Marrying the Mobster: American Gangsters 1 (Leave Me Breathless)

by Victoria Vale

  Before I can reply, he pulls me down onto his cock, his arms hooked beneath my thighs to hold me up. I let my head fall back against the window and clutch his shoulders, enjoying the ride.

  25

  Diego

  The docks are eerily quiet this time of night. It’s humid and the sky is cloudless; the full moon illuminates the open hull of the ship that’s just arrived with my goods. Millions in guns and the best Colombian coke you can get on this side of the world. Adjusting the Sig SG 550 rifle at my side, I glance around the shipyard. It’s been quiet and still for the past hour, but I have an uneasy feeling in my gut. As I watch crates being carried from the containers and loaded onto vans, my skin tingles and my heart beats faster.

  Security is tighter with Oleg’s extra men helping us oversee shipments, and so far we haven’t had any trouble since our last fight with the Armenians. I didn’t want to leave my warm bed—or the woman sleeping in it—to come here, but things have been too quiet. Jaime has picked up on chatter from various sources concerning my impending alliance with Oleg. The prospect makes a lot of people nervous, which bodes well for us. Still, I can’t help but think the Armenians will see this as an aggressive move on my part. Typically, the Armenians wouldn’t fuck with the bratva, but now that Oleg has partnered with me, they’re sure to make a move in retaliation.

  Leaning against a container that’s already been emptied, I stare off across the skyline, finding my building. Before leaving for the night, I had dinner with Elena and curled up with her on the couch to watch a movie. Now that I’m standing with an automatic rifle in my hand, I can hardly believe I’m the same man who draped an arm over his wife’s shoulders while watching Legally Blonde. My men think I don’t hear them joking about how soft I’m becoming, but I do. I see the looks they give me when she calls and I answer on the second ring. Apparently, I smile when I talk to her; something I didn’t even realize I was doing. Elena has me wrapped around her slender finger, and everyone knows it. As of now I’ve decided I don’t give a fuck. I can still slit the throat of anyone who crosses me, while being batshit crazy for my woman.

  As adamant as I was against the idea of marriage, I’m finding it different than I’d imagined. Life with Elena isn’t stressful or distracting. If anything, knowing I get to come home to her at the end of the day makes it all more meaningful. Everything is done with a purpose—so that I can continue building an empire worthy of my queen, give her anything she wants, and make our world secure enough that she never has to be afraid.

  Maybe things would have been different if my parents had the kind of marriage I’m building with Elena. I might have come out less bitter and jaded, more willing to pursue all the things I set aside for the sake of La Familia.

  What does that realization change for me? I’m still working that out. The thought of something happening to her is still terrifying. That feeling is twice as scary when I try to imagine a kid or two as part of the equation. My mind tears me in two directions at once, the image of Elena beautiful and swollen with a baby battles with my nightmares—a baby Marcella lying dead in a pool of blood, her brains obliterated by a bullet. It’s the outcome I saved her from, paying for it at the cost of twenty-two lives. But what if my mother hadn’t gotten wind of the coup? What if we had been too late, and my father’s betrayers got their hands on my little sister?

  What if I throw away my firm rule against having children, only to one day be too late when they need me most?

  “She’s not going anywhere, boss.”

  I glance up to find Jovan beside me, his own rifle at the ready and twin pistols at his hips. He’s wearing a shit-eating grin, like he always does before he starts ragging on me over Elena.

  “No, but I wish I was. Instead, I’m here with you.”

  Jovan heaves a dramatic sigh. “It’s true, she is better-looking than me and she has all the right parts. But damn, jefe, I thought you loved me too.”

  I roll my eyes. “Not enough to choose you over her when given half the chance.”

  “I’m happy for you,” Jovan says, the humor leaving his voice. “Seriously … I know you never wanted to get married, but she seems good for you.”

  “She is,” I admit. “I didn’t think it would be like this.”

  “I did,” he replies with a laugh. “You were a goner the second you laid eyes on her.”

