A Cruel Love: Cavalieri Della Morte

by Soto, S. M.

  I take a drag from my smoke and exhale, allowing the gray plumes to swirl around my face. My hand freezes midair when I spot something unusual. A man, dressed in all black, hovers near the end of the street, near the shop. I can’t make out anything but his silhouette. His black hoodie hides his features well. Too well. He glances around, looking for anyone who may be watching along the street, and like the idiot he is, he keeps going, not realizing the most dangerous person of all is sitting in the parked car, right across from him. He storms into the shop while her back is turned, and I blow out an aggravated sigh.

  For fuck’s sake…

  Why the fuck wouldn’t she lock the doors right when she closed up shop? Especially after our encounter only days ago. You would think she’d have a little more sense than to leave it unlocked for another intruder.

  My gaze narrows, honing in on the guy who bursts through the door, startling Blossom. Everything happens in slow motion after that. The way she whirls around, and instead of seeing fear in her eyes, there’s something akin to hope. But that soon morphs into something else when she gets a good look at the person hovering in her doorway. He pulls his pistol out, aiming it straight at her head. He’s yelling something at her, but she’s frozen, mouth wide with shock and eyes the size of saucers. It doesn’t take him long to make his move. Before she can react, he’s jumping over the counter, slamming her up against the wall. I twist on the leather of my seat to get a better look.

  With his gun out of sight now, he rubs himself on Blossom, groping her body. My eyes narrow into thin little slits, but I still don’t budge. She finally reacts, and I take a drag from my cigarette, oddly annoyed that it’s taken her this long to snap into action. Blossom beats against her attacker’s body, using her weak arms to shove him off, but he’s too strong. Even I can see it from here. She’s useless.

  The stranger strikes her across the face, sending her onto the ground, out of my line of sight. I wait a few seconds to see if she gets up. When she does, not by her own will, I release a pent-up sigh.

  Fucking hell.

  Tucking the Glock into the waistband of my jeans, I slip out of the car and stride toward Blossom’s shop at a calm pace. A normal, good man would hurry to her aid, to beat off her attacker. Not me—I want to see how she manages on her own for a bit longer. I need to see what this girl is made of in the face of danger. And just as I suspected, not fucking much.

  With a much clearer view now, I can see the stranger dragging her to her feet by her golden hair. His fist is buried in the long strands, likely wrapped several times around to get a secure grip. He shoves her body over the glass counter that displays all her baked goods. He holds her down, smashing her face against the glass, putting all his weight on her, spreading her thighs, wedging himself in between her legs. Using this position to his advantage, he places the gun on the counter behind him and fumbles with his fly.

  Paused in front of the window, I take a final drag from my cigarette, toss it to the ground, and put it out with the toe of my boot before I throw the door open. The sounds of metal and glass clash, slicing through the air, and that stupid fucking welcoming bell chimes, signaling my entrance.

  Tear-filled blue-green, intricate eyes land on mine, and I see them widen. I see her lips part in shock or maybe gratefulness—I couldn’t really care less. A beat passes as we stare at each other, and before I can think better of it, I slip out my Glock, aiming at the fucker who has now had enough time to zip up his fly and reach for his own piece. My lips thin as I catch a glimpse of the tattoo peeking out from the sleeve of his hoodie. It’s the same tattoo every Irish member has, that ugly-as-shit four-leaf clover on the right hand.

  Gritting my teeth, I pull the trigger before he has a chance.

  Blossom screams.

  The shot is deafening and so is his groan of pain as he jolts back from the bullet, falling onto the cool tile floor. Blossom lets out another bloodcurdling scream—hell, you’d think she was the one hit by a bullet from her reaction—but I ignore her. Calmly, I walk around the counter and fire off a bullet right between his eyes, stopping him from being another pain in my ass. I already have one of those, and she’s proving to be an even bigger problem.

