by Meghan March
“Who?” I ask her, and this time the question is genuine.
“Your ride home. He’ll walk you up to the door and make sure you get inside okay. Cannon does it for us whenever we need it, so don’t feel special or anything.”
Even though her comment is meant as a slap, I can’t help but feel a warm pang in my chest that he makes sure his employees are safe. That is, if I’m still an employee after tonight.
“I didn’t try to do anything—”
Tanya cuts off my protests. “You don’t have to try. That’s your problem. You’re just like Teal. Men see you, and then they’re tripping over their dicks to smell your hair and asking if they can buy you things.”
I jerk my head back at the scowl on her face. More than anything, I feel like she just opened a window for me to learn more information that could possibly be helpful to piece together what the hell is going on here.
“Who’s Teal?”
Tanya coughs, or maybe she’s choking? “Like you don’t know.”
“I don’t have any idea,” I tell her as a black Escalade pulls up.
“Whatever. Get in the car. Wait for a text in the morning before you come in. Cannon might want you to take the day off to let things cool down, if he doesn’t fire you. Try to stay out of trouble. Actually, don’t even leave your apartment. It’s safer.”
Something in her voice transcends the catty, bitchy attitude, and I think it’s concern.
“Ms. Tanya, it’s a pleasure to see you,” the driver of the SUV says as he slides out of the driver’s seat and opens the back door.
“Likewise, Warren. Take care of her. Boss’s orders.”
“I always do.”
“Thanks.”
Tanya turns to walk away, but I reach out to grab her wrist.
“Hey. Whatever I did, I didn’t mean to. Thanks for helping me.”
She stares down at my hand on her arm and slowly drags her gaze to mine. “We’re not friends. I don’t like you, and don’t ever touch me. Got it?”
I drop my hand and sigh. “Thanks again, Tanya. You’re as delightful as ever.”
Once safely inside my apartment, I lock it up tight with the dead bolt, secondary bolt, and chain before setting the security system.
My undercover persona wouldn’t have the cash to live somewhere with a doorman, so I’m left hoping that I’ll be secure enough with the measures I’ve put in place—a small wireless camera hidden in the entryway so I can see everyone who’s coming and going, as well as one in the elevator lobby and another outside my door. Despite what Cannon and Tanya think of me, I’m not stupid. Not even close.
But tonight . . . fuck. I have no idea what happened. The last thing I wanted to do was attract Dominic Casso’s attention like this. His interest could jeopardize my entire investigation, and I won’t give up until justice is served and every single person who had a hand in my father’s death is behind bars.
With a deep, calming breath, I center myself and consider the situation rationally.
Is there any way I can turn this to my advantage?
I can’t be what Dom wants me to be. I’m not looking for a sugar daddy of any kind, let alone one who would have a detrimental impact on me still breathing after this is all over.
And the look on Cannon’s face? Lord, I don’t know if I’ll ever forget that either. He was furious, but underlying it all was concern for my safety . . . and maybe something else. Jealousy?
No. I have to be imagining that. If he’s with Tanya, there’s no way he gives a damn about me, other than he probably doesn’t want to have to hire someone new and start all over again.
But why do I like the idea of him being concerned about me for other reasons?
It’s a dumb thought, so I shut it out of my head. I don’t even like him. Hell, if he had something to do with my father’s death, then I’ll smile as they lead him off in shackles.
I wander through my apartment, barely noticing the blank white walls, bare of any pictures or anything personal that could possibly reveal my identity.
What the hell should I do now?
Tanya said not to come into work tomorrow without getting a text telling me it’s okay. But what if it doesn’t come? Normally, I have a plan B, C, D, E, and so on. But in this scenario, a completely unsanctioned investigation, I’ve only got my wits to lead me down the right path. And that path is not leading me to Dom Casso’s bed.
A shudder racks my body, and this one I don’t have to hide.
Wanting to forget all about tonight, I head for my counter, grab a bottle of red and a wineglass, and stroll toward the bathroom.
Bubble baths may not heal all wounds, but they’re where I do some of my best thinking. And right now, everything is on the line.
13
Cannon
Dominic Casso could have upgraded from the brownstone at the edge of Hell’s Kitchen decades ago if he’d wanted, but he elected to stay in the same place he’s held court from the beginning of his reign. A sentimental man would assume it’s because he wanted to stay close to his roots, but a sentimental man wouldn’t last long in the Casso organization.
No, Dom chooses to stay here because he’s a creature of habit in all the ways that won’t get him killed. Not that there has been anyone with big enough balls to attempt that in the last twenty years. Still, for purely selfish reasons, I wish he’d sold this brownstone.
As I cross the street to walk up the steps to the entrance, a scene flashes vividly in my mind—the body of my mother, bleeding out from three gunshot wounds to the chest on these very steps.
That was the day I became just another kid dangling off the bastard branch of the Casso family tree. No family was eager to take me in, and I had a negligent father who only summoned me to his desk when he needed something.
Shortly after my mother was buried in a cemetery on Staten Island and my aunt was fretting over what would become of me, Dom sent a car to get me, and it dropped me off right here.
The scene of the crime.
