Russo Saga Collection

by Nicolina Martin

  She doesn’t live in a dump, but it’s not in a fancy part of the city either. Somehow, I’d imagined Sydney lived a pampered life. Her mother lives in luxury in Manhattan, and her father is a retired architect. There must be money. On the other hand, I’m not surprised that she’s a woman who makes her own life, her own luck. Like me.

  I’ve been here a week. I need her.

  Now.

  Sydney

  I jerk awake from a noise and sit up straight. My heart pounds as I fumble for my phone on the bedside table. Three minutes past eleven. I went to bed early. I’ve had long days at work, working extra shifts, saving all the money I can. My heart pounds, but I don’t hear anything else. I decide I was dreaming and sink back down, pulling up my blanket to my chin. Then I hear it again. A noise from outside my front door. I sit up again, suddenly terrified. Someone’s outside my apartment. Still, I’m not prepared for the soft knock and freeze up, unable to move. It knocks again. I dart out of bed and pull a large sweater over my head, then I tiptoe to the door and lay my palms against it, quiet as a mouse. I wish I had a peephole, but I don’t. I don’t even have a safety chain. It suddenly feels utterly stupid.

  When the knock comes again, I jump back and gasp. Then I cover my mouth. I made a sound. I rush back to my bedroom, snatch my phone and type 911 without calling, just to have some measure of security.

  I walk back and clear my throat. “Who’s there?” My voice weaker than I meant it to be.

  It’s silent, then a voice I would recognize anywhere, at any time.

  “It’s me.”

  All air rushes out of my lungs. “Nathan?” I whisper.

  He doesn’t say anything, and I can’t speak. I can’t even breathe. Finally, I find my voice again. “What are you doing here?”

  “Not the response I was hoping for,” says the disembodied voice from the other side of the door.

  I’m quiet. I’m too stunned. There’s a rustle, and I more feel than hear what I imagine are palms pressed against the door.

  “Open the door, Syd.”

  I surprise myself. I would have thought I’d have thrown myself at him, given how miserable I’ve been. “Why?”

  He’s quiet. I inhale to repeat my question, but he interrupts me.

  “Let me in.”

  “I told you to stay away from me.” I sound amazingly unconvincing.

  “Open the door or I’ll kick it open,” he growls.

  “No, you won’t,” I say, not entirely sure I’m right. A bolt of fear shoots through my chest. Last time I saw this man, he was covered in another man’s blood, his eyes fierce, dangerous.

  “Sydney, I will.”

  I take a step back. “I’ll call the police.” My voice trembles.

  “No, you won’t,” he says. “What’s it going to be?”

  I swallow hard, reach for the door, unlock it and let the tornado that is Nathan Russo back into my life. The doorknob twists slowly and then the door swings open. Towering over me is a tall, lean man with eyes as blue as the early morning sky, lips full and sweet, a squared jawline, his dark hair a little longer than I remember it. My mouth is dry and my whole body is torn by two different instincts at the same time: running far, far away, and needing him more than I need my next breath.

  Our gazes lock and the air around us is absolutely still, then he closes the door and throws us into near-darkness. His eyes fall on the phone I’m still clutching, the number I’ve typed clearly visible. Reaching out, he takes it and I let him, then he advances on me. I back up, colliding with the unyielding wall behind me.

  My legs feel like they’ll give out, but I square my shoulders. I am not letting this man tear everything apart again. As I cross my arms over my chest, I raise my head in defiance. “What do you want?”

  “You.” There’s a raw honesty in his voice, in that single word, I hadn’t expected.

  I’m not sure how to answer. I missed him terribly. It nearly broke me until I decided to turn the furnace inside to something that would benefit me instead, decided to rebuild my life from scratch and take control.

  “I told you to stay away.” My voice is faint and unconvincing.

  He looks stunned, a bit lost. There’s a pinch of pain in my chest and then I put the lid back on. It was another life. It wasn’t real. The passion we had was dark, terrifying, and should stay buried with the past. It will kill me to go digging. I can’t do it. I can’t let him in again. My whole being whimpers for him not to do this to me, but I can’t tell him that. It would be like baring my throat to him. He had the upper hand, more or less, that whole vacation. This is my home, my rules.

