by Danika Fox
“Yeah,” she sneered, and I could practically feel her rolling her eyes. “That one.”
I accelerated into the intersection and turned left. I hadn’t been in Vegas long enough to really appreciate any of its charm, but as I made my way along its outskirts, my eyes couldn’t help but drift over toward the Strip in the distance. It really was something to see, all lit up like a handful of diamonds beneath the stars, and part of me wondered if I’d ever come back after everything was said and done.
“You don’t sound too happy about what your old man does,” I said when we stopped at the next traffic light. “And if your dad’s who you say he is, then what were you doing working in a place like that?”
“You mean a strip joint?” she asked, her rueful laugh rising from behind me. “My dad doesn’t get to decide where I work, who I fuck, or anything else about my life.”
I could hear the contempt infecting every word, and from the sound of it, this was an old wound for her. I probably shouldn’t have pressed, but I had to. Chrissy was just so surreal to me. This whole situation was. I wanted to wrap my brain around it, and that meant digging in.
“Is the fact that you work at a strip club why the two of you don’t talk?”
Fat lot of good it did me. Chrissy stayed silent until the light turned green again.
“Keep straight,” she said simply as I revved the engine and took off again down the street.
The rest of the ride out of town was completely devoid of conversation, our journey punctuated only once or twice by a few directions to guide me toward Nicky Falcone’s house. I had to wonder what the hell kind of place a man like that lived in. It was probably grander than anything I’d ever seen, let alone set foot in.
Images of opulent mansions and sprawling estates entered my mind, the kind of places you’d expect billionaires and rock stars to live—hell, people like Falcone were rock stars to the kind of people who lived on the wrong side of the law. People like my brothers in the Hounds of Hell. People like me.
Most people don’t know how cold the desert can be at night, and Vegas is smack dab in the middle of the Mojave. The wind whipped around Chrissy and I as we drove farther and farther from the glimmering lights of the Strip, each gale stinging our faces and cutting deep through our clothes. I was glad I’d given her my jacket, even if the thin fabric of my shirt wasn’t doing me any favors.
I must have shivered somewhere along the way, because she leaned in real close and held me to her. Her body heat sank in along my spine, and those fine hands on my chest and stomach ignited another kind of warmth I wasn’t wholly proud of. My cock twitched hard inside my jeans.
It was more than lust. More than just her breasts pressed tight against me. More than her fingers cupping my muscles. It was knowing I had someone behind me, someone who literally had my back. Shit, I hadn’t been held like that since I was a teenager, back before I had a reputation. Back when I was no different from any other schmuck in high school. Girls could hang around me then without worrying they were involved with some kind of criminal. Hell, it was just the opposite—I’d ended up at the criminal justice academy, hadn’t I? Pretty sure that made me more Steve Rogers than Bucky Barnes.
Slow down, Jackson, I chided myself. You remember how that all ended, don’t you?
Right. No fucking around.
Especially not with a girl who’s daddy is a fucking mafia boss.
Buildings became fewer and farther between as we rode, businesses giving way to small, ranch-style homes with neatly manicured yards. It was like I’d crossed into a whole different city, but we’d only gone a few miles from the hustle and bustle of the main attraction. The fact that so many quiet houses were just a quick drive from the world’s most infamous collection of casinos made me chuckle—only a few miles of urban sprawl separated these people from pure sin.
But the longer we drove, the bigger the houses got, and the yards too. Two-story houses gave way to three, and before I knew it, Chrissy and I were driving down a whole row of homes that must have cost a million dollars at the very least.
“I don’t know how you gave this up,” I murmured as we came to a stop, giving a cursory glance both ways for traffic that I didn’t really expect to be there. “If your old man’s place is anything like these, you must have lived a damn good life.”
“Some things aren’t worth the price you have to pay for them,” she replied before gently nudging my arm. “Next left up here, and then it’s the last house on the street—you can’t miss it.”
That might have been the biggest understatement I’d ever heard.
As I followed Chrissy’s instructions, I realized that Don Falcone’s house didn’t just reside at the end of the street—it took up the two other plots beside it as well, dominating the cul-de-sac. Shit, this wasn’t so much a house as it was a walled compound, a palatial estate complete with armed guards.
“Jesus,” I muttered as we rounded the intricate planter that took up the very center of the dead-end, a feature that gave the tiny neighborhood that much more class. I couldn’t help myself but feel a little bit of envy toward Chrissy—if I’d grown up in a place like this, I probably would have never left.
“The guards are new,” she said as we came to a halt in front of an impressive metal gate. Immediately thereafter, two men in tight black shirts stepped out of a small walking gate set just beside the main one, their hands at their hips, ready to pull their weapons on us at the slightest provocation.
“State your business,” one of the guards said. He was a short man, but all muscle, and with a cleanly shaven head that I could have sworn was actually waxed—there was moonlight glinting off of that cue-ball that almost blinded me when he swiveled his head to just the right angle. “This is a private residence.”
Before I could say anything, I felt Chrissy climbing off of the back of the bike, pulling the helmet off. I turned my head to tell her to stay put, but it was too late. I heard the soft click of holsters being unbuttoned and safeties turning off.
