I stood quickly, my chair scraping against the stone floor, and snarled at him across the table. “According to you, I’m on the kill list regardless. I think I deserve to know what the fuck I’m being killed for! And you! In case you forgot, with all the hit men, and dead partners, and police interviews—I’m in love with you. You, who I apparently know nothing about. I know you think because I’m young that I don’t know what love is, that I attached myself to you because of your big dick and fancy house, but that is bullshit! I know that I should run, run far away from your untamable sex drive, your Mafia friends and your pain-in-the-ass self. That is the logical, sane thing to do. But I’m not! I’m sitting here, in your fucking kitchen, waiting for the next person to walk in and blow my brains out! For you, you selfish prick. Because I love you!” I was screaming now, my mind emptying out through my mouth, my throat hoarse from the effort, and I leaned on the table, taking a deep breath, waiting for his response.
He looked at me, started to say something and stopped. Then, “Julia, you don’t want to fuck with these people.”
I sat down, looked at him across the table, begged him with my eyes. “I need to know more.”
He cradled his head in his hands, then looked at me. “All you need to know is that Broward was helping one family gain power. It was supposed to be done discreetly, without alerting those who the power was being taken from. Something went wrong, and the situation was discovered too early. Broward was collateral damage, killed to erase all evidence of their involvement. He was a weak link, someone who would have yielded easily to persuasive questioning.”
Persuasive questioning. Torture. “So now I’m the weak link,” I said softly.
He nodded, his face grim, handsome features almost pained in their seriousness.
“And you are involved...how?”
He ran a hand through his thick hair, and the traces of gray in it picked up the light. “I have a lot of...connections to local organized crime families. I was originally approached for a family takeover a couple of years ago. I was not interested, wanted no part of it—plus, corporate structures are not my area of expertise. When I refused, they looked elsewhere.”
Genovese. “Broward.”
“Yes. I’ve heard about a few other clients of this variety he has taken on. I approached him, several times, telling him to refuse the business, to get out of this situation, but he has always shut me down. Whether it’s because of our history, or his own ego, I don’t know.” He blew out a burst of air and looked at me, frustrated. “From the sound of the conversation you overheard, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was me he was speaking to. We just argued last week about it.”
I nodded, absorbing the new information. “Will they know I’m here?”
“They’d be idiots not to, and they are not idiots. Dangerous, impulsive, but not stupid. By now they know everything about you, and that is the biggest problem we have.”
“Will they use you to find me?”
He laughed wryly. “Not in the manner you might think. But, Julia, you are looking at this the wrong way. There is no way to hide. If they don’t already, they will soon have your Social Security number, your car registration and know when your next period is due. There is no point in hiding. There is only one thing to do.”
“What?” Hope had entered my voice, a small glimmer, and I was afraid of giving it too much credence.
“It’s something I have to do on my end. It’s better if I don’t tell you any more.” He rose, taking his empty glass to the sink. I ground my teeth in frustration and rose, following him and grabbing his arm.
“And what, I’m just supposed to be a sitting duck while you ‘try’ something out without clueing me in on it?”
He growled, grabbing my wrists hard and pinning them together behind my back. His face, inches from mine, was tortured. He stared in my eyes, reading them, then lowered his mouth to mine, hesitantly at first, then harder and deeper, his hands releasing my wrists and sliding down my waist to my ass, which he gripped tightly, a hand on each cheek, squeezing and kneading the muscles there. I felt his emotions through his mouth, his kiss possessive, protective. I wrapped my arms around his neck and he lifted with his hands, picking me up easily. Our kisses frantic, I wrapped my legs tightly around his waist, my hands in his hair, and he carried me to the table and laid me down, leaning over me. His mouth left mine, me gasping, my hands reaching for him, but he held me down and trailed his lips down my body, pulling up my tank top and exposing my breasts and pink nipples.
Hot breath hit my skin as his soft lips traveled, down my neck to my breasts, him planting small kisses along the way. He took his time on my nipples, being impossibly gentle with them, and I arched my back, pushing into his pelvis and lifting my breasts deeper into his open mouth. A small cry left my lips as he grabbed my tits, pressing them together and sucking them into his mouth.
