Dirty

by Cole, Stevie J.

  "Squeeze me," he says before he slaps my ass. I tense around him and he groans. "Tighter, little kitty." He fists my hair, yanking my head back before slamming his lips over mine in a brutal kiss. He buries himself so deep inside of me, and I explode around him, my vision dotting as every muscle in my body clenches tight. His movements becoming stiff and jolted, a groan rumbling from his chest. My limbs give out and I collapse face down on the bed.

  I am so very weak for him…

  29

  Ronan

  The afternoon sun spills through the tall windows, casting prisms over the wall. The child sits on the floor, drawing pictures which Camilla praises. I'm almost unable to see the little savage I've come to adore, and while I'd usually find something such as this to be a weakness, with Camilla I can only see it as a symbol of strength. A sign that when the time comes, she will be able to mother my child while teaching it the brutal ways of the world in which we live. After all, some instincts are deeply engrained, and I can't help but find the idea of Camilla's belly swollen with my child to be fatally seductive.

  I fold the newspaper, bored with all the murder and crooked politicians that plague this nation. I approach Camilla and she glances up just as the child crawls into her lap. "I'll be back soon," I whisper kissing her cheek.

  "Wait, what?" She picks the child up and puts her on the sofa. "Rosie, I have to go and talk to Mr. Grumpy, okay. Stay here for me. Draw me another pretty flower." Camilla pushes to her feet, grabbing my hand and dragging me to the kitchen. "You had better not be going after The Horseman without me."

  "But..." I smirk. "The child is scared."

  She jabs a finger into my chest. "Fucking... I swear to God." I string of Spanish curses leave her lips. "Rosie will be fine with the young one." She waves a hand through the air. "I forget his name."

  "Ralph." I find it very intriguing how she flip-flops around.

  "Ralph. She'll be fine with Ralph because I'll break Ralph's legs if she's not." She smiles almost sweetly.

  I grab a cigar, tucking it in my pocket. "You will stay here."

  "Ronan," she growls. "This," she gestures between us, "is not a fucking dictatorship."

  "You serve me no purpose there."

  She folds her arms over her chest. "I serve no purpose," she repeats. "Careful Russian, or I won't be serving your purpose either."

  I grab a pair of binoculars from the counter. "Every move I make is calculated. Every movement serves a greater good." I smile. "You have proven your purpose is here." I nod toward the child. "With her."

  "You think I'm a babysitter?"

  I do not want her going, and in order to appease her ego, I must make it seem like she has purpose. "Little kitty, I need you here to protect her. If The Horseman's men come for her..." I glance at Ralph sitting in the corner of the room. "They will be no match for him, but you..." I suck in a breath. "You will rain down bloodshed." I mean not a word of it.

  "You're full of shit," she grumbles before huffing a breath. "Think I don't know you, Ronan Cole... Manipulative... shady." She tilts her head back and closes her eyes. "Fine. I'll stay, but not because of your bullshit."

  "Of course not." I grab my jacket from the back of the chair and slip my arms through. "There's a gun under the table," I say on my way to the elevator.

  "Ronan," Camilla calls. "Don't die."

  The elevator dings and the doors slide open. "Never in a million years," I mumble as I step into the elevator.

  _____

  Boris parks along the perimeter of a chain-link fence surrounding grounds reminiscent of a prison yard. Mario steps out of his Cadillac, anxiously glancing around before he walks toward the rundown warehouse. A door at the side of the building opens and a man in a linen shirt walks out, stopping to light a cigarette. He meets Mario halfway between the car lot and the building. There's an exchange of a briefcase, a shake of hands, and then the man strolls over to a black Mercedes and climbs inside.

  The car pulls through the gate, turning onto the side street, and Boris falls behind him, keeping a safe distance.

  The traffic in this city is abysmal at best. Bumper to bumper, people with reddened faces honking. Oblivious drivers drifting in and out of traffic while shoving a cheap hamburger down their throats. Deplorable. I sit smoking my cigar, listening to Pachebel in an attempt to find some form of serenity, and I couldn't be more pleased when Boris follows the sleek Mercedes down an exit ramp that circles back underneath the blue steel of the Manhattan Bridge. We must be close.

