Mob Daddies: A Contemporary Romance Box Sex

by Alexa Hart

  I did what I had to do, I got the job done no matter what, but I didn’t have a thirst for the violence like the other guys. I didn’t fucking get off on it like some of the psychopaths Sunny employed to do his dirty work. Like my old neighbor Nico, twisted motherfucker. Sunny may be tough, but Nico was too sick, even for him. Now Nico has ties to Charles Finch. Sounds like a match made in heaven to me, those two dirty bags deserve each other. If I ever lay eyes on Nico again… he’s done, and Charles Finch… I’ve already got him right where I want him.

  My eye for business and even keener eye for human weakness is what got me off the streets and into the backrooms, holding court with some of the richest men in South Boston and running the gambling rings. And it was fucking easy to smell out their weaknesses, to see where Sunny could take them sideways. I made that man a lot of money. I made all of us a lot of money. And then I met Angelina.

  It was Bennie that got me and Angelina out. I had actually managed to fall in love, cold-hearted bastard that I am, and I wanted a better life for her. I needed to keep her safe. Bennie convinced Sunny that I was capable of more than even he was interested in and that it would be good to have a man out past Dorchester Heights with connections and wealth to keep an eye on the neighborhood. I got out, and I took my little brother with me. He’ll never know the hell I endured to get us where we are today, to keep him off of those streets. When our mother died I never shed a tear, I knew he was better off without her, we both were. I may have built a real estate empire, but I’m still loyal to the grimy streets that raised me. For a long time, they were all I had.

  This scene at the garage isn’t what I expected though. The text saying that he wanted talk in person was a little out of character, but I never worry much about Bennie, he’s proven that he can take care of himself. He always jokes he has nine lives like a cat, and he’s got plenty to go.

  As I walk in the darkness of the empty garage, I feel a foreboding of danger. I should have alerted my security team that I was coming here, but even they don’t know the full extent of my relations with the Bianchi gang, and I would prefer to keep it that way. Once someone is in my inner circle, they become a vulnerability. I won’t let what happened to Angelina ever happen to anyone again. Ever.

  Still, despite everything, I often only truly feel at home when I trade in my tailored suits and security detail for jeans and my motorcycle, to come back home to the streets that made me. It feels good to leave the façade of Dax Hardin, billionaire, behind and just be me.

  I think again about the woman with the bulldog. It was obvious she’d had no idea who I was—either of my identities. When was the last time someone looked at me like that? Like I was just a man? It had been refreshing to see her eyes take me in without any preconceived ideas. She’d radiated an innocence and sincerity that was beyond endearing, all while hypnotizing me with a body that made a man think anything but innocent thoughts. She felt something too. I’m sure of it. I’m used to women wanting me, but she was different. Shy. A woman clearly out of place in South Boston and far too vulnerable, too sweet for turf like this. I smile at the thought of her. For a brief moment, I consider heading over to The Spotted Owl and taking her up on that drink offer after all. But how fast would she change when she learned who I was? She’d either turn greedy or run scared. Either way, the warmth in her eyes would turn cold, calculating. I’d seen the change a hundred times.

  I pick up my phone and dial Bennie’s number but it goes straight to voicemail. It’s getting late, and I need to get back home. I freeze, phone to my ear, as I hear shuffling behind me. It only takes me a moment to realize that I’ve been set up. I look for the closest object to serve as a weapon, a lead pipe on a nearby workbench. I pretend to casually leave a message for Bennie as I inch over to the pipe. I hear the sound again behind me and the lights cut out. Darkness doesn’t matter. I’ve had plenty of practice. I grab the lead pipe and swing around, making contact. I hear someone grunt and stumble hard in the darkness. I quickly head for the back door, swinging it open as I feel the knife cut through my side. The pipe drops from my hand and clatters to the ground. I feel a hard blow to the back of my head and find myself half-falling, half-stumbling to the ground of the guttered back alley of Bennie’s Garage before I blackout.

