The Enforcer (The Gafanelli Mob series Book 4)

by Natalie Wrye

  The curve of her spine and ass molded into my arms, and somehow we fit together better than two matching puzzle pieces ever could. How could such a spontaneous pairing like us suddenly make so much sense?

  It was the sweetest torture of my life to be near her, to smell her hair without being able to put my nose in it, to touch her without touching her, to feel every part of her body without really experiencing it. It was unlike anything I have ever endured.

  Now I torture myself, willing my cock to “stand down” like the stubborn soldier it suddenly becomes whenever she’s around.

  I know that Del could probably feel my hardness the night I kissed her, but she hadn’t acted weird. At the time, at least.

  I swore she would be gone by morning, having abandoned the stupid prick and his stupid prick for not being able to control itself, but it isn’t until now, almost five days later, when I pick her up at the Lexington hotel after a night’s rest that I watch her climb into the backseat, a set of dark sunglasses on her pretty face, her cold shoulder back in full effect.

  I soon grow tired of this shit by the tenth silent minute in the cab. I turn to the taxi driver, shutting the partition between us. I look over at Del.

  “So, are we going to actually have any conversation while we figure out a way to get out of this Gafanelli mess, or are we going to continue ignoring each other the entire way?”

  Del’s eyes flicker to my face, shocked—probably at my belligerent pitch.

  “Look,” she replies. “I think it’s best if we keep a mutual distance.”

  “Yeah? Well, I don’t, princess. We’re escaping this Hell together, remember? And we never will…if we keep acting like the other doesn’t exist.”

  She snaps immediately. “Ok, I get it. And quit calling me ‘princess,’ alright?”

  I raise a finger at the point she’s made. “You’re right. Ice Queen suits you better.”

  She glowers. “You don’t even know me anymore. I’m not usually this bitchy.”

  “Could’ve fooled me,” I counter, staring into her blue eyes.

  “Listen,” she continues, “it’s been a bad fucking month for me, and this is just the icing on top of the pile of shit that I’ve already been handed, alright? I’m irritated, and I’m tired, and I just want to make it through this, okay?”

  “So do I. That’s why I need us on the same. Fucking. Page, Del. No need to make this more of a shit-show than it already is.”

  I push my bag to the side out of frustration, with the sheer aggravation that I can’t seem to get through to this girl.

  Our eyes cast collectively downward, and we gaze out of our own windows, staring at the scenes outside the glass with mock fascination, refusing to face one another. Del is the first to speak again.

  “Maybe…maybe you’re right. We do need each other to get out of this. Maybe…we can…finish what we started. You know? Figuring this Enforcer thing out.” She shrugs. “I mean, we’re stuck here, anyway…” she trails off.

  I look up. I’m skeptical but expectant. “Okay.” I cross my arms.

  She finally looks at me. “Where should we start?”

  “We start,” I pull a piece of paper out of my pocket, handing it to her, “right here.”

  Delilah frowns down at the piece of paper. “A dinner?”

  “Not just any dinner,” I reply. “Senator Fletcher’s foundation dinner. Stop number two on his comeback tour.”

  She glances back up at me. “Do we have to go?”

  “We don’t have a choice.” I glare back. “Our lives depend on it. And we might as well see this thing through, figure out who the Enforcer is before he finds you again.”

  “And how does the senator figure into that?”

  “Because,” I stare at her, my eyes narrowing into minus signs, “the Enforcer wants him too. Where he goes, the Enforcer will follow. And if we want an ice cream cone’s chance in Hell of figuring out who this fucker is, we have to monitor the change in Fletcher’s crowd. See who’s there, that wasn’t there before. Scope out the new faces…before they see ours.”

  She snorts out loud. “Fantastic. And how do you figure we’ll do that? Walk in with ski-masks?”

  “No,” I say, my voice dipping in tenor. “We do it with this.” I hold a black mask to my face, shiny and feathered. Swarovski crystals dot the browline above the nose and the foreboding look in Delilah’s eyes lets me know exactly one thing.

  We have no idea what the hell we’ve gotten ourselves into.