  Within minutes, the lovely Brownstones and quant sidewalks turn to ramshackle houses with bedsheets draped in the windows as makeshift curtains. Such disparity from one street to the next, I think as I blow a steady stream of smoke through my lips. There's a loud crash. Metal against metal and glass shattering. I'm jostled about as the car spins around like a toy top in the middle of the road. The jolt from the seatbelt catching causes my cigar to fly from my hand. When the car comes to a stop, I throw my door open and quickly step into the street. The smell of exhaust swirls around me, the blare of horns. The hood of the car is completely smashed in, the windshield cracked. Boris is slumped over the wheel with blood oozing from his forehead. And the car that hit us... I spin around. Nowhere. And the Mercedes is nowhere to be seen.

  I slam my fist over the top of the car. "Inconceivable!"

  The driver door opens and Boris slowly staggers out, clutching his head.

  I spot one of my guard's SUV behind us, jog over and climb in the back, Boris following suit. The driver glances over his shoulder. "Go! Find him!" I shout, my blood pressure ticking dangerously high with each second lost. He jerks the wheel to the side, skirting around the demolished car, but the Mercedes is long gone.

  30

  Camilla

  I find myself pacing in front of the bedroom window, watching the world go by far below. People mill through Central Park like ants scurrying around in their mundane and pitiful lives.

  I made Ralph go and get some dolls for Rosie and she's playing with them on the bed. I press my phone under my chin, clutching it so hard that the edge of the glass screen digs into my fingers. Something feels off and I don't know why. Maybe it's just that I'm not with Ronan, or the entire situation with The Horseman. I never thought I'd see the day when I was worried for Ronan, but here I am.

  Back and forth I continue to pace, before I hear a sound that makes me pause. It's quiet, muted, but it sounded like a grunt. I tilt my head to the side, listening more closely, and it's then that I realize I can't hear the low murmur of Ronan's guards talking.

  My entire body freezes, my pulse slowing as a methodical calm washes over me, and then I hear the distinctive pop, pop of a silencer. Whirling around, I pull Rosie off the bed. "Sweetie, I need you to hide under the bed for me, okay?"

  "Don't leave." She clutches at my neck.

  "There are some bad men in the house, okay? I have to go and get rid of them." I smile at her, trying to stay calm even though time is very much of the essence. Tears fill her eyes and I press one of the new dolls into her hands. "I'll be back very soon." She nods and gets on her hands and knees, crawling underneath the bed.

  I take a deep breath when I quietly open the bedroom door. I tiptoe down the stairs feeling completely exposed. The entire place is an open plan except for one dividing wall between the living room and kitchen. I'm aiming for the coffee table where Ronan left a gun. I'm so close when I catch movement in the doorway and drop to the floor behind the sofa. The wooden floor creaks slightly under the weight of someone approaching. Making a split decision, I crawl around the end of the sofa and cross the small gap to the kitchen doorway.

  I have no gun, but that doesn't mean I'm defenceless. Taking a knife from the block, I twirl it in my hand just as a guy in a white suit steps out of Ronan's office. Who the fuck wears a white suit? His eyes land on me, registering slight shock before a smile works over his lips.

  "Ah, just what I was looking for," he says. The man never even rai
ses his gun. Bad move. I throw the knife. His eyes widen when it lodges in the base of his throat. Someone grabs my wrist from behind and I throw my head back, smashing them in the face. They stumble, but quickly wrap a hand around my mouth. I open my mouth to bite and inhale the choking fumes of what smells like neat alcohol. I'm distantly aware of hot breaths fanning over my neck and strong limbs pinning me down, but I can't fight. My head swims, my vision dots and everything feels impossibly heavy. This must have been a trap. And then my world goes black.