  “Oh my god!” Blossom screams, her faced etched in horror. She looks from me to the now-dead man on the floor and back again with fear in her eyes. It almost makes me want to remind her of what was just about to happen had I not put a bullet in this son of a bitch. Part of me wants to analyze the coincidence of a man from the Irish mob attacking Blossom, a woman I’ve been watching for the last few weeks. The thing about coincidences? They’re not fucking real. Which means they’ve been watching much more closely than I originally thought.

  Blossom watches me with tears swimming in her eyes like I’m some kind of monster. She’d be right about that.

  “You…you…oh, no.” She makes a retching sound, and sure enough, vomit flies out of her mouth, splashing right next to the dead body.

  It’s fitting, really.

  She sobs uncontrollably, trying to hold herself together, but her legs give out on her, causing her to drop to the floor. I glance at my watch and sigh. I don’t have time for this shit. It’s already been too long after the first shot was fired. Too risky to hang out here. Especially in the suburbs. There’s no telling if he was working alone or if this was the Irish’s plan all along. If that’s the case, I don’t plan on hanging out here to find out, especially not with this hysterical mess next to me.

  When I parked my car outside of here two hours ago, this was not how I imagined my night going.

  With my phone in hand, I press out a quick text to Bors, one of the Cavalieri. Since he’s in New York on his honeymoon—the dumb bastard went and fell in love—and we’re supposed to meet for drinks, he’s the perfect someone to get rid of this body and clean up the mess in here while I handle Blossom. I close the distance between us and nudge her leg with my boot. “Get up. Let’s go.”

  Her head snaps up, those wide, starkly different eyes staring up at me like I’m out of my mind.

  “Are you crazy?” she yells, her voice hysterically high. “I’m not going anywhere with you! Not after you…not after that!”

  The patience I had no more than five seconds ago? It’s gone.

  I aim the barrel of my gun directly at her head and narrow my eyes. “I said get. The. Fuck. Up.”

  All the color drains from her face, and her body trembles as she struggles to push to her feet. My nostrils flare in anger as she shies away from me, her fear permeating the very air we share.

  I don’t know what I was thinking. I should’ve just let him do whatever he was going to do to her. Why did I feel like I had to save her? I’m only going to kill her anyway, once this disturbing infatuation with the blonde is over with, that is. Now, I have an even bigger problem on my fucking hands.

  Cleaning up this fucking mess before people start to ask questions.

  My lip curls with frustration at this whole screwed-up situation. I snatch her by the arm and drag her after me, out of the shop doors.

  “But the shop—”

  “Don’t fucking speak,” I snap, cutting her off. I feel her body tense, and I should feel some small ounce of regret, but I don’t.

  With a firm grip on her bicep, I drag her toward the Porsche. She whimpers like a wounded animal. The sound travels down my back, leaving all the hairs standing at attention. I guide her into the passenger seat, activating the child lock on the side of the door before I slam it shut. With a frustrated growl, I slip out another cigarette, light the fucker, and inhale a deep breath, holding in the smoke. I blow it out, along with the stress, and round the back of the car, then slide into the driver’s seat. I gun the engine and peel out, speeding through town. In my peripheral, I can see Blossom inch closer to the door, her hand slowly reaching toward the handle.

  I smirk around my cig.

  Oh, sweet little Blossom Jaymes, you gotta be smarter than that.

  I can tel
l she fails by the crestfallen expression on her face when she tries the handle and nothing happens. A lone tear slips down her cheek, and she sucks her bottom lip into her mouth, probably to stifle her sobs.

  “P-please don’t-t kill m-me.” She stutters the words out violently, her emotion thickening each word. The innocent, bleeding tone of her voice sets me on edge. My shoulders tense and my fist tightens around the steering wheel, white-knuckling the leather.

  Why couldn’t she just continue sobbing and keep her mouth shut? That would’ve made this a whole hell of a lot easier.

  I grind my teeth together, gritting the words out. “Don’t do anything stupid and I won’t have to.”

  It’s a lie.

  Because chances are, come tomorrow morning, Blossom Jaymes will be dead.