  DELILAH

  I go to sleep as one Delilah and wake up as another.

  Javi and I check back into the FBI field office the day after my interview and that evening we head to bed for the second night in the Lexington hotel. Apart. Lost in my thoughts, numb to the world, I slip into a melatonin-induced slumber after Facetiming Melanie and by new morning’s light, I’m awake with a knock on my door from Javi, knowing tonight is the night of the senator’s foundation dinner party.

  But I have no interest in dancing.

  And yet Javi is here, at my door, eight o’clock sharp. Waiting for me.

  He looks devastatingly handsome in his tuxedo, a tattooed dream. In a tux deeper than the color of his coal hair, he strides into my hotel room, his shoulders straight, his normally unruly hair slicked off his tanned face, a white shirt hiding underneath of the black tuxedo jacket. The outfit fits him to a T, immaculately tailored at the waist. Broad at the chest and tight over the hips, it drapes over his body delicately, clinging to every line, every rigid edge, and I watch as he raises his wrists fastened with silver cufflinks, the understated bright jewels highlighting the deep olive coloring of his muscled skin.

  Javi paints a picture, and my heart hurts just looking at him.

  Standing just inside my hotel doorway, he is every bit of the teenage fantasy I knew, times ten. Only this time, the bad boy has cleaned up oh so well, and when I turn towards him, taking his outstretched arm, guilt grabs me by the throat, holding tight.

  I stumble through the motions of leaving the Lexington, like a machine, feeling nothing…and everything at the same time, my body both hot and cold. I can feel Javi’s eyes on me all the way to the dinner party but I won’t let him see it. My misery. My agony. I cloak them with a steel curtain of determination, and when the rain returns for an encore performance, I embrace it with open arms, my mood sinking with that East Coast chill that drops the air by ten additional degrees.

  The nighttime is cool enough in early spring, but with the rain showers, it is nearly frigid. The temperature doesn’t just slip quietly into cold; it takes a running slide right into winter range, and within the span of a few hours, chilled droplets begin to fall from the darkened sky as soon as our car pulls up to the heavily-lit hotel, the infamous “Waldorf Astoria” sign shining in the distance.

  It’s been years since I’ve set foot on its elaborate floors.

  The pain inside me squeezes even harder, and even in my extravagant blue gown and silver jewels, draped in diamonds, and every luxury the Bureau can afford, my heart just won’t release. My teeth are as clenched as my fists, and I have to squeeze my hands even tighter to keep from reaching out to Javi, a cold distance settling between us as we walk side by side into the lion’s den, preparing for war in the presence of the fiercest beasts in the city.

  Senator Robert Fletcher and his army of crooked politicians.

  Javi’s eyes look over at me, glancing down at my tightly held fingers. As if his reservations weren’t enough, I know he can tell that I’m keeping him at bay with my eyes, shaking my head slowly to prevent him from coming closer every time he tries to catch my eye. I plaster a smile and try to pretend, a move I know he doesn’t buy.

  Together, we walk in, the chandeliers twinkling overhead. The music from the far ballroom reaches my ears, the slow sounds soothing despite the noise inside my head, the tinkling noises tearing a hole inside my heart.

  I swallow, feeling the tears shimmering at the brim. I push them ba
ck, straightening my shoulders.

  Before reaching the doors, Javi and I slip on our dinner masks, donning the elaborate mini-disguises. A silver mask sits on my stolid, unmoving face, and as we walk farther and farther into the event, the numbness inside me spreads, a robotism reaching into my soul—pulling it straight out of me. I wander towards the bar, ordering myself a drink before Javi joins my side, his suddenly olive green eyes deepening right before my own. He nods at me.

  “You look beautiful.”

  “Thank you.” Even my voice is wooden. I can’t stop myself. “You look great yourself.”

  “I feel great,” he comments, cozying up to the bar. “Apart from the fact that the most gorgeous woman in the room looks like she wants to flee it.”

