I take the coffee to my room, a little offended that Poppet elects to stay with Dad in the living room.
I sit at my laptop, intending to do some work.
And of course, that entails some healthy procrastination.
I end up on a news website, idly scrolling, and then my hand pauses, and something in me tightens sharply.
Night of Arson: Several Buildings Razed Downtown, Investigations to Follow.
All of the businesses are owned by the Irish, and even if Dad never talks about work, I haven’t forgotten what Domenico said to me in the alleyway.
The Italians are at war with the Irish. Which means my Dad spent all of last night committing arson.
Mom’s ranting returns to me, her endless tirades about how my father was a criminal, and I should hate him.
She looked at me like I was a demon spawn when I told her I was coming here.
Don’t let her be right.
But the news article stares at me, an accusation, and all I can do is slam the laptop shut and let out a shuddering breath.
Chapter Five
Domenico
The city drifts by me as I sit in the rear of the armored car, my driver – Julio - taking the corners with ease. Julio is a good man and has been with me for a long time. About fifty years old, with a shock of gray hair and solid shoulders in his driver’s jacket, he’s a man you can rely on.
Tension works its way through me as Julio leads us through the night. My mind keeps returning to Dallas, even as I try to tug it back to Patty and the Irish.
We hit five of their businesses last night and so far they haven’t retaliated or contacted us, but that doesn’t mean a thing, because they could be waiting, lurking like alligators judging the best timing to snap their teeth closed.
I’ve put every measure in place I can think of.
Extra security, daily changes to delivery routes, minimizing the amount of information the lower-rung operators need to know, cutting down the chance of ratting, spying. I’ve upped the pay of my men to instill loyalty and we’ve been hitting every legitimate union hard, but with the threat of real fire now instead of unemployment.
But we won’t cross the line that Patty will.
Bombs, bullets, destruction.
Death.
This evening is about presenting a good face to my men, though, and focusing on the Irish isn’t the best move for that.
But then again, neither is allowing my mind to stray to Dallas.
I can’t stop picturing her in the alleyway, yet in my mind we’re alone and she’s standing there naked. I step close but don’t touch her at first. I watch as the lust rises in her, her eyes widening, her skin pricking with goosebumps. And then slide my hand softly up her inner thigh and track the shivers moving through her body. I find her sex, palming it, and then I get hard and rough.
I force her to cream all over my hand. I pump my arm until she’s begging me to keep going and to stop and she doesn’t know where she is, who she is, only that she belongs to me, that every fiber of her belongs to me.
I laugh and shake my head.
What the hell is it about her?
Well … everything.
“Fuck.”
“Boss?” Julio says. “I’m sorry, did you say something?”
“Nothing important,” I murmur. “Your driving is excellent tonight, Julio, as always.”
He grins at me in the rearview mirror briefly.
“Always nice to hear. Thanks, boss.”
I lean back and try to center myself.
All my life – climbing up the blood-stained rungs of the Mafia ladder – I’ve had to find this place of calm. When you deal in bullets and huge mammoth piles of cash, peace is paramount. I can’t afford to lose my head to a woman, not now, not in the middle of what might become the worst war we’ve ever experienced.
But there’s just something different about Dallas.
Something …
It’s hard to divine precisely what, except that the thought of her makes me feel like a fucking caveman. I want to drag her into our safe place, away from the cold and the dark and the wind of the outside, and ravage her over and over as I bend her over a rock. I want to drive my hot hard wet length deep inside of her, almost more than she can take, palming those round perfect ass cheeks with each thrust.
I want to fire a gallon of my seed into her begging womb, knowing that I’m putting a child in her, claiming her in the most definitive way a man can claim a woman.
She’s mine.
And I need to show her that.
But what about Gabriel?
I sigh, opening and closing my hands, feeling my knuckles tingling as though searching for something to punch.
When my cellphone rings, I answer it without looking, presuming that it’s Gabriel and glad for the distraction. He’s the only one who calls me unless I specifically request someone to. If my people have a problem, they go to him, and he brings it to me. Insulation is a survival mechanism.
But the voice has a childlike glee to it.
And it’s not Gabriel.
A gravelly, self-satisfied voice, but without any hint of an Irish accent.
He sounds like any other street kid in this city. Except more manic, more unhinged, happier to be waging this fucking war.
“Evening, Dom,” Patty McGuinness says.
“Evening,” I reply matter-of-factly.
I can imagine him standing there in his plaid green shirt, his shock of red hair, and his pale fish-like skin. He has a golden canine tooth that glints when he smiles and a tattoo of a four-leaf clover on the back of his left hand, as though by adopting all of this he can convince people