  “Did you now?” he asks softly and raises a hand to my face.

  “Look,” I say, trying not to flinch. His fingers hover so close I can almost feel the heat on my cheek. “Nice of you to drop by. It was fun. We had a couple of very… special days, but it can’t happen again. You can’t come back.”

  “I did what I had to do,” he hisses, raising his voice a little.

  “And whatever it is you do, doesn’t mesh with what I do, who I am,” I sneer. “Look, you’re into some shit that I don’t want to know about. You saved me, and I’ll be forever thankful, but you’re also the most terrifying person I’ve ever met.” I wince. “Okay, second most.”

  He takes one step closer, gaining on me, cornering me. I glance around us, realizing I have nowhere to go unless I lay my hands on him, touch him, push him to the side. Despite my hesitation I try to get past him, but he takes ahold of my shoulders and presses me up against the wall. My skin burns where he touches it, his warmth imprinted into my very core since back at Le Bain. Since the very first touch.

  “Am I really? Or is there something else that scares you, Sydney? Something that goes much deeper?”

  “Don’t,” I whisper and swallow hard, looking up at him. His face is so close his features are nothing but a blur.

  “Don’t what?” He caresses my cheek, down past my jawline, catching my earlobe between his thumb and index finger. His touch shoots fire straight down to my pussy and I nearly buckle with want.

  “Don’t touch me,” I whimper. “Don’t start this again.”

  He inches closer. His chest to mine, my nipples hardening from the contact. He doesn’t miss it, glancing down and then back up to my face.

  “Start what?”

  I groan. His other hand follows the contour of my upper arm down to my elbow, sneaking around my waist, pressing me even closer.

  “This,” I gasp.

  He leans closer. “Kiss me.” His breath is hot on my face.

  Oh, how I want to. My body screams for his touch, I can’t control the desperate need, but I know that if I let him in, I will fall back into being the little enchanted girl I was on the island. I’d let him use me, rip me to pieces, push me into a territory where I don’t know who I am anymore. I’ve moved on. I’ve taken control of my life in a way I never had before.

  I’m locked between a rock and a hard place. The wall doesn’t give. Neither does the man invading me. His lips brush mine, but he doesn’t move forward. He’s waiting for me to move, to give my permission, my submission. ‘Just this once,’ says my body. ‘Danger,’ screams my mind. There’s not a cell within me that can resist the pull. I press my lips against his and we both gasp and cling to each other for dear life when we meet in a desperate kiss. There are no wandering hands, no squirming, no tearing at clothes. We just kiss. I open my mouth to his and he takes every ounce of what I give. And then I take it back. His hands come up to stroke my hair, caress my cheeks. I grip the back of his neck and pull him to me. Then I abruptly break our union and shove him off me.

  “Get out of here.”

  He looks startled, his mouth still open, his lips swollen. His eyes search my face, maybe for answers I can’t give.

  “Just go, Nathan. We’re done. What I said stands.”

  When he doesn’t move, I step closer, looking up at him. “Was I that good a fuck? The little girl y
ou could whip into submission? Fuck you.”

  I see the change as it happens. His face, which was open, vulnerable, closes. His eyes turn ice-cold and his lips narrow into a thin line.

  “This is not over,” he growls. “We are not done, Sydney.” He regards me a few moments longer, then he turns on the spot and storms off. He rips the door open and slams it shut behind him with a deafening bang.

  I stand still. I can’t move. My stomach hurts and my heart pounds too hard. Forcing myself out of the reverie, I put a trembling hand against the cool wooden surface of the door. It tells me nothing. I don’t feel him anymore. He’s gone again. A dull ache forms in my chest, spreading, making it hard to breathe. I press my fists to my heart and push hard. It feels like it needs to be kept in or it will spill out. After an eternity, I sink to the floor, my back against the door. A wail of pure pain rises from my throat, and a dam opens. Hurt, longing, loneliness, it all comes pouring out with the tears that wet my cheeks, drip under my chin, and soak my sweater.