  I laugh, about to agree with him, when the sound of a single gunshot draws both our gazes to the other side of the dock. A second later my earpiece explodes with sound, Jaime’s voice coming over the line. He’s watching the camera feeds from the house.

  “Shots fired!” he bellows into my ear. “Armenians just pulled up near the end of the dock! We’ve got a man down!”

  Jovan and I take off at the same time, rifles raised. The pounding footsteps of other men surround us as my other soldiers fall in line, weapons drawn. The silence is shattered by a mingle of Spanish, Armenian, and Russian—men shouting at each other between bursts of gunfire. My mind goes blank, my body moving from a muscle memory I’ve been building since I was a kid. My ability to stay calm in a firefight and shoot with deadly accuracy is the one thing I can admit being grateful to my parents for. It has meant the difference between life and death.

  We round a line of shipping containers to find pure chaos. The Armenians are shooting at us from behind stacks of crates and shipping containers, the bursts of their rifles lighting up the night. My guys are mixed in with the Yezhov men, returning fire and trying to take cover from the barrage of bullets.

  “Those motherfuckers!” Jovan roars, firing off a flurry of rounds before ducking behind a stack of crates.

  I take position behind a huge container that offers the perfect place for me to rest my rifle. Kneeling, I put my eye to the scope and start hunting. I pick off three Armenians within minutes, catching them as they peek their heads out of their hiding places. The cries and gurgles of dying and injured men comes back at me, and the sound of bodies hitting the dock echo like stones.

  More of the Armenians come pouring in from every direction—more than I’ve ever seen in one place. Their numbers have swelled in recent months, meaning two families have likely joined forces to take us out. We’re slightly outnumbered, and their blitz attack has us on the defensive.

  “Fuck this shit,” I mutter, clutching my rife and rushing through the gap between my hiding place and Jovan’s.

  A bullet shatters a crate near me, missing by just a few inches. I don’t breathe until I’m hunkered down next to Jovan, my breath racing and my ears ringing.

  “Come on,” I say, grabbing hold of his sleeve. “We’ll go around and take them from behind.”

  Jovan follows me, grabbing other men as we go, ducking and darting to avoid the gunfire and keep our heads on. We circle a shipping container to find three Armenians standing over the body of one of my men. I let loose with rapid-burst fire, taking them all out in one sweep.

  We pick up speed once we reach a corner of the dockyard they haven’t infiltrated yet, making our way toward the convoy of their parked cars and trucks. Then, we scatter, each of us taking a hiding place behind or on the side of a vehicle and looking for the best vantage point.

  I crouch beside a Hummer and let loose while bullets strike the cars around me, some coming close enough to have me on edge.

  Between changing magazines, I pause and check my watch, noting that the firefight has been going on for about five minutes. It won’t be long before the cops are alerted, and even with officers on my payroll there will be consequences for this. The boys in blue will come in guns blazing, shooting first and asking questions later. We need to get the hell out of here.

  I start creeping forward, trying to get closer. Ducking behind another car, I fire off some shots and then crouch when a flurry of bullets pelts the open doors and slams them closed.

  Peering from around the car again, I notice that a group of the Armenians has made their way in the direction of my containers, the valuable cargo
they came here to steal. I start edging around cars in their direction, pulling away from my men and going into a shadowy area giving me the perfect vantage point.

  I only manage to fire off a few bursts before something slams into the back of my head, throwing me to my knees. I roll to my feet and lift my rifle, only for it to be kicked from my hands. Quickly going for my Glock, I fire at the man coming at me with his own gun raised, landing a perfect shot in the center of his forehead. As he goes down, four others close in around me, and through the haze of my battered head I make out snatches of Armenian conversation.

  I hear Jamie screaming at me through the earpiece, then alerting the others to my attack.

  But it’s too late. I only manage to shoot one of them in the leg before someone attacks me from behind, delivering another blow that nearly knocks me unconscious. My pistol skitters out of my reach.

