by Blake York
“The kid’s just solved World Hunger, folks,” Ryker quips beside me.
“I’m just saying we work out these same details what—once a week? Twice? It’s never going to change. We’re always going to have issues with the supply chain unless you can fix the main problem, which is getting people to do the job and do it without getting caught.”
Now I have everyone’s attention.
“And you know how to do this?” Kenzo pushes his plate away.
“You work out a program for them. Promise them that if they serve for a certain amount of time, they’re compensated for the risks they take.”
Kenzo barks out a laugh and pulls out his phone. He fakes dialing a number. “Sure, let me just hook them up with our HR department.”
Laughter follows, an odd sound at this time of day. None of us are morning people, since most of our operations take place during the dark cover of night.
Once they all stop laughing, I shrug. “You don’t believe me, try it with one guy. I’m telling you that he will succeed if he knows we’ve got his back, that he’s not just smuggling meth from Canada across US lines for a small bag stuffed with cash.”
Silence reigns over the group. At the opposite end of the table where my father’s seated, his black stare settles on me. Then he cocks his head as if considering what I’ve said.
“What can it hurt?” he says.
All my brothers look at him, and I rest back, sipping my coffee and enjoying the fact that I’m being taken seriously. Maybe it’s the fact I’m a married man now or that the old man’s sick of listening to people’s excuses about why they failed to get the drug shipment where it needs to go.
The servant returns, but this time he stands next to my father and clears his throat.
My father looks up from his bacon and eggs. “What is it?”
“There’s a detective at the door.”
We exchange looks all around. A detective could be any number of people in our pockets.
Or someone poking his nose into our business.
My father’s on his feet. One by one, we all stand too.
The servant throws a glance my way. “He’s asking for Miss Gallo. Miss Everly Gallo.”
His statement has me jerking forward, taking long strides to the front door. When I find the detective sitting in the leather armchair waiting for us, I walk right up to him.
“What do you want here?” I demand.
Slowly, he stands. I can see he’s young. Probably a rookie hungry for closure on some case or another. But what he needs with my wife remains to be seen.
“I’m looking for Everly Gallo.”
“It’s Rossi now.” I fold my arms and brace my legs wide. “I’m her husband.”
“I guess congratulations are in order, then. I’m here to question her about a sensitive matter concerning her family.”
A rustle comes from my brothers. They don’t want in this deep shit we may have just stepped into. I don’t need them to speak to know they all disapprove of my choice of a wife.
Bringing dirt to our front door can be bad. Very bad. Disastrous. If this detective suspects anything other than a big happy family in this house, he’ll come for us.
The detective takes note of my family standing there like a family of mobsters prepared to dump him in the Chicago River. When he turns to me, though, he’s cool and collected. I’ll give him points for that, even if he still looks wet behind the ears.
“Is Mrs. Rossi in? Would I be able to speak with her?”
I shoot my father a side-eye. He gives a barely detectable nod.
“I’ll go get her.” I wave a hand at our servant, who’s armed and as capable as any security guard if the guy pulls any funny business. “If you’ll take Detective…” I break off, waiting for the name he never said. Maybe he’s not as seasoned as he makes out.
“Detective Bly.”
“Please make Detective Bly comfortable while I get my wife.” The word wife feels strange passing through my lips. Especially since she’s not exactly my wife in the terms all marriages are built on since we haven’t consummated our union—and I slept on the leather sofa in the library last night.
No way will I let on. The second my family knows I didn’t take her, and they detect a chink in my armor, they’ll pounce on me and demand to know why I didn’t just toss up my unwilling bride’s dress and sink my dick in her.
I can’t give them a single reason for them to come at me. I’m not giving her up even if it means a Rossi war.
As I take the stairs, I track the sound of footsteps as the detective is shoved out of earshot. Then the whispers of my brothers fade too.
I haven’t been up to my bedroom since last night. I’m not sure what sort of state of mind I’ll find my wife in.
Without bothering to knock, I open the door and am greeted by Everly’s round ass bent over the bed.
I halt in my tracks. Midway through making the bed, she flips her hair over her shoulder and straightens to look at me. The oversized top she’s wearing slips off one shoulder, exposing her tantalizing flesh.
I wet my lips.
A pink flush climbs her neck, and she waves at the bed. “I’m just tidying up.”
“You don’t have to. We have servants for that.”
“Oh. Yeah.” She eases a lock of hair behind her ear in a nervous gesture. “I forget people live like that. It’s been a while since I did.”
“I’m not here to tell you not to make our bed, Everly.”
That pink flush transforms to a crimson color right before my eyes. It takes me a second to realize that she’s reacting to me calling it “our bed.” But it is—and I damn well will have her in it, in every filthy way possible.
When she twines her fingers together, I see once again how nervous I make her.
That’s nothing compared to what she’s about to face downstairs.
“There’s someone here.”
Her face blanks at my statement.
“He wants to speak with you.”