“I’m here to see my father,” she said, more confidence in her voice than I’d heard the entire night. Just like that, she’d gone from shell-shocked massacre witness to a royal family member with no time for any of this bullshit. I was a little impressed. “Tell Don Falcone that his daughter is here.”
“I don’t give two shits if you’re the fucking Pope. We’re not letting anyone in without authorization,” the bald one said again. “And Mr. Falcone never said anything about having a daughter.”
“Chrissy,” I said trying to seem as non-threatening as I could, “maybe we should just get out of here.”
“No,” she said, staring the cue-ball down like the entitled brat I’d have expected to have been raised in a place like that. “I’m not leaving until I talk to my father. I don’t give a damn who you have to talk to or what you have to do, but I am getting into this house and I will talk to Don Falcone personally. You make me stand here much longer and I’m going to make sure he has your ass for it.”
There was a long pause, the tension between the four of us growing as the guards never once turned their gaze away from one another. Not until the whirring of the massive gate’s machinery began to sound, and a small gap formed between it and the ten-foot high brick wall.
A man in a sharply tailored suit filled the gap almost immediately, his expression one of equal parts surprise and annoyance.
“Stand down, Mr. Domerick,” he coolly ordered. “You don’t want to shoot Mr. Falcone’s only child.”
It was like a switch had been flipped, and suddenly every single guard moved to leave the area around the front gate with military levels of hustle. It wouldn’t surprise me if every single one of them was ex-army or Marine Corps—that was the kind of man you hired for work like this.
“That sure took you long enough,” Chrissy said, eyeing the man and taking a step back toward me and the bike. Despite seeming as though she knew him, she was sure happy to put some distance between them. �
�I want to see my father.”
“So I’ve heard,” the man replied, running his tongue along his teeth behind his thin, pale lips. “I’m sure he’ll be just thrilled to know his prodigal daughter has returned.” Then he turned his gaze to me, gesturing with a jut of his chin. “And who’s this biker trash you’ve brought along for the ride?”
I flipped up the windshield on my helmet to look him in the eye. “Crush,” I said. “I’m with the Hounds of Hell.”
His brows lifted. “Carliogne’s pets?” he asked, giving a short, barking laugh before shaking his head. “What the hell are you doing riding around with Don Falcone’s little girl?”
“That’s not important right now,” Chrissy said with a wave of her hand. “I need to see him. Now, Uncle Lonnie.” When she swallowed, it seemed like she was trying to push down some bile. “Please.”
“He’s still mad at you,” Lonnie said with a shrug. “You hurt him pretty bad when you left. Might be in your best interests not to go asking any favors.”
A crackling voice erupted from a walkie-talkie at Lonnie’s waist.
“Caputo! What the fuck is going on out there? It’s three in the fucking morning!”
Lonnie grimaced. He waited for a single, petulant beat before answering—and Chrissy took her shot.
“Tell him I’m here,” she said, a smirk tilting her cracked lips. “Or I’ll take that thing and tell him myself.”
Rolling his eyes, Lonnie Caputo clicked the button on the side of the walkie and spoke into the receiver.
“It’s your kid, boss,” he said, barely putting in an effort to mask his annoyance. “Chrissy’s at the front gate to see you, and she’s brought company.”
Silence.
Both Chrissy and Caputo stared at one another, each waiting for an answer. I tried not to insert myself too far into the drama. No need to get invested when my errand was almost done.
For just a second, though, Chrissy’s eyes darted in search of mine. I straightened and gave her a slight nod of encouragement. Her shoulders relaxed. She almost smiled, and I kind of found myself curious as to what that might look like.
“Send them in,” Falcone growled at last.
Her almost-smile faded at his tone.
Guess I’ll have to keep wondering, I thought.
“Right this way, Miss Falcone,” Caputo said, the sarcasm in his tone not at all lost on either of us, despite the grating of the gate swinging open to welcome us. “Your father’s in his study.”
Chrissy turned to me. Then she jerked her head toward the looming manse.
“Come on,” she said. “Walk a girl to her door.”
6
Chrissy
It seems like no matter how life goes, you’re always back in the places you swore you’d never go again.
The three of us walked past the main gate and into the familiar confines of my father’s foyer. It was like I was reliving the events of the exact day I’d left. The memory of that door slamming behind me as I walked out to my taxi for what I thought would be the final time was all too vivid, even now. I felt a knot forming in my stomach with every step we took across the marble floors, a flood of wonderful and terrible memories both washing over me as we went.
This place had been my home since I was a baby, and no matter how much I tried, deep down I knew that it was ingrained in my very DNA. My first steps were taken on the porch out back, my first words spoken in the grand kitchen while my dad worked over the stove—I could still smell the fragrance that wafted through the house whenever he got into a cooking mood, and it made me want to cry.
“This way,” Lonnie said, motioning us down a hallway off the main foyer and breaking me from my trance. Lost in a tide of memories, I had stopped just short of the threshold, fearful that the undertow that lay beyond it would pull me under and drown me. My mind was my own worst enemy just now, saturated in the blood of my coworkers and friends as much as it was drenched in the rain of the storm that night I’d left my father’ estate.