“Please,” I whispered, frantically reaching down, grabbing his jeans, trying to unbutton them, my hands grabbing and pulling anything and everything, the overwhelming need to have him inside me ruling out any logical thoughts in my head. “I need you.”
“I don’t have—”
I cut him off, moaning the words of my beg. “I don’t care. Now. Please. I need you to fuck all of this insanity away.”
He lifted his head from my breasts and yanked open his fly, bunching my skirt around my waist and moving aside the cloth of his underwear. His cock popped out, hard and ready, a drop of precome glistening on its tip. I practically swooned, and before I could move, he was pressing the tip of it on my wetness, past my panties and shoving the thick girth all the way in.
I gasped, entering some unworldly plane of delirium. The release of having him bare inside me, of having his strong, massive body over me, my legs spread and back flat on his kitchen table, was mind-blowing. He moved inside me, his mouth at my ear, hot breath on my neck. My hands pulled at his T-shirt, pulling the cloth over his head, exploring the tight muscles on his back, my body craving more, more, more of him. He moaned in my ear, fucking me faster, our skin slapping together, filling me completely, then leaving me wanting. Fill, want, fill, want. Words came out, jagged in my ear.
“God, I need you, Julia, so fucking bad.”
It wasn’t enough for forever, but it was enough for right now, and I held him tight and squeezed my muscles around his cock, him moaning in immediate response. At that moment, in his arms, I didn’t think about the danger, or my job, or any of the shit that was falling down around us. He gave me what I needed, and I took what I wanted. I came, dissolving in his arms, screaming aloud, releasing my fear and frustration in a wave of exquisite pleasure. The orgasm was strong and beautiful, and I went limp when it ended. He slowed his strokes, breathing hard and kissing my face, lips and neck.
“I love fucking you,” he whispered, still moving inside me, slow and delicious, burying himself with every stroke. His words awakened my spent muscles and I moved, pushing against the table with my feet and rolling him over, straddling him for the first time, and gasping at the feel of him from this angle, his whole cock inside me. I rode him, pumping up and down, his hands traveling over my torso, his face strong and possessive beneath me. I leaned forward, my hair brushing his face, and buried myself deep on his cock, grinding my clit against his pubic bone, moaning at the pleasure it brought me. He took over, wrapping his arms around me and fucking me from below, fast and hard, our bodies slapping, slick and furious. The orgasm came, jarring me, taking my breath, an explosion of my world, and I screamed his name as his cock carried me through it. The last waves were still subsiding when he jerked out of me, his voice terse and quick.
“Suck it.”
I moved off him, as quickly as I could in my final stages of euphoria. Burying my fingers inside me, I moved them in and out while I took him in my mouth—gagging on his width, and sucking hard and fast, my free hand resting on the rough fabric of his jeans, still on.
He came, filling my throat, his hand on m
y head with gentle pressure, his voice calling my name over and over until he was limp and drained. I rolled over, spent, next to him on the hard table, my skirt bunched and twisted around my body, my panties discarded somewhere on the floor.
I laid there for a solid minute, then rolled on my side, resting my head in the crook of Brad’s arm, tracing a line on his abs. He spoke, his hair muffled in my hair.
“That was incredible.” He kissed my head, then laid his head back on the table.
“Yeah. But it doesn’t help my current predicament.” I sighed, tucking my hand into his jeans, into the hardness and warmth there.
“It’s going to be okay, Julia.” His words were reassuring, his tone terrifying. It spoke of desperation and fight—as if he would somehow force the fate of my future. This shouldn’t be his fight, but I was powerless in it, an easy pawn that could be swiped off the game board without consequence. I said nothing, rolling over and hugging his hard body, wanting the strength it provided.