All the blood drains from her face, leaving her pale. She leans against the bed she’s just made. “Is it…Nick?”
“No.” My jaw creaks as I bite down on the word. “I’d kill that motherfucker if he ever stepped foot in my house. It’s a Detective Bly.”
Her eyes widen. “Detective?”
“Do you know him?” I cross the room to her at last. I can’t take it anymore. I have to touch my wife.
When I take her hand and pull her toward me, she pads a step closer. “I don’t know any detectives. What does he want? Did he say?”
“No. He’s asking to talk to you. He’s waiting downstairs.” I have to tell her all of it. “Whatever he’s here for must be serious. Just looking at him I know he can’t be bought or bribed. If he starts digging too deep…”
She sucks in a sharp breath. “You don’t mean something ugly like he…disappears?”
“No, but we have to go speak to him.”
“Oh god.” Her lips tremble a split second before she compresses them. I’m impressed by how fast she conceals her emotions. Even the worried lights in her eyes shut off.
“If I caution you not to answer a question, then don’t speak. I’ll get you a lawyer if that’s what is needed. I won’t leave your side, Everly. I’ll be right there with you.”
She drags in a deep breath. “I made the right decision marrying you, Warrick. At first, I thought I jumped in without thinking, but I can’t afford a lawyer. I’d be lost if this detective had showed up at my bakery.”
I don’t know what makes me lean in and press a kiss between her creased brows. Offering comfort’s not my thing. But this woman brings something out in me, a need to watch over her.
I’m far from a fucking hero. But I’ll stand by her side.
A shiver ripples through her body as I lift my lips from her warm skin. Her eyes latch onto mine, and I level her in my stare. “Don’t let him scare you. You’re a Rossi.”
She nods.
Chapter VII
Everly
For the second time in my life, I walk down these stairs to find the Rossis staring up at me.
It’s been a while since I had to act the part of a mafia princess. After Melody and I went to live with our grandmother, we were more or less normal kids. We didn’t have to put on any acts around mobsters or detectives, or witness our father being brutally murdered right in front of us.
Though somehow, I manage to straighten my shoulders and descend from my bedroom like a princess finally freed from her tower. It has to be my new husband giving me the confidence to hold my head high and act like I am in complete control of this situation.
The lingering warmth of his kiss still lingers between my brows. When he settles his big hand on my lower back and guides me to a study decked out in gleaming, rich woods and more priceless art, I think I’m prepared.
But as soon as I set eyes on the detective, my heart takes off at a fast clip. I feel like a racehorse at the Kentucky Derby having a cardiac event. Dizziness grips the sides of my head and is whipping me.
“Everly, this is Detective Bly.”
As if by magic, the dizziness fades, leaving me centered and focused on the man in front of me. He extends a hand, and I shake it in the way my grandma taught me, by fitting my hand tight against his and squeezing just hard enough when I look him in the eyes.
Never show a man you’re afraid, bella. Her words echo in my mind.
“I’m Everly Gallo,” I stumble over my new last name, “R-Rossi.”
“Newlyweds. Congratulations.” Detective Bly smiles.
I nod in thanks to hide the fact I’m studying him like he’s a thick book containing the answers of life. The truths and lies. Why is he here?
He waves for us to sit on the sofa and takes up an armchair in the corner. When I sit down, I wonder if this is where my husband spent his wedding night.
Shooting him a look from the corner of my eye, I see nothing on his face to indicate he’s upset with me. Only hardness by the detective being here.
Silence fills the room for a moment, and all I can hear is my own thumping heart. I tuck my hand under my thigh to keep from showing my nerves, and to my astonishment, Warrick places his palm on my leg.
The detective takes note of this and then draws in a breath to speak.
Before he can utter a word, I burst, “Did something happen to my mother?”
He blinks at my outburst. Warrick’s fingertips curl into my thigh.
Finally, Detective Bly shakes his head. “Your mother is fine, as far as I know. I’m here about your father.”
I go dead inside even as the gun blast reverberates around my mind, forcing open doors that have long been slammed. “My father?”
He nods. His brown hair is the mousy brown color that will turn gray early and no one will take notice of the change. He’s average height, average build. But it’s his eyes that throw me off. He’s the kind of person who sees too much and reads between lines, digging at the soft spots until they find the truth.
This won’t be the first time I’ve been questioned about my father.
“I’ve been assigned to cold cases in the Detroit area. Your father’s case is of particular interest to me.”
I wait.
“How old were you when he was killed?”
“Sixteen.”
“According to the police report, you heard the shot and came running into his office.”
That was the story I’ve stuck to all these years.
I nod in answer.
“Did you see anybody in the office when you entered?”
I’ve been asked this a million times as well, and I pull out the truth here again. “I saw a figure. It was dark, and I couldn’t make out his face.”
“But it was a male?”
“Yes.”
“You couldn’t have mistaken the person for your mother?”
I issue a rough laugh. “Have you ever seen my mother, Detective Bly? She wasn’t a hundred pounds when I last saw her, and that was three years ago at my grandmother’s funeral. I bet the heroin she uses has chiseled away at her even more.”