  My vision is swimming, but I can clearly see the barrel of a gun pointed directly at me. The first shot hits to the left of my sternum, dropping me to my knees and knocking the wind from me. Two more hit me so fast I have to assume they came from separate guns, throwing me onto my back. One of them strikes me in the ribs, and the other tears into the flesh of my shoulder, sending a searing heat down my left arm.

  As I lay on the ground struggling to breath and feeling as if a truck just plowed through my chest, I hear the pounding of boots and more gunfire, more screams, more death. My arm is wet and sticky with blood, my shoulder throbbing and sending tongues of fire though my entire body.

  “Diego! Diego, stay with me!”

  Jovan’s face appears above me, and he presses something over the wound in my shoulder to apply pressure. I can’t even scream even though it hurts like hell. I can hardly breathe, let alone make a sound. Every intake of breath is precious and seem to become scarcer as I lay there listening to the fight rage on around me.

  “I’ll fucking kill you if you die, you motherfucker,” Jovan growls, still holding the fabric to my shoulder while tearing the black bandanna from around his neck and using it to tie a tourniquet.

  “Too … much … blood,” I rasp.

  I’m soaked in it, the hot, coppery liquid drenching my shirt and pooling around me. It’s in my hair, coating my hands, and drowning me in pain.

  “Bullshit,” Jovan says, giving me a little shake as my eyelids start to lower. “It’s a scratch. Suck it up. Elena’s waiting for you, man. You can’t fucking die … she’ll strangle me with her bare hands.”

  For some reason, the mental image that gives me is hilarious and I start laughing. Then, I bellow as it sends sharp daggers through my torso. My screams turn into coughs, and I start shaking. I’m convulsing like I’m freezing, but in reality I can’t feel a thing.

  My hearing goes next, Jovan’s voice sounding warbled as if it’s coming at me through water.

  My sight goes last, the darkness on the edge of my vision crowding in, until the world slips through my grasp.

  26

  Diego

  I’m laying in my bed when I come to, propped up with a mountain of pillows. My entire body aches from head to toe, and I can’t distinguish which part of me hurts worse—my head, my shoulder or my chest. I blink and stare down at myself. I’m clean and bandaged up, my left shoulder and biceps wrapped with gauze. My chest and ribs are black and blue, but they might have been riddled with holes if I hadn’t been wearing a vest. I find it laid over the back of a chair, the cavities where I was struck gleaming with silver casings. Someone washed me and dressed me in sweatpants. Even my hair is still damp and smells like shampoo.

  “Try not to move too much.”

  Elena’s voice draws my eye to my right side, where she’s sitting in a chair. She’s wearing her favorite comfortable pajamas and has a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Her hair is a mess, and she has dark circles under her eyes. Judging by that and the orange light stinging my pupils, I assume she’s been sitting here all night. She looks like she hasn’t slept a minute, but she’s also the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

  “Dr. Molena says too much movement could rip the sutures in your shoulder,” she adds, sinking gently onto the edge of the bed.

  She starts inspecting my bandage, then presses a hand to my forehead to check for a fever.

  “Dr. Molena was here?” I mumble, grabbing her hand and raising it to my lips.

  “Jaime sent him … he got here before you did. And he called to warn me before Jovan came rushing in with you … bloody and unconscious.”

  I squeeze her fingers, the pain in my chest increasing at the thought of her seeing me that way. “I’m sorry, gatita. Jovan shouldn’t have brought me here.”

  She looks at me like I’m insane. “Of course he should have! You were hurt. You should be at home with me so I can take care of you. You almost bled to death!”

  I manage a smile, giving her a little tug to bring her closer. Elena moves slowly and doesn’t allow me to pull her to lay against me—like she’s afraid I’ll break.

  “I would think you’d be excited to see me near death. All my money goes to you if I die, you know. Well, except for what I set aside for Marcella. You would have been free.”

