” Pete admonishes. “You and Liam—”

  “So, I’m starving! How does lunch sound?”

  Pete laughs, pointing to a phone next to his bed. “Dial 11 to the kitchen. Penelope will answer. Ask her to bring up lunch for two, or three if she’d like to join us.”

  “A picnic. Yes, let’s all have a picnic in your room and watch really old movies. Have you seen The Breakfast Club?”

  Pete chuckles, his belly bouncing as I grab the phone to make the call.

  Once the food’s been taken away and Penelope disappears, Pete lies back, blinking slowly. He’s exhausted. He’s also shivering.

  “Can I get you anything?” I offer. “Coffee? Cocoa? Tea?”

  “Socks,” he requests. “Penelope dumped most of my things in the drawer over there.”

  Moving quickly, I open the top drawer and muddle through until I find what I need. As I pull out a pair of black fuzzy socks, a small picture drops faceup and I freeze. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.

  I recognize the woman in the photo. I’ve seen her before. Somewhere. Sometime. But I can’t remember when or where.

  “Little bird,” Pete calls. “What is it?”

  Turning to him, I hold the picture in my hand. Pete zeroes in on my focus, and his happy expression falls.

  “Who is this woman?”

  “Her name is Faina Zalesky.”

  Zalesky.

  The name alone incites terror. I remember, years and years ago, there were news clippings and tabloid coverage about a woman named Faina Zalesky. She’d been murdered in her own city.

  Her family none other than the same who branded Chase.

  The photo is a close-up of only her. She’s young, younger than I am now. She’s smiling, but behind her eyes there’s a deeply rooted sadness. My heart hurts looking into them.

  “Why do you have a picture of this woman?”

  “Do you know her?” he asks instead of answering. “Do you remember something about her?”

  Shaking my head and looking down at her again, I try to recall but can’t. “She looks familiar, but I wouldn’t have a reason to know her. Would I?”

  “No, Wren,” he answers quietly, then calls, “Come here. Bring the picture, will you?”

  As I sit next to Pete in his bed, he takes the photo from my grasp and studies it with indifference. As if he doesn’t personally know Faina. But why have a picture? Why keep the picture somewhere close but not in the open?

  “Pete,” I whisper. “Did you know Faina?”

  “I didn’t know Faina Zalesky.”

  “Then what’s her picture—”

  “The day she died was the day I realized once and for all how dangerous Ciro has always been.”

  “Ciro?”

  “He had her killed. Ciro gave the order and it was followed through.”

  Oh my God.

  “I swore when it happened that my time with Ciro was going to end. And soon.”

  “She died years ago,” I state.

  “Eight, to be exact.”

  “But you’re still with Ciro. You still work for him.”

  “Because I love and care about Liam. Even it means I have to expel my last breath helping Liam live the life he should, that’s what I’ll do. Until I know he’s forever free, I’ll live as a timeless prisoner.”

  “Liam is lucky to have you,” I tell him, grabbing the picture and walking it back to the drawer. I close it tightly, ensuring it stays where it should, kept safe and hidden—like Faina should’ve always been.

  Turning back to Pete, I find a fake smile plastered on his aging face. “Enough regret now. Let’s watch some of your classic movies.”

  An hour later, I’m nestled in bed and dozing off next to Pete. My body is still healing and, in my excitement to have found a friend here, I may have overdone it.

  “Leonessa,” I hear whispered in my ear.

  Liam.

  This time he shakes my hip and uses my real name. “Wren, wake up.”

  “I was sleeping,” I murmur, opening my eyes and looking up to find him hovering over me. He’s dressed for work. Feigning annoyance, I question, “What do you want?”

  Liam smiles and tips his chin to the other side of the bed. “I see you managed to find your way to Pete.”

  I turn my head to find my date for the evening is still sleeping, snoring slightly. I smile remembering how fast he fell asleep during the first movie.

  “We’ve been watching old movies,” I explain. “What kind of person crashes out watching The Breakfast Club? That’s completely sacrilegious.”

  “Hold on to me, caro.”

  Liam lifts me effortlessly and stalks toward the door. The television in Pete’s room is still on, lighting the hallway.

  “Are you sleeping in here again tonight?” I ask as we enter my room.

  Liam sets me on the bed, then takes off his jacket. He takes a seat beside me to removes his shoes and socks.

  Going for the buttons of his shirt, he replies, “I thought I would. If you’re up for company.”

  “Sure,” I answer with indifference.

  “I’m tired,” he insists. “It’s been a long day.”

  Tired sucks. I’ve been with Pete all afternoon, talking mostly about Liam. I’ve missed him. Tired is a bummer.

  “Wren,” Liam calls. When I look up, I note he’s smiling again. Damn the man, but my stomach flutters remembering how that smile feels against my skin.

  “What?” I snap, embarrassed. No woman likes to be caught staring or daydreaming.

  “Tesoro, promise me you’ll never play cards. You’d make a terrible poker player.”