  31

  Ronan

  The elevator doors to my penthouse slide open to reveal both of my guards face down in a pool of blood. The entire apartment has been ransacked. Pictures have been torn from the wall, furniture thrown over. Every drawer pulled out, every closet open. My jaw tenses. My fingers draw into fists as I make my way through the space toward the kitchen.

  A man in a white suit sits slumped against the cabinets, his thousand-yard death stare aimed at the ceiling. The metal handle of a butcher knife protrudes from the base of his throat. Boris bristles next to me, cocking his gun. My body coils with tension from the act of blatant disrespect. Groaning, I turn from the kitchen and make my way to the bedroom, the only noise that of my shoes clicking over the marble. I stop outside one of the rooms. What will I do if I walk in and find my krasivaya with all the precious blood drained from her body? I rest my palm over the bedroom door and take a steadying breath. When I go to turn the knob, it's locked. "Camilla?" I shout, shaking the handle.

  A whimper floats underneath the door. I take a step back and kick the door down with a bang. The room is untouched. Empty. Another tiny, muffled cry comes from under the bed. Boris cocks the gun, following closely behind me as I walk into the room. "Little girl," I say as I bend over and lift the dust ruffle to the bed. She screams, clutching a doll and scooting toward the wall.

  "It's okay. Remember me? I'm Camilla's friend." I try to sound reassuring, because isn't that how one speaks to a child? I hold out my hand. "Come on." She takes my hand and I gently pull her out.

  Her face is splotchy, her cheeks wet with tears. "I want my daddy," she sobs.

  "It's okay." The little girl falls into my chest. And what do I do? She's clinging to a man who took her like I will save her... "Where did she go?" I ask.

  "She went to get the bad men."

  My pulse races, beat by beat morphing into a loud drumming in my ears. The gall of Mario to set me up. The audacity. I pull my phone from my pocket as I push to my feet and leave the child in the room with Boris. I go straight through to the balcony, closing the door behind me as I dial Mario's number. The hustle and bustle from the city below hums around me, feeding the sense of chaos swirling inside me. The line clicks. "Would you like to tell your daughter goodbye?" I say before Mario can even say hello.

  "Wh-what? I don't understand. I did what you asked," he says, his voice trembling.

  "No!" I slam my fist over the wrought iron railing. "You set me up."

  "Why would I do that?" he shouts. "You have my daughter! I didn't tell anyone. I didn’t tell a singl—"

  "As I said, would you like to tell her goodbye?"

  "Please, no!" he begs. "Please. I'll do anything. Whatever you need." There's a sense of utter panic to his voice, and while it does delight me, this is not the panic of a man caught in an act. No, this is the panic of a man caught off guard.

  "Very well." I hang up, block Mario's number, and tuck the phone in my pocket before leaning over the railing to stare at the people below. They mill about carrying on with their mundane lives, drinking coffee, laughing. They live in a disillusioned bubble of safety all the while I'm perched directly above them, watching. With a sigh, I step back into the apartment, calling for Boris to take the child home. And as I watch him escort her and her doll into the elevator, I wonder if perhaps I have lost my touch. Have I allowed love to weasel her way so deeply into my soul that my crown of ruthlessness has tarnished?

  Possibly...

  ______

  The twinkling city lights shine through the window, casting light into the dark room. Sometimes silence and darkness are required to think. A deprivation of the senses if you will... I sit, waiting for a call to come through. One I know eventually will.

  Everything The Horseman has done has been personal. My life's work. My home. My little kitty. Any smart man has his moves planned out. There was a reason he took Camilla. If he'd just wanted her dead, she would have been left here for me to find. I must say, I'm unfortunately coming to form some level of respect for my enemy on the sole principle that he thinks so highly of himself as to overthrow me. What a pity it shall be to end such a worthy adversary's life, but there can only ever be one god. And that will always be me.

  When my phone rings with an unknown number, I smile. "It's not polite to keep me waiting so long," I say.

  "Ronan Cole."

  "And with whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?" I light a cigar, dragging the smoke deep into my lungs as I continue to stare at the lights of the New York City skyline.