To this day, I’ve never figured out if it was a test. Maybe he thought they’d bring a sniveling brat crying for his mommy up to the boss, and he could wash his hands of me for life with the ease of his signature across the bottom of a check for my upkeep. For the right price, my aunt would have been willing to make me her problem until I was eighteen. But that’s not what I did.
My mother taught me from a young age that life wasn’t kind to people like us. We existed on the goodwill of others, and it would behoove me to learn as much as I could as fast as I could, with the hopes that I’d be useful to someone higher up the food chain. I listened, studied hard, and watched everything around me, constantly wondering what scraps the world would throw my way.
It came that hot-as-hell summer morning, when Dom told me what my new role in life would be.
“You’re going to boarding school, and not because I think you need that kind of fancy education, but because you’re going to find a kid named Creighton Karas. He’s the same age as you. Make yourself indispensable to him. Become his best friend. Keep tabs on him. Make sure nothing happens to him. And whatever he does, make sure you’re a part of it. Then you’re gonna report every goddamned thing back to me. Understand?”
I didn’t understand, but I nodded anyway. That’s all he needed from me before he sent me home to pack my stuff, carrying an envelope of cash for my aunt.
I’ve spent the rest of my life knowing I was sold to the mob for $2,500.
Twenty-five hundred dollars, and I never saw my aunt again, but my mother’s words never faded. I made myself useful. Creighton Karas became my best friend. It wasn’t too long before I realized he was my brother. I reported every goddamned move he made back to Dom.
Which subjects he excelled in—all of them.
Which teachers he didn’t like—all of them.
Which girls tried to sneak into our room—all of them.
Every time I made my report, Dom would say the same thing. “Good. Call
me again next week. Stay out of trouble, kid.”
Never once did he ask me about my grades, my life at school, or anything personal. The whole time, I asked myself why the fuck he cared so goddamned much about Creighton and nothing about me. Even Cav and Eden got relatively better, and slightly less negligent, treatment.
I’ve always been the expendable one. The least in favor. And I always told myself I didn’t give a fuck, because Dominic Casso’s opinion of me would never affect the man I became. Who I am, everything I’ve done, is in spite of him, not because of him.
When I fell out of favor with Creighton, a large part of me assumed that was it. Dom would finally take me out with the trash where he’s made it so apparent I belong. It hasn’t happened yet, but that’s not to say it couldn’t happen anytime.
So, why do I keep working for him? Because at the end of the day, I can’t shake the need to prove myself. It’s fucking pathetic, but it’s the truth.
As soon as I grip the ornate brass handle of the building—too nice twenty years ago, but it perfectly fits in with the gentrification that has swept the area since—Primo nods at me from inside the entrance.
“Boss said you were coming. Figured you’d be early, like usual,” the big man says with his hand resting casually on the gun tucked beneath his suit jacket. He’s a carbon copy of his brother Tempo, one of Dom’s other trusted bodyguards.
“How’s it going, man? Did you catch the replay of the Mets game? Hell of a seventh inning.” I make small talk with the guys, not because I give a shit about baseball, but because it’s expected.
“Nah, Boss didn’t head home until after three, so I didn’t catch shit. But I’ll make sure to check SportsCenter after I’m off. Head on up, Mr. Freeman. I’m sure he knows you’re here.”
I punch the call button for the elevator.
You’d think we’d have a few more minutes to shoot the shit because the equipment would be slow as hell in a building like this, but Dom replaced the elevators in every building he owned with high-end models a few years ago, when things started to get bloody again with the Rossettis. Only the most trusted of Dom’s people know about the hidden elevators that offer a second escape route in each building.
Once in the car, I’m taken straight up to the top, and Pietro is waiting to give me a chin lift as I step out.
“Nice to see you, Mr. Freeman. He should be ready for you.”
“Thanks.”
Pietro, Primo, Tempo, and Umberto are Dom’s equivalent of the Secret Service. They might look big and slow, but they’re actually smarter than you’d guess. They’re Italian boys who played football and graduated from college, courtesy of the same scholarship I got—Dom Casso’s checkbook.
One thing is absolutely certain, though; their loyalty is to the death, and two of the four have already taken bullets for him. One of them is always with Dom, and there’s always someone watching the brownstone despite its crazy security setup.
Pietro opens the door that leads to hell’s waiting room, or at least that’s what I’ve always called it. Because inside, your life always hangs in the balance, and I’m pretty sure every man who hasn’t made it out alive had a one-way ticket to dance with the devil.
A woman in her sixties with perfectly coifed gray hair and a brown-and-pink dress sits at the desk outside the unadorned wood door that leads to Dom’s office. With her glasses hanging around her neck on a beaded chain, she’s always reminded me of a librarian who wouldn’t hesitate to shush you if you got too rowdy. But behind that grandmotherly exterior is the heart of a warrior and the tenacity of a bulldog. I’ve watched her pull a gun and use it, to protect herself and her boss.
“Marta. You’re looking as lovely as ever.”
Her cheeks turn rosier as I stride toward her. “Mr. Freeman. It’s a pleasure to see you, as always.”
“How are the grandkids?”