  Petulantly, I counter, “I didn’t say anything.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  Keeping my eyes down, I lean into his side. He wraps his arm around my waist, lifting my shirt until his thumb edges across my skin.

  “Why is it that you don’t seem afraid of being here at all?” he asks.

  “Why is it that you do?”

  “Do you trust me?” Liam asks, his eyes intense as they scan my face.

  I can’t place his expression, but I note how much different he looks today than yesterday. He’s quiet, not as sure of himself as he usually is.

  With concern, he whispers, “Do you believe everything will be okay because I’ll make it safe for you?”

  Cupping his face in my hands, I trail my thumb against his lower lip. He kisses it quickly but says nothing. He’s worried.

  “I know you will,” I reply, watching relief sweep through his features. “But maybe you’ll tell me how lo
ng I’m going to be a prisoner here, without technically being a prisoner here?”

  Smiling but not truly, Liam kisses my forehead. “I’m still working to figure that out.”

  As I start to tense, a quiet scratch comes at the door.

  “I brought you a friend,” Liam explains. “I would’ve brought him up to see Pete too, but Penelope insisted he get a bath first.”

  The whimper and sniff coming from the crack at the bottom of the door can’t be mistaken.

  “You brought Cliff!” I exclaim, rushing with a limp to verify.

  Once the door is open, a still-wet Cliff runs into the room, jumps on the bed, and makes himself comfortable.

  Liam eyes me as I walk to his dog now lying belly up on the bed and drying himself all over our sheets. I stop midstep and turn to face him.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Liam cups my cheek, kisses my lips gently, and says against them, “Because I haven’t seen you smile that way in too long.”

  “I’m okay. Really.”

  “Stay with Cliff. I’ll be back,” he bids before reluctantly letting me go and walking out the door.

  Cliff growls, waking me. A guttural sound coming from downstairs startles him again, and this time he barks. The anxious and reverberating echo from his chest causes me to jump.

  Something’s wrong.

  This morning marks the fourth day I’ve been here. I’ve only seen Ciro in passing, and those fleeting moments are more than I care to recollect. It’s obvious the man despises my presence in his home. And for no reason. I’ve made good study of keeping to Liam when he’s here or sticking close to Pete when he’s not.

  Liam says he’s been busy, that he’s figuring things out. I’ve tried to be patient, to believe what he’s saying, but he continues to change.

  He’s quiet. Tense even.

  “What is it, Cliff?”

  Looking over to Liam’s side of the bed, I find it empty. The clock on the bedside table reads nearly 4:00 a.m.

  Another sudden bark resonates in the room. Cliff jumps from the bed, aiming for the door.

  More barking.

  More growling.

  More heaving coming from a distance.

  “What is it, buddy?”

  Once I’ve turned on the lamp, I still, quiet and waiting. A shrill voice comes from below—a woman. She’s crying.

  Terror and instinct push me to move. I throw the covers from my body, grab a red silk robe, and open the door enough to listen. Cliff doesn’t hold back; he barrels through the tight space, running down the hall as fast as his feet will carry him.

  “No more excuses,” a man hisses before what sounds like flesh meeting flesh snaps in the closing distance. “If it’s in my home, it’s mine.”

  Ciro. His angered voice pierces my ears. My heart pounds in fear against my chest.

  Another harrowing sob breaks out into the open. The woman I heard before now shrieks as if in agonizing pain.

  Stepping lightly down the dark hallway, I freeze in place after Cliff yelps. His barks become whines. His growls are low, shallow and constant.

  Making a decision to get to him, I walk past the spiral staircase but stop at the top when I see what’s happening just inside the lit and open foyer.

  Ciro stands to the side, holding Angelina by her hair. She’s crying, sobbing, and clutching his wrists, likely trying to ease her pain.

  A man Pete called Calloy is being held up by two men surrounding him, one at each side. Pete told me he worked for Ciro, one of his newest recruits. Calloy didn’t seem happy at the order he was being given by Xavier, and Pete hurried us back to his room before I heard which order that was.

  Calloy’s feet barely touch the tile floor as blood drips from a cut above his eye and the side of mouth. A line of saliva mixed with the blood dances midair as another man I’ve never seen punches his gut, taking the wind from his lungs. Calloy drops to his knees, and the large man laughs at his pain.

  Oh my God.

  Ciro starts to move with Angelina, settling her in front of him. I see him clearly from my position behind the wall. I’m careful, peering only enough to take in what’s happening below.

  Once Ciro positions the crying Angelina where he wants her, his hand slithers inside the top split of her silk robe. She whimpers in fear but doesn’t move as he runs his meaty hands over her chest at the same time his other lifts the hem of her robe up, exposing her thigh.

  “Stop!” Calloy calls, his voice desperate. “I’ll do it!”

  “Too late for that,” Ciro tsks. “The time for your compliance has passed. Now I do what I promised I never would.”

  Hearing Ciro’s declaration, Angelina starts to struggle in his hold. The man who struck Calloy steps toward her. Her face slams to the side when she’s sharply backhanded.