  Chapter 5

  Hannah

  Samson and I are about a block from my apartment, just crossing the dark, deserted street near a local garage, when Samson starts acting up. He lifts his head, sniffing the air and starts barking loudly. Shit Samson! Here we go again! I don’t even have a leash with me, since I had no idea he’d be with me tonight. It’s 2 a.m. and I really don’t want to draw unnecessary attention to myself, so I try to pick him up and quiet him down. The little bugger scurries away before I can grab a hold of him, trotting away from me now, barking even louder. This is so not like Samson. He never passes up the chance to be carried around like the spoiled old pooch that he is. I try to pick him up again and to my horror, he takes off running across the street toward the alley next to the garage.

  I hear a siren wailing somewhere in the distance and wrap my arms tightly around myself. I have a feeling poking around some garage in a back alley at 2 in the morning would be on Kiki’s long list of things NOT to do in South Boston. Thanks a lot Samson!

  I hurry across the deserted street after Samson, calling out his name in an angry whisper. This dumb dog is going to get me killed! First the motorcycle incident and now this. All my affection and love for the little guy disappears rapidly as I enter the dark alley and completely lose Samson to the darkness.

  The alley is strewn with discarded, smashed up metal, hubcaps, and broken fenders. The metal shines eerily in the light of the one flickering streetlight that manages to cut into the alley. Ahead of me, I hear Samson panting loudly. At least he’s stopped barking. I step gingerly through the alley after him. If this little detour into the danger zone was all for a stray cat or a tossed-out, moldy hamburger I am definitely going to stop buying him pig’s ears as a treat.

  The alley is pitch black and the streetlights don’t reach this far, so I turn on my cell phone flashlight and walk, extremely carefully, toward the shadow of what I pray is Samson, and not a giant rat moving through the trash. I catch sight of him ahead of me and I can see him sniffing at something on the ground. I call out his name in my best angry, tough-mom whisper, but my rage is apparently doing nothing to pull him away from whatever he’s found. I swing my cell phone light around. The small area behind the garage is heaped high with old car parts, tires, tarps, and God only knows what else. This looks like the perfect setting for a horror movie, and I feel like the idiotic character that walks right into the trap of a lurking murderer.

  That’s when I hear the groan and finally realizes that Samson hasn’t found a stray cat, but a drunk, or injured, maybe dying, man. Shit!

  The man is crumpled on his side, I can’t see his face, but I have a reasonable view of his lower half. He’s near the open back door of the garage and I wonder if he’s trying to crawl in or out. As I shine my phone’s light across him, I can see that he is clutching his side, his shirt soaked with blood. Shit, is he dying? Samson sniffs around his face and licks his cheek. The man groans in pain again.

  “Samson, stop it!” I whisper. “You aren’t Florence Freaking Nightingale. This guy is not our problem. Let’s go!”

  Even as I say it, I know I don’t mean it. The last thing I want is to get mixed up in whatever kind of mess this is, but this man is obviously in pain, and I’m not completely heartless. I’ll call for help and then I’ll get the hell out of dodge. That money wasting Uber ride is sounding really good right about now. As if to confirm my own thoughts, Samson looks up at me and whimpers.

  “Okay, okay! Don’t bat your sad dog eyes at me,” I say. “Sir...” I say loudly, still keeping my distance. “Sir, are you okay?”

  What the fuck am I saying? Of course he isn’t okay. He doesn’t respond and I can’t tell if he is conscious or not. I
try to get a better look, but my stupid cell light clunks out. I tap my phone and it comes back on. I don’t have much battery left and the thought of losing the only light I have, or worse, not being able to make a call, terrifies me.

  “Okay, Sir,” I continue. “I’m going to get you some help, okay?” Samson whimpers next to me. “You’re going to be fine.”

  I dial 911 and the operator picks up.

  “Hello, 911, what’s your emergency?” A very calm, almost bored sounding woman says.