  His face is so vivid before me. The warmth in his gaze. Then the ice when I rejected him.

  Am I mad? What have I done? I’ve longed for him so much and when he finally shows up, I throw him out? Bitter bile rises in my throat and I dash to my feet. Stumbling to the bathroom, I slam open the lid to the toilet, sink to my knees and retch. Nothing comes out, though, and I stand up on trembling legs, splashing my face with ice-cold water. The discomfort slowly turns my tilted world back to its normal position where up is up and down is down.

  I clutch the edge of the sink and stare at my image in the mirror. My eyes are swollen, and my gaze is dull. My cheeks have a fresh rosy quality from the cold water. I meet my own eyes, staring myself down. Why did I throw him out when it hurts so much?

  But I know why. I’ve started to build something of my own. The planned move. The partnership with Jayna. I’ve taken control over my life and if I let him back in, I would return to being a puppet, pulled by its strings. I don’t feel happy, but I feel hope. I can’t let him come and destroy that.

  Also, I kind of panicked.

  Chapter 25

  Nathan

  “Just go, Nathan. We’re done.”

  I can’t believe it. My heart thunders in my chest and a high-pitched noise rings in my ears. I pace the little elevator cage back and forth all the way down. The more distance I put between her apartment and myself, the more I fume. When I exit her building and set my foot on the pavement, I can’t even collect my thoughts. Hurt, anger, confusion, humiliation and a feeling of betrayal all fight for space in my mind. I kick a nearby trash bin and end up literally mauling it, spreading organic waste, plastic bags, soiled paper, and various undefinable litter all over the alley next to her house. The odor is almost suffocating in the warm night. Sweaty, I fall heavy against the dirty orange brick wall. A cop cruises by and I sink deeper into the shadows. I wouldn’t like the attention when I probably look like a madman, sneaking about in the night.

  When they’ve passed, I collect myself and look at the mess. I feel sorry for the poor bastard who’ll clean the streets in the early morning hours and be met by this. I’m an idiot. For a moment I lost it and reverted back to fourteen-year-old Nathan, the little kid who had absolutely no control. The kid who took the wrong turn in life. After spending a childhood being ignored, I don’t take rejection well.

  I take a step toward where my car is parked, but then I decide to walk instead. We’re not close to the beach, but I can walk for hours. I’ll see how far I get. I push a hand through my disheveled hair, scrape something that looks like a piece of rotten salad off one of my shoes and start moving toward the east. The night is fairly quiet. I pass bars full of people laughing and drinking, I see them as if on a screen. They don’t seem real. I’m just a spectator, watching life from afar. Every sound assaults my ears, every color is too sharp, the neon hurting my eyes. I step around someone vomiting, supporting himself against the window of a shop. The wind whips the stench right at me. I walk by a couple, oblivious to me passing, as they’re feeling each other up.

  It’s only been two months. It’s been two whole months. Despite our parting words, and the finality of it, I still had the impression there could’ve been more. What changed in this short time span?

  I’ve lived in Miami for two weeks. I’ve been checking her out the last five days. Every morning she runs on the beach, dressed in a pink sleeveless top, neon-green, tight, little shorts and pink and white trainers. For about forty minutes her feet relentlessly pound the sand. The pale beauty I knew now has a tan, and shorter hair that bounces on her shoulders. She looks tougher, more focused, as if some of that softness is gone. Did I do that to her? I remember thinking I’d ruin her innocence, but I didn’t mean it literally.

  After almost an hour, the breeze gets fresher, saltier. I stop, close my eyes and take a deep breath, listening to the relaxing sounds of waves tumbling over the sand. Crossing the street between surprisingly dense traffic despite the hour of the night, I leave the bars behind me. The pounding salsa music dissolves as I reach the waterfront. Lighting up a cigarette I sit down on the damp sand and stare out into the darkness. It’s the same dark nothingness I stared at in Cancun. I kick myself inwardly for being sloppy. What did I miss? What changed? I rest my arms on my knees and take a deep pull, hold it in and blow it out, watching the smoke diffuse in the air. A noise behind me startles me and I’m on my feet in half a second. I take in the man that has snuck up behind me. He’s dressed in black. Black jeans and a black hoodie with the hood up to cover part of his face. A knife in his hand. He looks ready to pounce. I sigh.