  I smile again, the gesturing barely spreading on my face. “I don’t know what else to tell you, Javi. I’m fine.” I stand taller, elongating my back. “I’m just worried about you. I know this is a big night for you, for catching this guy and…”

  Right then, he grabs me. Again. Just as he had done in my doorway nearly a week ago. His green eyes are blazing, and their crystal-clear depths stare through me, bearing into my body, searing into my soul. I feel them everywhere all at once. I shudder.

  “I don’t want you to worry about me, Del. I’ll be fine,” he blurts at me. “Let’s focus on you. You’re what’s important right now.” He takes a deep breath. “How’s your marriage?” He peers at me with concern, letting his gaze wander into my widened one, his stare never blinking as he searches my face.

  I say nothing…because I’m speechless. Frustrated. Angry. Flattered.

  Because here he goes again. Javi the Savior, reading me. He’s always interpreting my body language and laying it bare for all to see.

  He’s invasive. He’s too intimate. And it’s absolutely, fucking scary…that someone could know me as deeply as he always seems to. Time or distance be damned. It’s as if we were never apart.

  When he infiltrates my mind like this, he turns it numb, rendering me listless—anesthetized. I feel overcome, sedated against my will.

  I stumble awkwardly towards him, letting his eyes assess me without protest. His hands are careful; his touch is chaste. I fall into his arms, his full embrace, knowing that with Javi, there’s always this underlying current that flows beneath his compassion, a hint of something else that contradicts the hardness on the tattooed surface.

  He holds me closer as my smile turns into cries, and as I break down slowly, sobbing in his arms, he holds me there, helping me let go, his touch as soothing as his deepened voice. He whispers in my reddened ear, drawing me near.

  “It’s okay,” he hushes. “Break down if you want to.” His words are calm. “This isn’t a Meg Ryan movie, Del. You don’t always have to be brave.” I laugh lightly, and he keeps going. “For once, let someone else take care of you.” He hesitates before saying the next part. “Let me take care of you.”

  He hugs me tighter, rubbing his hands down my sides, his fingers moving—never relenting. Once he is finished, I slink away from him, trying to gather my scattered thoughts, my wits, my sudden yearnings. I turn away abruptly, needing more distance than this small clearing can afford, and I find myself searching for the easiest way of getting it.

  I nod, never breaking eye contact. And how could I? With Javi looking at me like that, there’s no chance that I can move, let alone breathe.

  Every time our gazes cross, a shift takes place. It moves the air around us: swirling and circling, interlacing and enclosing. It weaves through us, wrapping us to each other, binding us with this need.

  I can see in Javi’s eyes all that I feel.

  The apprehension. The latent confusion. That undeniable need.

  And there it is again. That needling, annoying, disturbing and somehow strangely consuming sentiment that we need each other. I don’t want to need Javi. I don’t need him to need me, either.

  Whatever it is that exists between the two of us is inescapable. Invisible but potent. We’re two stars on a collision course, orbiting each other, dancing around another…until the inevitable happens.

  A cosmic boom that threatens to rain destruction...or beautiful stardust, and I’m not sure which it will be, so I make a decision right then and right there.

  The decision to get out.

  Get out while I still can: while I can spare us both the explosion that is bound to happen. While I can avoid the disappointment that will ultimately follow. While I can save myself.

  I thank him before heading for the bathroom, the trail of my dress dragging behind me as I slink my way back into the dark. I turn into the hallway, wiping the tears at my face, refusing to let them fall any further.

  Javi is a distraction, a sometimes welcome one, at that, but deep in my heart and mind, the needy part of me knows that despite the feel of his muscled arms, I can’t let a man like him in too far, in too deep to the pit of my trust. A man like Javi—with his deep inquisitive eyes and dark-hearted humor and unexpected intuition—is nothing but dangerous, and I can’t afford to feel for him this way. Kissing him was never the issue… Wanting more from him was.

  And I do; I want so much more. But “more” with Javi would derail me and judging by his effect on me fifteen years ago, this time? I’m not quite sure I’d ever get back on track.

  I head into the recesses of the restroom, running in more ways than one.