  “Yes, I...I need an ambulance ...I'm at um….” I twist around, looking for any location markers, but it’s so dark I can barely see my own hand in front of my face. I don’t know the names of any of the streets around me yet, except for mine. Everything is dark and unfamiliar. “I’m at….um….Hanover and...”

  The man, who I just stupidly inched closer to, reaches up and grabs me by my wrist, twisting the phone free. My phone drops to the ground with a clatter and I let out a small, terrified yelp of surprise. Samson just wags his tail. Some guard dog he is.

  “Ma’am,....” I hear the dispatcher echo through my dropped phone. “Ma’am, are you okay?”

  “Tell them I don’t need an ambulance,” the man says through gritted teeth and an obviously decent amount of pain.

  “Yeah, but you clearly do,” I say.

  He lets go of my wrist and I realize only then that he’d been holding it so tightly to keep himself upright. I scramble for my phone and shine the light at him.

  “Easy,” he says, squinting at me. “Can you shine that somewhere else please?”

  I take in the black tousled hair, the t-shirt, muscular arms, the jeans. I shine the light toward his arm and find the tattoo. “Wait a minute,” I gape at him. His clothes, his face. I totally recognize him. No wonder Samson keeps wagging his tail instead of going full attack dog on him. “You’re the guy from earlier. Hot motorcyclist ...”

  Even in the waning light of my dying phone I see him smile at the nickname I just revealed. I’m glad it’s too dark for him to see me blush.

  “Ma’am? Can you hear me?” The dispatcher squawks into the phone.

  “No ambulance, no police,” he repeats. And then, as if it pains him almost as much as his injury, he adds a curt “please”.

  I nod my head in understanding. He’s clearly not wanting to get the authorities involved, which matches with the whole rose tattoo equals bad guy criminal, thing. But still, for some odd reason, I feel like I can trust him. I can’t explain how, but I just know he won’t hurt me. Plus, I kind of feel like I own him one for not running me and Samson over earlier tonight.

  I bring the phone back to my ear to talk to the dispatcher. “Sorry, I made a... mistake. We are all good here!” I hang up the phone and stare at the sexy motorcycle man. He’s eyeing me with a mix of relief and suspicion as he attempts to sit upright.

  “Okay, come on,” I lean down. “I’m going to help you up.”

  He shakes his head as he leans against the wall of the garage. “No ambulance,” he says. “I’m fine.” He tries to stand up, but can’t quite do it without wincing in pain. I go over and put my arm around him. He grunts and tries to pull away but I hold tight and help hoist him up. What have I gotten myself into?

  “Easy there, I get it. No ambulance. I don’t usually rescue strange men, but what can I say, I just can’t leave people to die in alleyways, and Samson is a good judge of character, I guess.”

  “I’m not going to die,” he chuckles. “But I would prefer to get out of the street. And I need to make a phone call,” he sags on me and I feel his sharp intake of breath as I put my arm around him. Next to him on the ground is a seriously smashed up phone that is clearly nonoperational.

  “Got it. Well, my phone needs to be charged and yours is toast. If I take you to my place, you aren’t like...going to murder me or anything, right?” I say, half-teasing and completely serious all at the same time.

  He chuckles and looks me in the eyes. They are sharp but warm, and more than that, they are reassuring. “I am not going to hurt you. In fact, I owe you. And I always make good on a debt.” Another siren blares in the distance. “Now get us out of this alley.”

  I nod, trying to take my eyes off of his. I can’t be the only one that feels this electricity, right? I look away, a hot blush on my cheeks. I try to crack a joke. “Normally, I don’t take orders this easily, but I’m making an exception since you saved my life earlier. I also make good on my debts.” I start to help him down the alley.

  “Duly noted. Where are we going?” He grunts.

  “Just across the street to my apartment. And we need to look at your injury. You may not be dying, but you aren’t exactly the picture of health either.”

  He nods. I feel his weight lean heavy on me as we cross the street, Samson trotting ahead of both of us like a protective friend.