“Getting so big. I wish they came with a pause button so I could enjoy it more before they turn into mouthy little brats who I’ll have to threaten with visits from the boss.”
I’ve always liked Marta, and I’ve often wondered if in her younger years she was one of Dom’s original mistresses. Highly unlikely, given the fact that she’s had gray hair and has worked for him for as long as I can remember, but you never know around here. In the Casso organization, it’s not whether you’ve got skeletons in your closet, but how well you hid them to avoid being haunted.
I’m doing just fine with mine, but that could change at any moment. Dominic Casso likes to keep us all on our toes.
As soon as I step inside, my footsteps muffled by the thickly padded green carpet that’s regularly replaced due to stubborn bloodstains, I’m greeted with the sight of Dom flipping through an account book at his desk. Light pours in through the bulletproof glass that I’m still surprised he hasn’t bricked over, because he’s always worried someone’s going to take him out in his own home. When he looks up, his steel-gray hair stays put in its exact style. It’s been holding on stubbornly for years, as if it’s scared to do him the indignity of falling out and leaving him bald.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
When I speak, he slaps the book shut and looks up.
“Always early,” he says in lieu of a greeting I wasn’t expecting anyway. His dark gaze, nearly black, sweeps over me. “You’d think I wouldn’t start wondering what the fuck is going on until you started rolling up late, but no. I’m wondering what the fuck is going on, because you’re getting in my way.”
Dom doesn’t invite me to sit, which he never does, so I stand between the door and the worn brown leather guest chairs. Staying on my feet makes it easier to dodge flying objects and bullets, which aren’t out of the realm of possibility, because I know exactly what he wants to talk about today.
“I didn’t intend to get in your way, sir. Can you clarify?”
His gaze narrows as he plants his elbows on the surface of the large desk. “You can’t bullshit a bullshitter. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. The girl.”
If respect for this old, yet deadly man hadn’t been practically beaten into me for over thirty years, I probably would have turned around and walked out, or even said something like she’s too young for you and your Viagra prescription. But I’m not ready for my body to be found floating in the East River quite yet.
“Which girl?”
“The only one you made sure I couldn’t see last night after the meeting. I don’t know what the fuck you did with her, but I want her.” Dom shoves the account book aside as his nostrils flare.
Fuck, he’s pissed. Normally, I wouldn’t think of sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong, especially in Dom’s personal business, but I can’t let this happen.
Drew Carson isn’t the kind of woman who could survive being Dom’s mistress. I may not know her well, but I know that much.
I don’t even acknowledge the scalding pit of jealousy that brews in my gut at the thought of him putting his hands on her. I already saw how he watched her. Knowing this was coming, I try the nonchalant tactic first.
“Do you know how hard it is to find good help? If you want the club to keep running the way it has been, and the cash to keep flowing, you’ll find someone else. She’s got potential, and I can’t afford to lose her.”
Dom steeples his fingers and spears me with those satanically black eyes. “I don’t give a fuck. You can find someone else. Someone better. Hell, raise the wages. I’ll approve it.”
“Why her?” I ask, keeping my tone as disinterested as possible.
“I like the way she laughs.”
The vat of jealousy boils over and his comment stings me. He likes the way she laughs? I’ve never fucking heard her laugh, and now it seems like a massive oversight. I may regret what I’m about to say, but I don’t know how else to handle the situation. So I lie.
“With all due respect, sir, you’re too late. Drew Carson is off-limits.”
Dom’s glare sharpens. “What the
fuck did you say to me, kid?”
I stalk to the guest chair and grip the back, not allowing myself to shrink in front of the man who wants me to roll over for him. Not this time. “She’s off-limits. You’re going to have to find someone else to laugh for you.”
Shoving his elbows off the desk, Dom leans back in his chair, his dark gaze drilling into me. “No one’s off-limits to me. You know that.”
“First time for everything.”
As the statement he doesn’t want to hear comes out of my mouth, Dom’s already ruddy cheeks turn brighter red and his fingers flex tighter. “Who’s her man? I’ll take care of him. Not a fucking problem.”
Static crackles in my ears, and the thrum of my pulse slows until I’m cold and controlled. Then I drop the equivalent of the A-bomb. The only thing that’ll win this war.
“Me. I’m her man.”
14
Cannon
Dom’s head jerks back, and he stares at me in shock. “You? No fucking way. The original all work, no play boy.”
He pauses, and laughter spills from his previously flattened lips.
“No playboy either. So, tell me what the fuck you’re trying to pull here, because I don’t believe this shit. You think she’s too young for me? You think I can’t get it up for a grade A piece of ass like that anymore? Is that what you think, Cannon?”
Anyone else might get riled up to have shit like that thrown at them, but I’ve got a lifetime of practice in keeping my cool. What I’m not used to is lying to Dom about something like this. Good thing I honed all my skills on his dime at fancy boarding schools and an Ivy League college.
“I don’t give a shit how your dick’s working, Dom. It’s not going anywhere near her. I saw her first. I staked my claim. There are millions of other women in this city who would be more than happy to oblige you. But Drew Carson is mine.” I shove the heavy chair toward his desk and push off it.