  The guy never has the chance to say whatever threatening thing he meant to say. Tossing the cig, I slam him to the ground, his knife hand secured with a twist to his wrist until he drops the pointy object. I kick it out of reach, flip him over on his stomach, and hold his arm in a vice grip that makes him howl in pain. With a knee between his shoulder blades, I rip off the hood and grab around his neck, forcing him to face me. I raise my arm, about to pummel him, when I think better of it. I’m fucking trying to change.

  “Get the fuck out of here,” I say. I stand and step back. He rearranges his limbs and staggers to his feet, his eyes wide. “Now!”

  I watch his pathetic figure retreat and think about the predators out there, about the woman I want, and how vulnerable she is, realizing how deep the feeling of needing to protect Sydney goes. I’ve killed for this woman. I’d do it again in a heartbeat. But how can I if she doesn’t let me back in?

  I start back toward my car. Tonight, didn’t go as planned. I’m not used to things not going my way. I should have figured. There was always something elusive about Sydney. She seemed like an open book, easy to read, easy to seduce and use, but there was passion under her cool facade, something strong and raw. I thought she was malleable. I’m beginning to think I was wrong.

  I’m slipping. I’ve been wanting out of the business for a long time. Then she happened and pulled the rug out from under me. I’ve built a world around the existence of Sydney, a way out, a light to lead me to a future I never thought I would have.

  And now she doesn’t want me. What’s my fucking motivation now?

  On my way back to the car, I buy a bottle of whiskey from a little, seedy, 24-hour liquor store. Once back in my apartment, I slam the door shut behind me, find a glass that seems clean enough and pour the smoky light-brown beverage into it. With the bottle in one hand and the glass in the other I walk toward the windows. I drain the glass, staring at my reflection that grows larger with every step. The man I see is not the man I want to be anymore. I throw the bottle with full force toward my mirror image. The bottle smashes into a thousand pieces but the stormproof window glass doesn’t even rattle.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” The room reeks of whisky and there are shards of glass in a large radius before my feet. I turn on the spot, grab my wallet, phone and keys and go to find a hotel instead.

  Either give up on he
r, or I find out what has changed. Giving up is out of the question, so I gather whatever dignity I have left and start making up a new plan.

  The next morning finds me on a flight to San Francisco. The huge white house on the hill, the residence of my uncle Luciano Salvatore is imposing, threatening, and tacky. Money can’t buy class. You have it, or you don’t.

  Despite knowing I’m on my way, he’s still in a robe, reading the paper by the breakfast table.

  “You must’ve started early, Nathaniel.”

  “Uncle.”

  “Little brother. Now what brings me the honor?” He waves for a young female servant who’s standing quietly to the side. “Bring Mr. Russo coffee and a croissant. Black.” She nods and disappears.

  I’m not his little brother, but our age difference is only eight years, and we had a couple of years under the same roof, Mama Bianca taking care of us all, but not because she loved us. She was building her empire.

  I sit opposite him, tilting my head toward the brute by the door. Salvatore follows my gaze and then gestures for the man to scamper.

  “I want out.”

  “Out of what?”

  “The fucking business.”

  He barks out a laugh. “That’s not happening.”

  Rage rises in my chest, my heart crackling with dark energy. “I won’t be doing your dirty work ever again.”

  His black eyes flare as he leans closer. “You don’t ever leave the business unless you’re carried out, feet first.”

  He doesn’t scare me. If that’s how it’s going to be, then so be it. “Are you threatening me?”

  Salvatore leans back, sips his coffee, taking his time. “Of course not. You’re my blood. My sister would flay me.”

  “I’m not killing for you again.”

  His face lights up. “Now we’re getting somewhere. That’s a whole other story. Tell me.”