  I take a deep breath as I turn my key in the lock and shove the door open. I texted my landlord earlier and asked him to come by and lock up for me after Samson’s little escape artist stunt. The deadbolt is still busted, but at least the door isn’t wide open. The man’s weight is heavy on me and the uneasy feeling of his body pressed so close to mine is turning me into a nervous wreck. I haven’t been this close to a man in a long time. Even partnering in dance never felt this intimate. This man is hot and strong - and my body is very, very aware of his proximity.

  I flick on the light switch as we get inside my apartment. It is a one-room studio with a bed on the far end, a tiny little kitchenette and the only privacy is a small bathroom with an old clawfoot tub and outdated teal colored sink. To make the space feel a bit less dingy I strung twinkle lights in nearly every available square inch of the place and used some of my more ornate tulle dance costumes to sew together colorful curtains and throw pillows. I have a few paintings that Kiki did up on the walls, mostly oil paintings of ballerinas she had me pose for and one amazing one of Samson she did as a birthday gift. I think Kiki should give up on the idea of a sugar daddy and focus on her art, but every time I suggest it she just shakes her head and says I’m the only one who loves her enough to pay for her work.

  As I lead my injured motorcycle man into the apartment, I notice him staring at the kitchen table and I realize, with embarrassment, that I have my mother’s collection of music boxes out on the table. I didn’t have the heart to toss them out when I moved, even though they are old and several of them are broken. I am very sentimental about them, but to him I’m sure this must look like the most eccentric table setting he’s ever seen. I had been trying to fix one earlier, though I didn’t get very far, but now I’m deeply regretting leaving them out the way I did.

  He hobbles over to the small kitchen table and takes a seat in one of the chairs. The pain of the movement seems to irritate him. He picks up a music box and examines it.

  “They belonged to my mother,” I say. “I’m trying to fix them.”

  “And is that a painting of your dog?” He points to the huge canvas Kiki did of Samson. “Maybe I’m the one that should be worried.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “It was painted by my friend. And I think she has talent!”

  I go over to the sink and wash my hands while he playfully looks from Samson to the painting. “It’s a remarkable likeness.”

  “You know, I can return your smart ass to the alley…” I say, pointing back toward the front door. I plug in my phone charger.

  “Okay, okay,” he chuckles again. He looks at the music box in his hand. “Does your mother know you’re stripping the screw here. You’ll never even get it open to fix it.”

  I snatch the music box from him and move it over to the top of the refrigerator.

  “She’d appreciate that I’m trying,” I say. I collect the other music boxes and move them out of sight. “They meant a lot to her.”

  There is a moment of awkward silence. “You’re using past tense,” he says quietly.

  “I am.”

  “I’m sorry.”
<
br />   I’m still pretty terrible at talking about my mom without breaking into a fit of tears. I suppose discussing her with a complete stranger makes it a little easier, but not much.

  “Yeah, well, we’ll both be sorry if we don’t get you patched up.” I say awkwardly. “Don’t want you to end up like that music box, right?”

  “Stripped?”

  “That’s not what I meant….”

  “I know,” he grins. “But you’re right. Let’s take a look and see how bad it is.” Before I know it he’s using his left hand to peel his bloody shirt off over his head, I can see how much pain it causes him to do so. I stare at his shirtless chest, tattooed, muscular, sexy and more masculine than any man I have ever seen. Dammit Hannah! Stay focused. The man needs a bandage, not a banging!

  He gently probes the cut on his lower right side, and my focus momentarily shifts from his toned torso to the numerous scars hidden among the tattoos. One scar looks like it could have been made by a bullet. Geez, I guess that black rose really isn’t a joke. Then I see the wound more clearly.

  “Jesus,” I say breathlessly. “Did you get stabbed?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” he says.

  “Yeah, that doesn’t make me feel any better. I’m no doctor, but I feel like you need stitches.”

  He eyes the cut. “You may be right. Got a needle? And maybe some bourbon?”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I ask, my voice an octave too high.

  “I am... kidding you. It’s just a scrape.”

  “You and I have very different definitions of that word.”