  We Have Time

  JAVI

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  I blew it. I know I did. And what absolutely fucking sucks is that I had to. Or I’d touch her, kiss her, make love to her. And I know I can’t.

  I can’t do any of those things.

  To say that it would be a conflict of interest would be putting it mildly. Associate Director Langley would have my goddamned balls for breakfast if I did, and my first big Bureau step back on my team would be blown to smithereens—all because I couldn’t keep my damned dick in my pants.

  If it were anybody else—anybody else. Why did it have to be her? What kind of cruel, twisted irony is God working? Nothing, and I do mean nothing, worked out as expected. Hell, the first time we met, I wasn’t even sure if I liked her, wasn’t sure she’d even be a right fit. Now, I can’t think of anybody more perfect.

  I realize, yet again, how much the Bureau needs her, how much I need her. I just didn’t think that I would need her in this way: this desire to devour her, possess her, take care of her—both in mind and body.

  God, that body.

  Even cloaked in soft blue silk, I could see through to her beautiful form, see that lithe, little figure with the small waist and round breasts, peeking beneath the opening of her low-cut neckline, the shiny material sinking between her gorgeous tits.

  I fist a hand near my mouth, fighting the urge to bite down into it. I pace the floor in front of the bar in an attempt to cool myself down. Thinking of her. Needing her more than anything I’ve ever known.

  Del. With that long, lush brown hair. Del. Peering through those frosty blue eyes. Del. Moving around with that body that belies her small stature, touting this tiny curvaceous silhouette with that adorably ample ass and dancer’s legs.

  I stop pacing, looking down at the tent in my tuxedo, willing an erection that could jackhammer nails to take a hint from my situation and go south. Down, little soldier, I mentally slap at my errant cock. Stand down.

  But the stubborn little bastard refuses to comply. No wonder why he’s stuck up. He has an attitude just like his cocky ass owner. I ignore my inflexible dick and continue to walk the length of the room, contemplating, knowing that I’m in even more deep shit than when I started, my mission to find the Enforcer becoming ten times harder with the other struggles that I’m forced to fight.

  Like my attraction to Delilah Castalano. Excuse me. Delilah Castalano-Cook.

  It’s all screwed up and I know it. Her. Being a federal witness. A married woman. A mother. And a goddess, all wrapped in one. But it’s more than that with her; it
always has been. I know and have known with Del that it’s more than just the physical. It’s everything about the ballsy brunette.

  She’s surprising to me in so many little ways. Every time I expect one thing from her, I discover another—something completely new and unpredictable. I’ve encountered the good and the bad… and it’s made me want her all the more. I’ve watched her sour turn to sweet, her bitter into savory. I love the way she challenges me, even more so when she flips the script, becoming supple… and soft.

  Like tonight.

  She parted her lips, waiting. Waiting for me to come get a taste. Everything in me, every single fiber of my being, wanted to. I nearly burst a blood vessel, forcing my body to resist.

  And now I wait, unable to have her out of my arms for another minute. Stuck in the extravagant ballroom by myself, I wait for her, my body as taut as string. Until the rumblings of the crowd make my ears perk up, a sudden attention in the audience shifting every person’s alcohol-tainted focus.

  One-by-one, as each face in the crowd came into view, I noticed the rapt attention in every gape, the fear and respect reflected in each eye. Enamored with the man on the stage… and afraid, nobody blinks. The dark marks on their skin flashes like winks as each man in the hall raises his hand to his face and pushes his mask aside.

  Out of honor. Out of admiration. Out of awe for a man that nobody suspected would come.

  Especially me.

  It’s John Gafanelli. Head of the Gafanelli crime syndicate. The man who may have ordered Delilah dead.

  And I approach the stage, my anger knowing no bounds. Suddenly enraged by the sight of the sadistic mobster, I storm quickly through the throngs of elegantly-dressed people, dodging them left and right. My feet thud quietly over the carpet until tiny hands jump in front of me, pulling—fingernails digging into the fabric on my upper arms.

  I glance down… and find Angie. Silently staring at me.

  She shakes her head back and forth, her mouth making no noise.