He bobs his head, taking it all in and committing my words to memory. “So it wasn’t your mother.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Was this person anybody else you knew?” he pressed.
I rub my fingers against the leather sofa seat, still feeling the cold metal of that gun in my grip and the determination to pull the trigger on my father firing in my veins.
Is it coincidence that Nick, the man my father was prepared to give me to as a child bride, popped up in my life again and now Detective Bly is poking around the case?
“No,” I respond.
“Can you recall the names of any of your father’s enemies from that time?”
I laugh again without a trace of humor. “My father was a mafia kingpin. He had a lot of enemies. I can’t say I remember one over another, or ever knew their names at all. I was sixteen, just a kid concerned with grades and friends and what boy I had a crush on.”
“Yes, I see.”
“You’re looking in the wrong city, Detective,” Warrick speaks up from my side. “Why did you come all the way to Chicago to question my wife, when the killer’s probably still in Detroit?”
Relief sinks through my taut muscles bit by bit as this man stands up for me, just like he promised to.
Warrick gains his feet, towering over the detective sitting a short distance away. To even the playing field, Detective Bly stands too. He only comes up to Warrick’s shoulder, though, and has less than half the intimidation factor my husband does.
I step up to Warrick’s side to show my allegiance.
Warrick tips his jaw toward the door, indicating it was time for Bly to go. “Thank you for stopping by. Have a safe trip back to Detroit, and good luck with your case.”
Warrick walks to the door and opens it. I expect to see the Rossi brothers clustered outside, but there’s no one around. My husband ushers out the detective, and the servant/guard picks up by leading him to the front exit.
I hold my breath. Another shoe’s about to drop—I feel it.
Quietly, Warrick closes the study door and turns to me.
I wrap my arms around my middle. “You’re going to ask if I just lied to that detective, aren’t you?”
“Did you?”
“No. I really didn’t see the shooter’s face.”
He examines my face far too closely. “What happened that you aren’t telling me?”
I drop to the sofa and close my eyes on the images bombarding me along with the sheer terror of taking out that gun and loading it with bullets with the intention of putting one of them through my father’s heart.
Warrick remains standing and when I open my eyes, he’s watching me. “Everly, what did happen that night?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know or you won’t say?”
I meet his eyes. Blow out a breath. Can I trust him with my deepest, darkest secret? Or one of them?
He’s the son of a mafioso. He’s not about to go rat out his wife to the cops.
“It’s a long story,” I begin.
He takes the chair the detective abandoned to show he’s in for the long haul. And just like that, a switch flips on in my heart and for the first time in my life, I begin to trust a man.
I swallow hard against the lump blocking my throat. “The day my father was shot, he told my little sister and me that we were moving.”
“Moving?”
“We were going to marry.”
He stares at me. “But you were sixteen. And your sister…”
“Twelve at the time. I know. We were frantic when we were told to pack. I couldn’t leave my sister to the fate of a dirty old man with dirtier dealings.” I scrub my hands over my face. “I…was going to kill my father. That night. I got one of the guns he kept in the house
and I loaded it. I waited in the shadows for him to come into his study, as he usually did at night.”
Warrick’s expression doesn’t change. “What happened then?”
“I didn’t know if I could pull the trigger. But in the end…I didn’t have to. Someone else was waiting in that study for him, and he shot first.”
“Jesus. Did you actually see the killer?”
“No. That much was true. He wore dark clothes and hid in the shadows. Only when the gun fired, I saw he wore a hood over his head. Then I ran for it. The rest of the things I told Detective Bly and a dozen others who’ve questioned me about that night I made up, saying I ran in at the sound of the blast and saw my father lying in a pool of blood.”
“What ever happened to the weapon you had?” Leave it to Warrick to cover his tracks—or in this case, the tracks of a future wife he didn’t know about at the time.
“I wiped it off with bleach wipes and hid it back in the spot I got it from. Nobody ever knew or asked me about it. After that, my mother was deemed unfit to care for us. My u-uncle petitioned for custody, and thank god that was denied. We went to my grandmother and lived with her until she died. Then I took over my sister’s care. I used some of the money I got from selling Nonna’s house to pay for the lease on the bakery.”
His stare never leaves me, but it doesn’t make me nervous. It’s a warm balm soothing over my frazzled nerves.
“So you wanted to kill your old man. I’ve wanted to take out mine more times than I can count. If you’re not being straight with me, and you really did it, you had good reason for it. And I don’t care either way.”
I gape at him. “You wouldn’t care if you’re married to a murderer?”
“Do you care that you’re married to one?” The corners of his lips quirk in a bad-boy way that has my heart pounding for other reasons.
“I didn’t kill my father. Someone beat me to it.”
“This sister of yours. She’s safe at the private school you put her in?”
I nod. “I need to go back to work at my bakery, soon, though. I need to reopen so I can earn money for her tuition.”