  Her eyes well with tears, and the first one that falls hits me like another bullet. “You crazy fucking bastard,” she sobs, shaking her head at me. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to be free. I thought I did, but when Jovan brought you in here, and I thought you might die …”

  She trails off and lowers her head, the tears dropping onto the legs of her pajamas. Her shoulders shake with sobs so gut-wrenching I think I might die from the guilt they cause me. It’s not the first time I’ve made her cry, but it is the first time she’s admitted what I already knew to be true. Elena has had several chances to escape. Security around her has loosened considerably and is now only for her protection. While I’ve been desperate to hold on to her, Elena has been wrestling with wanting to say.

  “Shh,” I croon, urging her closer. “Don’t cry, gatita. Fuck … I can’t handle you crying over me. I’m okay. I always wear a vest when I suspect things might get ugly. But I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Seeming to forget that she doesn’t want to hurt me, Elena curls up close and rests her head on my uninjured shoulder. “You’d better not. I’ll fucking bring you back and kill you again if you do that to me.”

  I chuckle. “That’s what Jovan said.”

  “I mean it,” she says, her voice hoarse. “That was the most terrifying experience of my life.”

  I lift her chin and plant a kiss on her lips, then point down to the puckered scar on my lower left abdomen. “This was my first time taking a bullet … and the last time I went to work without a vest. It hurt like a bitch.”

  Elena traces the outline of the scar, then trails her fingertips to a long, narrow scar under my left pec. “This one?”

  “Knife fight. This Italian bastard stabbed me. I shot him in the face.”

  “Good,” she mutters. “And these?”

  She touches a series of small circular scars only partly disguised by the tattoos on my right arm. I glance down at them and wince, remembering that particular pain.

  “Glass. Someone tried to shoot up the club, and a bullet shattered some glass and sent it flying. One of my men wasn’t as lucky as me … half his face was embedded with shards.”

  “Jesus,” she whispers.

  “I won’t pretend my life isn’t dangerous. But I’ve been hurt far worse than this. I’ve had concussions, been shot and stabbed, and I’ve been hit by three cars. Somehow, I’m still here. I figure that means I haven’t fulfilled my purpose yet. Or maybe I was supposed to live so I could find you.”

  Elena nuzzles her nose into the side of my neck, then plants a kiss right over my pulse. “How do you do that?”

  “Do what, gatita?”

  “Make me forget what an asshole you are,” she replies, sounding genuinely surprised.

  I bite back a laugh to keep from passing out
from the pain. Reaching down her body, I deliver a sharp slap to her ass. “Simple. You love me. That’s how.”

  She goes still against me, and her breathing stops for several seconds. I squeeze and stroke the ass cheek I just punished, then kiss the top of her head.

  “It’s okay if you’re not ready to say it. You show me in your own way.”

  “Hmm,” she murmurs sleepily into my chest. She mumbles something else, but I can’t make it out. My poor wife is exhausted and now that she knows I’m okay, fatigue is finally setting in.

  Reaching for her blanket, I grunt at the pain it sends through me, but manage to cover us both with it.

  “Sleep, gatita. I’m here … and I love you, too.”

  27

  Elena

  Diego wastes no time getting back on his feet, no matter what I say to convince him to rest. A trip to his doctor’s clinic and a series of X-rays reveal there was no internal bleeding from the impact of the bullets into his vest. His shoulder sutures are holding up well, and there are no signs of infection. Dr. Molena left a bottle of pain pills that my idiot husband refuses to take. Once he’s strong enough to stand, he insists we go back to Indian Creek and stay there until the situation with the Armenians has been neutralized. I’ve been ordered to work from home for the time being, and I don’t rebel. Truthfully, every time Diego grimaces in pain or grunts at the stiff movement of his shoulder, I start to worry.

  There’s no denying I’m a lost cause. This man has captured me, taken me from the life I used to know, and turned it all upside down. The thing about being flipped in what seems like the wrong direction is, eventually it starts to feel right. It becomes the truth, while the past becomes a lie. I don’t want to go back. The night Diego was shot I decided to stop deluding myself and accept that we belong to each other now.