Thirty-Six
I needed a distraction, and Brad needed twenty-four hours to take care of whatever his cockeyed plan was. We argued, a discussion bordering on a serious fight, about his refusal to share his plan with me. It was an argument I lost, his face stern and unyielding. I was almost grateful. I didn’t know how much more information I could take. To be safe, we decided that I should stay in the house, out of sight. A ridiculous plan, but I didn’t have a better one. I called Becca, asking her to come by and hang out, promising mimosas if she would come and keep me company. I would have asked Olivia, but she would have sniffed out trouble before she even walked in the front door. Becca was a lot less observant.
She arrived thirty minutes later, her silver Mercedes convertible pumping out music loud enough to cause the closest blueblood to have a heart attack. Becca doesn’t leave the house unless she is perfectly coiffed, so I wasn’t surprised to see her trot up the front steps wearing designer jeans, four-inch heels and a sequined gold top. Martha answered the door with a grunt, and I stepped out of the kitchen and waved Becca in.
Seeing me, she squealed and jogged over for a hug, passing right by Martha’s death stare of a welcome.
“Look at you, you sexy thing!” she said, giving my just-had-sex-in outfit a once-over. Evading her judgment, I grabbed her hand and pulled her through the house. Martha called to me as I was rounding the bend of the hall.
“Don’t think I’m going to be waiting on you two!”
I paused midstep, jogging back to the kitchen and grabbing the carton of orange juice and two cups she held out. She pursed her lips at me, and I grinned, bounding back down the hall and catching up to Becca.
“She seems nice,” Becca said, nodding in the direction of Martha.
I grinned. “She is,” I said, shocked at my own response. Maybe it takes drama to bring two people closer. I ushered Becca into the den, checked out the wet bar and found a bottle of champagne. Popping the cork, I poured us both glasses and settled into a plush recliner. She examined the champagne, then stood with her glass, walking around the room. I took a generous sip and leaned back in the chair.
“This house certainly is manly,” she announced, checking out the framed sports paraphernalia housed in the built-in cabinetry. “Where’s the bearskin rug?”
“You’re hilarious. I’ll be sure his decorator calls you for tips.”
She shrugged, smiling at me over her glass. “Hey, he has good taste in women, right? That’s all that counts.” She raised her glass in a toast, and I leaned forward, clinking mine against hers.
“Amen. So, what’s going on with you and Trey?” Trey was Becca’s latest boyfriend, a tennis-playing premed major who had all of the family credentials that Becca’s parents required.
“Ugh.” Becca flopped into the closest chair, kicking off her heels and tucking her feet under her butt. “He is such a spazz. Did I tell you he took me to Applebee’s yesterday for dinner? Applebee’s. Like we’re fucking high schoolers.” She gestured wildly, as if the Apocalypse were imminent now that she had been forced to eat with the middle class. I stifled a laugh and nodded somberly, trying to emphasize with her difficulties.
“So anyway, I think I’m going to break it off with him. He’s just so...young, you know? I need someone like Brad, someone mature. Has Brad ever taken you to Applebee’s?” She didn’t wait for a response, just sighed exasperatedly and sipped her champagne. “What about you two—how’s everything going?”
I played with my glass, trying to figure out how to answer the question. I answered, as truthfully as I could. “It’s going great, Becca. Things are different with him, different than any other guy I’ve dated. I’ve never had a more stressful relationship—so much has gone on with us, but despite all that, I think he might be it for me.” I blushed, hating the words as they came out of my mouth.
Her mouth dropped open. “It? Like love? Are you sure? You’ve only been exclusive, what? Two weeks?”
“About that, and I am. When I’m with him, it feels natural, like he is the other part of me that I have been missing out on this whole time. He is so...everything. He makes every other guy I’ve ever met seem lacking.”
“Wow. This is huge. I thought after the whole Luke debacle, you had decided to be single for a while. Now you are all ready to settle down for good?”
“Don’t tell Olivia. She’ll get all weird on me.”
Becca nodded, her eyes bright. “Don’t worry. That is so great, Jules, I am so happy for you.” She got up, leaning over to give me a quick hug, then perched on the arm of my chair. “So...does he have any cute friends?”