  "I believe you would know me as The Horseman, but that's not important. What is important, is what I have that you want and vice versa."

  "I see." A sudden fear attempts to grip me within its clutches. A fear of what fate may await Camilla, but I swallow it back, because in the end, it does not matter. It does...

  "She's beautiful, isn't she?" he taunts. "Do not feel ashamed. She has been the ruin of many—like Helen of Troy. She is something that men are prepared to go to war for. Die for." He sighs.

  "What is it you want?" Smoke crawls through my lips.

  "Why," he chuckles, "I want to destroy you of course. Like any good enemy."

  "Many men have thought to do that before you. I'll warn you, it never ends well."

  I hear the creak of a chair. "Ah, but I can almost taste your fear Ronan Cole. Like a dying animal, you sense the end is near. You have nowhere to run, no clients, no mansion, no woman. And no power."

  The lack of decorum insults me, but still, I must stifle a laugh at his outlandish claim. I fear no one. "The only place I want to run, is to you," I say.

  "I'm touched. I will take you up on that offer. First, Camilla and I are going to have a little fun. I'll be in touch."

  My teeth grind together when the line clicks. Camilla can handle herself, but the insult comes with the thought that this man will fuck her to make me angry. To desecrate what is truly mine. He fucks her to fuck me, and that creates a fire within my veins that will only be snuffed by blood.

  By the time The Horseman extends his invitation, I will be more than prepared.

  32

  Camilla

  I groan and roll over, my cheek pressing against something cold and hard beneath me. I open my eyes and flinch against the bright fluorescent light overhead. A pounding beat has taken up residence behind my eyes, reverberating through my skull.

  "Ah, your awake," a voice says.

  I roll my head to the side and see a pair of shiny shoes planted firmly on the tile floor. The wooden chair beneath him creaks as he shifts his weight back.

  "It's been a long time since I watched you sleep, dulzura."

  My senses sharpen all at once, the fogginess in my head dissipating under a spike of adrenaline. Only one person has ever called me that. Impossible. Rolling onto my front, I manage to push up onto my hands and knees until I'm kneeling in front of his chair. I'm almost scared to look at his face. My heart beats erratically as my eyes trace over the length of his charcoal grey suit, a blood-red tie knotted perfectly against the crisp white collar of his shirt. With a deep breath, I lift my gaze higher and come face to face with the man I know so well. A chiseled jaw covered in a layer of salt and pepper stubble, the scar that runs down his left cheek, and turquoise eyes surrounded by stress lines. His inky black hair harbors more grey than it used to, but it only makes him look more distinguished.

  "Papi?" I breathe, staring at him like the apparition he is.

 
"Hello, Camilla."

  I don't know what to say, what to do. Icy cold shock chases through my veins, freezing me in place.

  "You're dead," I whisper. Tears sting my eyes and I fight them back. Whatever trick this is, I'm not falling for it.

  His lips quirk as he spreads his arms wide. "I'm very much alive."

  Pushing to my feet, I stagger forward and he stands, catching me. I fall into his arms, inhaling the familiar scent of cloves and brandy, and some little fractured piece of me stitches itself back together. Without permission, tears spill down my cheeks. "I missed you," I breathe.

  He strokes a hand over my hair. "And I missed you. So much." Pushing me back, he kisses my forehead, an indulgent smile on his face.

  As the shock slowly ebbs away, the pain trickles in. "Why didn't you come back?"

  He waves a hand through the air. "Necessity I'm afraid. I was in the midst of a war I couldn't win. I needed to disappear."

  I close my eyes. I can still picture that night. The blood, the fire as they burnt everything I had ever known to the ground. And my father... we always assumed he was dead, because if he were alive then he would have come for me and Gabriel— wouldn't he? "Mama and Emilio died," I whisper. "And you just...left? You didn't avenge them? You didn't try to find me and Gabriel?"

  He tilts his head, his lips pulling up on one side the way they do when he's about to make a ruthless business decision. "Oh no, dulzura. I have spent years waiting to take down the men responsible. Ronan Cole got to Cortez first—"