  “I’ll fuckin’ die before I let you have her,” Calloy swears. “Stop fucking touching her!”

  Ciro’s hand disappears beneath the hem of her robe. Her eyes close and her rapid breathing slows. She rests her head on Ciro’s shoulder, though not in ecstasy.

  This isn’t a woman being pursued in pleasure; this is a woman being devoured by heartache and shame.

  I can’t let this go on.

  As soon as my foot hits the last step, Angelina opens her eyes and meets mine across the small space. Two tears fall in unison from hers.

  Ciro doesn’t have the air of honor to remove his hand from beneath her robe; he smiles at me from over her shoulder. The gesture is manipulative, cunning, and I begin to lose my nerve.

  “What’s happened?” I question, turning to Calloy. His eyes are on me, all the fight in them gone.

  I’m too late. He’s surrendered.

  “What’s happened is you need to go back to your room where you belong,” Ciro cuts in, taking my gaze from Calloy.

  “He’s hurt,” I charge. “What has he done?”

  Xavier pushes forward, putting his very large body in my line of sight. Ciro clears his throat, another whimper breaking from Angelina as he does.

  A body hits the ground with a sudden and violent thud. Xavier smiles down at me as Ciro orders, “Take Angelina back to my room. Lock her there until I decide what to do with her.”

  The rough sounds of Angelina being dragged away curse what I’ve done.

  Ciro ignores her whimpers, looking down to Calloy while ordering, “And kill him for—”

  “No!” I exclaim, a sense of right and wrong overpowering my place. “You can’t just kill him!”

  A searing laugh bolstered with malevolence fills the room, freezing me in place. Ciro steps to my side, leaning down to my ear. I bite my bottom lip to keep from crying out as he inhales deeply.

  Staring at Xavier’s chest, I beg, “Please don’t kill him.”

  Ciro’s hand comes up, his filthy finger wrapping around a few strands of my dark hair. Leaning in, he sniffs, followed by a sigh of satisfaction.

  “I enjoy you begging, Miss Adler,” he says, smelling of smoke and whiskey. “The way your soft, wet tongue curves so easily around pleas for my mercy.”

  I swallow hard, my neck and cheeks flushing from fear. Xavier takes a step away and I watch as Calloy lies on the floor, cheek to tile, rocking in pain. He’s wincing as he watches what’s happening, but he doesn’t make a move to get up.

  “If I let him live, he’s as good as dead anyway.”

  “I don’t understand,” I respond, holding Calloy’s focus, mentally begging him for strength.

  Ciro tsks. “The man misses his wife.”

  His wife?

  “The love he still has for her is what’s gotten him into so much trouble. He thought he could take her from me.”

  Oh no.

  “Angelina left him,” Ciro tells me, but the broken look in Calloy’s eyes gives glimpse of his spirit. It, too, is broken.

  “Don’t kill him.”

  “I won’t. Let’s see how long a man can live with a heart so wounded.”

>   I hate him. Every fiber in my being wants to thrash out, stab Ciro in the chest, and watch him bleed out on the same floor he’s beaten Calloy onto.

  “Take Wren to her room,” Ciro orders as he steps away from me.

  As soon as I’m free from Ciro, I make my move. My feet hit the cold tile, both dried and new blood covering their soles. Resting on my knees, I attempt to turn Calloy over, but he’s too heavy.

  Strong arms wrap around my waist, lifting me into the air without a struggle. I claw at his skin, and Xavier releases a menacing laugh as he positions me at his side. My feet can’t touch the floor.

  “What the fuck?” I hear Liam hiss as he enters from the kitchen. “Let her go.”

  Xavier doesn’t do as Liam orders. Instead, he turns us both to face Ciro, whose face is angered, disgusted, and disappointed at the interruption.

  “Do as he says,” Ciro bids.

  Xavier all but drops me from his hold. My feet hit the floor and I step away from the men until my back hits the wall behind me.

  “Wren,” Liam calls. “Upstairs.”

  “Liam,” I whisper, fearing what will happen to him for interrupting.

  Liam’s eyes find mine, as angered as Ciro’s. “Go now,” he orders. “I’ll be up soon.”

  Xavier smiles, his teeth broken and eyes wild. I start to move and he jumps suddenly, if only to taunt me.

  That’s when I run.

  “Lei ha il cuore di una leonessa, ma solo la saggezza dei suoi cuccioli,” I scold as I enter the bedroom.

  Wren is sitting on the bed, her eyes to her lap, feet on the floor. She’s wearing a small nightgown that’s barely covering her thighs, let alone her legs.

  Her hair is wet. Maybe she showered in attempt to wash off what she witnessed.

  She’s biting her bottom lip and focusing on her shaking hands.

  When I close the door with more force than needed, she looks up. Her face is red and her eyes are puffy. She’s been crying.

  Good. She should be scared. What she did was stupid. Even not being raised in a life such as this one, she should know better with all I’ve told her.

  “Tell me what the fuck were you thinking,” I demand, leaning against the wall to keep my body from trembling.