* * *
BRAD MADE THE call, to a number he hadn’t dialed in over nine years. The phone rang so long he expected voice mail, but then a gruff male voice answered.
“It’s Brad. We need to talk.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“Come to the house. We’ll talk there.”
“Alone.”
A sigh. “If you want.”
Brad ended the call and tapped the phone to his lips, thinking. His father’s voice hadn’t changed much in nine years.
* * *
WE FINISHED THE bottle of champagne and then trekked to the front door. I hugged her goodbye, promising to set her up with a hot rich lawyer soon. Closing the door behind her, I turned to head upstairs and almost ran into Martha’s large mass.
Arms folded over her chest, she looked at me with something akin to skepticism. “So, that’s your friend, huh?”
I grinned at her, dipping sideways and around. “She’s...different. Don’t judge me because of her.”
“Now what are you trying to say? I don’t judge anyone.”
I stopped, spinning around, and gave her a look of skepticism. “Oh, puh-lease. I know Becca is an airhead. But she’s my airhead, so leave her alone.”
She snorted, and I laughed, heading to the kitchen, which I had now decided, with its large teak table, was my favorite room in the house. Heading to the fridge, I opened the door and stuck my head in.
Brad’s refrigerator was the most beautiful thing on the planet. Other than its Sub-Zero fanciness and brilliant blue lighting, it was perfectly organized, with matching stacks of Tupperware containers filling its shelves. Martha had the food organized by day, and though today’s spot was empty, yesterday’s leftovers included shrimp salad, pork tenderloin and baked macaroni and cheese. I was starting to see why, after fifteen years, Brad kept her around. That, and the fact that she apparently guarded a treasure trove of secrets. I grabbed the mac and cheese container and scooped half of it onto a plate, popping it in the microwave.
Martha settled in on a stool, watching me. “Now, you know I’m about to fix dinner. You could just wait.”
I licked the cold remnants off the spoon, watching the plate rotate in the microwave. “I’m just getting a snack. Don’t worry, I’ll eat your delicious dinner, too. What time are we eating?”
“Oh, whatever time that boy g
ets home. Have any idea when that will be?”
“I don’t think he’s eating with us. He said he wouldn’t be back till late.”
“Oh. Well, in that case I’ll make jambalaya. You like jambalaya?”
“Of course. I’m not big on spice, though.”
“Oh, mine isn’t spicy, just good. I’ve been wanting jambalaya for months now, but Brad doesn’t like it, and it doesn’t seem right to do all that work for just me.” She slapped the counter, happy, and heaved to her feet, headed for the fridge.
Thirty-Seven
The doorbell rang at 6:00 p.m. Martha and I were in the kitchen, window shades drawn, laughing over a story she was telling about Brad’s teenage years, when we heard the chimes. We both froze, the grape I was about to eat dropping to the floor. A look came over her face, hard and determined, and she grabbed my arm. “You wait here.”
“What?” I hissed. “Don’t answer it!”
She waved me off, grabbing a hand towel and wiping her hands on it as she walked to the door. “Who is it?” she drawled, Southern and unintimidating.
“It’s Stevie.” The voice was muffled by the heavy door, but understandable.
“Stevie? Joe’s boy Stevie?” Martha demanded, standing by the door with her hands on her hips.
Every gangster movie I had ever seen flooded through my mind, and I wished she would move away from the door before they shot through it. I tried to wave at her, but she ignored me completely, focused on the door.
“Yes. Let me in, Martha.”
She walked away, and pulled out her cell. Going through the phone, she pressed a button and waited, the phone to her ear.
“It’s me. Stevie is here. You want me to let him in?”
There was a pause, and then she spoke. “Okay.” She hung up the phone and opened the door, peering through the crack created by the safety chain. An alarm somewhere in the house started, a slow chirp, gradually increasing in speed. She seemed pleased with what she saw and she closed the door, removed the chain and then opened it again, ushering in a tall man with a muscular build, dressed in a black polo and dress pants, a large gray gun strapped to his belt. Martha shut the door behind him, relatching the chain and locking the dead bolt, and pressed a button on the alarm pad.