  Unfortunate Circumstances

  Blossom

  I should’ve known today was going to be a bad day. My horoscope even told me so. All signs led to today being a shit day, but never in a million years did I think it would be this bad. Honestly, I think the curse for bad days started when he walked through the bakery doors.

  It was my own fault. I should’ve locked the doors, and I usually do, but that day…I just forgot. It slipped my mind. And then when he calmly strode inside, I was speechless. And it wasn’t because a total stranger had just barged through my doors, oh no. It was because that stranger looked like a freaking god, wrapped in a sinfully beautiful package that promised bad things. His dark brown hair that looked like he didn’t bother with a comb worked for him. It looked like a sexy mess of disarray piled on top of his head, and all I wanted to do was run my fingers through it.

  And then when I saw his face…all bets were off. He was gorgeous. Like literally, the man is why the word gorgeous was invented. I’m not talking about the regular kind of gorgeous, but the rugged, bad-boy kind. One look at him and I knew he was trouble. And that should’ve been my first clue that today was going to turn into this shitstorm of problems because truth is, trouble always seems to find me.

  It found me in third grade when Celeste Simmons pushed me off the monkey bars and I broke both my arm and sprained my ankle.

  It found me when I was in high school and was held down on my prom night while my date drunkenly ripped at my dress until he took what wasn’t his to take.

  It found me when I befriended my neighbor who seemed like she could use a friend.

  It found me when said friend suddenly went missing, without a damn trace.

  That was me, a magnet for trouble—or really, a magnet for unfortunate circumstances.

  I remember the way my eyes skimmed across his body as he stood in my bakery with a freaking cigarette hanging out of his perfectly shaped mouth—a cigarette of all things! He was tall, the kind of tall you usually only see in sports, particularly basketball. His shoulders were wide and even beneath his leather jacket, I could see the corded muscles hidden beneath, like I had X-ray vision. It was obvious he made a hobby out of working out. No man, I don’t care who he is, looks that good from doing a whole lot of nothing. That just isn’t scientifically possible.

  His black T-shirt clung to the contours of what I imagine were six-pack abs. I wouldn’t believe he’d have anything less—he probably strives for something even greater, like an eight-pack. His jeans were dark and worn, ripped here and there. I honestly couldn’t tell if he bought them like that, or if over time that’s just what happened to them. Most likely the latter—he doesn’t really strike me as the type to purposely buy distressed jeans to stay in fashion.

  After giving him a thorough once-over, I couldn’t help but glance out of the window of the bakery, looking for a Harley or some kind of motorcycle. He looked like the type who would ride one, what with the tattoos peeking out from beneath his jacket. I imagine they cover almost every inch of his skin.

  Before he even said anything, I knew his voice would be deep and gravelly. I could just tell, by the dark aura surrounding him. I should’ve made him leave, I know that now, but I couldn’t. I wanted him to stay. I wanted to keep him in front of me for as long as I possibly could, I just didn’t know how to accomplish that.

  He was a magnetic force, demanding my attention the very second he walked into the room.

  What was an even bigger issue for me was my reaction to him. I’ve never wanted to be with a man so viscerally. Especially after what happened in high school, but looking at him, having him so close to me, I felt lust, red-hot lust swimming through my veins. And when he spoke for the first time? I knew I was in over my head.

  Sure, I dated a few guys here and there, but they were always the same. Nice guys dressed in slacks and polos, with a nine-to-five as a stockbroker or an accountant. We’d go out on coffee dates or have a handful of quiet dinners together before the thought of sex was even on the table. And even when it was, I always found an excuse to back out of it. When things were getting too hot and heavy, I’d put a stop to it, because deep down, I still wasn’t ready. There was only one boyfriend I’d managed to go that far with, and even though things between us didn’t work out, he’s one of those guys who still calls and texts to check in on me. Those guys were all safe—within my league. Him? Not so much.

  He was tall, dark, and sexy as all hell. But what was even more frightening was the look on his face. It was no-nonsense. I sensed he could do bad things—had done bad things—and as much as it should’ve frightened me away, it only made me more curious. My curiosity only grew when he slid the hundred across the counter toward me. For a second, I thought it was a cruel joke, until I realized he was serious. Too bad for me I couldn’t seem to get myself together fast enough to get his treats to him safely in the bag.