Just ahead of me, Crush took a step, then paused, turning as though he’d sensed I wasn’t at his side. When he met my gaze, I could feel his eyes calling to me just as surely as if he’d used his lips. They were the color of the shallows off the Mediterranean coastline, an eternal snapshot of sunlight glinting off the water near the Cyprus sea caves. Now it wasn’t just the undertow of memory I was concerned with, but also the riptide of his stare.
I’d never seen anything like it. No one else’s eyes seemed to straddle the line between blue and brown and green quite like his did. They were as calming as they were enigmatic, holding both the promise of stillness and threatening a storm. Unlike the ocean, though, he proved hardly mutable; despite Lonnie’s exasperated sigh, Crush kept standing there, waiting for me. He didn’t say a word. He wanted me to take my time.
I followed soon enough, swept up in the current of yet another memory: This was where I’d learned exactly what my father did for a living.
I had been young then, maybe only thirteen, when I stood outside of my father’s study door and listened as he ordered a man to his death. He thought I was asleep, but a nightmare had woken me up only moments before, and I’d been seeking the comfort of the waking world—as it turned out, though, a very real nightmare had awaited me in the form of the truth, which nobody really likes. Even though they say they do.
Nobody wants their dad to be a murderer. And what’s more, if they ever found out that was the case, they’d want to hate him. It’s easy that way. Good and evil. Black and white. But the truth of it was—there’s that nasty word again—that it was impossible to separate the man who took me to my dance classes and showed up to every recital from the stone-cold killer he turned out to be.
He was both those things—amazing father, and wicked mob boss. I think that’s really what put a strain on our relationship: that I had to accept both things were true.
Lonnie pushed open that same door I’d hid behind years ago and led me and Crush inside. The study was dark—darker than I was accustomed to, with only the light of the fireplace to combat the darkness of the early morning hours.
“Don Falcone,” Lonnie said, and for the first time I noticed my father there, leaning against the ornate mantel, a tumbler filled to the brim with amber liquor in his hand as he looked down into the fire. His expression was distant, as though he was reliving just as many memories as I’d been since we arrived. “Your daughter is here, sir.”
Shaken from his reverie, my father—the great Don Nicholas “Nicky” Falcone—looked up, turning away from the fire. His face was immediately shrouded in deep shadows with inky tendrils pooling in the wrinkles I could have sworn weren’t there before I’d left. Part of me felt a pang of guilt at how worn and aged he had become… or had I just never noticed until now?
My father’s eyes locked onto me, twin lumps of coal wreathed in dark circles. I could feel a chill brewing in my stomach, the same one I had felt when he caught me sneaking out after curfew when I was sixteen.
Without another word, my father turned away from me and considered Crush. I could see him weighing Crush, assessing him, the way my father often did to people—especially men. It was hard to tell what he decided; he only narrowed his eyes, turned his back on us both, and looked back down into the flames.
I felt like a child who’d disappointed him all over again, and I didn’t like it. Not at all.
“Lonnie tells me you know why my club—and everyone in it—is riddled with bullets,” my dad said. The tone he took was almost casual—icy even.
“You knew I was there? I thought, seething just under the surface. For a moment, it felt as if he could read my thoughts.
“I won’t apologize for making sure that my daughter is taken care of,” he said, not even taking his gaze from the fire.
“You owe me a hell of a lot more than an apology,” I snapped back at him, taking a step forward.
“Don Falcone—” Lonnie tried to object, stepping between the two of u
s only to have my father turn on him, his tumbler of whiskey sloshing a bit onto the floor.
“Out,” he growled at Lonnie, the one person my daddy trusted almost as much as my Uncle Tony.
Lonnie scowled, wordlessly turned on his heel, and walked straight to the door, his face reddening with each step. My father had a habit of treating the people under him like idiots, and I could already tell Lonnie was getting sick of it.
“Not you,” my father said, pointing at Crush as he began to follow after Caputo. “You have some explaining to do—like who the fuck you are and why the fuck is my daughter riding bitch on your bike?”
Crush seemed to gather himself, swallowing hard to push back a tide of unease. He obviously knew my dad’s reputation, and the fact that he was standing in front of an angry mafia don probably wasn’t doing anything for his nerves.
“He saved my life, Daddy,” I said, hoping some small gesture of familiarity would soothe him. “He got me out of the club and brought me here.”
“What the hell were you even doing there tonight?” my father asked, turning to face me once again. “Did this asshole bring you there?”
“You know what I was there,” I replied, my volume rising. “I’m not your little girl anymore. I go where I please. Crush isn’t responsible for any of this. I might be dead if he wasn’t at the club…”
“Crush?” my father turned and gave the biker another hard look. “You’re that little shit from the Hounds of Hell that Carliogne told me about.”
“Yessir,” Crush replied, clearing his throat. “I was there to—”
“One of my best men is dead because of your fucking meeting.”
At this, Crush bristled. A hardness crept into his tone. “Sir, I—” he started, but my father silenced him with a wave of his hand. I couldn’t help but stare at Crush, feeling my stomach sink as I realized that the whole reason he was here was to do business with my father. It was as if no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t escape that world.