  Mortified doesn’t even begin to describe what I felt. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop shaking. I couldn’t get my brain and body to work in tandem. It was like a riot was going on inside me and he was witnessing every embarrassing second of it.

  All I could think to do was apologize. For dropping his pastry. For being a stupid hormonal woman. For being me.

  But that only made him angry. I was stunned at his sharp tone when he told me not to apologize. His words were a dose of electricity. A shot of liquor. Hell, maybe even a hit of cocaine. Every cell and neuron in my body vibrated and buzzed at his anger. He was irritated with my apology—I could read it all over his face—I just couldn’t understand why. Then when he slid another bill toward me and left the bakery without so much as a goodbye, I couldn’t close my mouth. I wished I was ballsy enough to ask him to stay, to strike up a conversation. Do anything other than stand here, watching him walk out of my bakery, out of my life for good, like a deer stuck in headlights.

  The icing on the cake? Yeah, that was when I watched him toss the pastry he had just paid two hundred dollars for onto the ground before crossing the street, heading straight for a black car that screamed wealthy and dangerous.

  The asshole couldn’t even toss the bag into the garbage; he just threw it on the ground, just like he did with his cigarette on my floor. Like he doesn’t follow the rules. Like everyday normalcies don’t mean a thing to a man like him. All of that should’ve had me turning the other way in disinterest, but I don’t do that. Because he’s everything I can’t be. They say opposites attract, and they’d be right: this man was my opposite in every way. I could tell just by looking at him, just by hearing his voice. He had a certain confidence that I’d lacked my whole life. A self-respect and backbone I could only dream of having.

  I wish I could say I stopped thinking about him after he left my shop, but I didn’t. Not even when I wanted to. Instead, as I closed up the bakery and drove home, all I could see were deep blue eyes the color of the Atlantic Ocean peering into my soul. In the shower, all I could think about was what that sinful mouth would feel like, trailing across my body, across my chest, between my legs. And that voice, god, that voice—I could practically hear him whispering dirty things to me while he touched me. Things I had no right to even be imagining
after what happened years ago.

  I should’ve been disgusted because I touched myself to memories of a stranger I had just barely met. If you can even call our brief encounter a meeting. But I wasn’t disgusted, far from it. For two days, I thought about the man in the leather jacket with his stupid cigarette. For some asinine reason, I hoped he’d come into the bakery again and buy another pastry, not because I wanted the money, but because I wanted to see him again, be close enough to him that I could smell the spice and cedar mixed with nicotine coming off him. Hell, I even left the shop door unlocked for two nights, hoping he’d stumble in, but I was wrong. He never showed.

  Snapping out of thoughts of the darkly handsome man, I spray the last of the Clorox disinfectant along the countertop and use the disposable towel to wipe it clean before tossing it. I glance out the window and pause when I see a black vehicle parked across the street. It’s not the same car I saw him get into the other night, but for some reason, my eyes keep gravitating toward the lonely vehicle. My heart bangs against my rib cage, and hope fills my chest. I can’t see inside the car, not from here. I can’t even tell if it’s the same man from the other night, but I hope it is. I will him to open the door, cross the street, and come inside, but it doesn’t happen.

  With a sigh, I mumble to myself under my breath. “Get a grip.”

  My shoulders droop a little as I focus on grabbing my purse and keys. It’s late, and I need to get home and shower before bed since I have another early morning tomorrow. Mr. Peters is unloading our weekly dough shipment, and he’s a stickler for being on time.

  Using my ring of keys for the bakery, I slide everything out and am just about to swing it over my shoulder when the door to the shop bursts open. My heart lurches and my grip tightens on the strap of my purse. I close my eyes, inhale a deep breath before I lift my gaze toward the entrance. The giddy smile I was fighting to hold in is wiped away completely, and my eyes widen with fear.