The Butcher Page 8

  “You’re my new bodyguard. Is that it?” I peered up at him. A job. That’s what I was to him. He hadn’t come here for me. He wasn’t standing in that crowd today to save me from this hell. Instead, he was part of the machine that intended to keep me here, chew me up, and spit me out as a soulless mafia wife.

  “I am.”

  “You haven’t come for me at all.” I hated the sadness in my voice, the defeat. But when the last little spark of hope you ever had dies, there’s nothing for it.

  He didn’t answer one way or the other, simply held my gaze. I’d been mistaken. The boy wasn’t there anymore.

  “You’re not him.” I straightened my back, the stars leaving my eyes. “Not anymore. Are you?”

  There was no denying it, so he didn’t bother.

  “You work for them—for Hector or whoever it is that wants this marriage to take place. That’s why you’re here, to make sure I get to the altar and seal the deal. Isn’t that right?” Black tendrils of betrayal circled me, pulling me down, killing the tenderness I once felt for him.

  Again, he remained silent, everything about him an impenetrable wall even as I cracked and broke and shattered inside. The fissures left room for only one emotion—anger.

  I stood and walked to him, stopping only when there were millimeters of space between us. “Say it. Tell me you’re only here to do your job. To see me married. Tell me you never looked for me, never even cared what happened to me.”

  He tensed more and more with each word from my lips.

  “I want to hear you say it, coward.” I beat my fists on his chest, a child having a tantrum when she learns Santa was never real.

  He didn’t flinch or move to defend, just stared down at me with that same intensity.

  “Asshole!” I stopped my futile assault, my body wilting as the adrenaline of only moments before faded away.

  “Are you done?”

  “Fuck you.” I turned away from him, but he grabbed me by my arm, whipped me around and crushed his lips to mine.

  That same blazing connection sizzled through my veins as he lifted me off my feet and took complete control, his tongue passing my defenses with ease and tasting me with a recklessness that woke every nerve ending in my body.

  But as soon as it began, it was over.

  He set me on my feet and backed away, his face twisted into a scowl that could have killed a man.

  “David—”

  “Goddamn.” Lorenzo stumbled out of the bathroom before catching himself and straightening. “Must have been something I ate.”

  Sure. I didn’t want to look at this pathetic excuse for a man, much less hear him try to cover his fear with a ‘bad shellfish’ story.

  He turned to David. “Thanks for taking care of Angelica for me. I would have grabbed her, but I was” running away with my tail between my legs, I would have supplied for him, but he said, “out of range when it all went down. Bad timing, you know?”

  David simply stared at him. It didn’t take long for Lorenzo to drop his gaze. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re here.” He walked over to me and wrapped his arm around my waist.

  I was more than a little pleased to see David curl his meaty hands into fists.

  Lorenzo carried on, oblivious. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Never thought I’d be grateful to someone called the Butcher. Know what I mean?”

  What? “The Butcher?”

  “Yeah, this guy is hardcore, babe.” Lorenzo spoke about David as if he were a carnival side-show attraction. “He’s tortured guys, killed ‘em, all kinds of shit. There’s nothing he won’t do. Isn’t that right, Butcher?”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. David was no innocent lamb, but he wouldn’t do the things Lorenzo described. Would he? “Is that true?”

  “Of course it’s true!” Lorenzo pulled me closer to his side, his hand edging lower across my hip. “Just look at the guy. He’s built for it. It’s his thing.”

  David dropped his gaze to where Lorenzo’s hand wandered and took a step toward us.

  Lorenzo prattled on. “I’ve been known to do some stuff, too. Some guys just need a good beatdown or a little persuasion to make them talk.”

  I didn’t believe that for a second, mainly because I was certain Lorenzo would faint at the first sight of blood. His hand grazed even lower, moving toward my ass.

  David followed it and stepped even nearer. His face was stoic, but I could feel him bubbling underneath. We were still linked somehow—that kiss had proven it.

  “But anyway, I’m glad you kept her safe. Wouldn’t want her getting away from me before the wedding night, if you know what I mean.” Lorenzo dropped his hand all the way and grabbed a handful. “This one’s ripe for the taking.”

  My gorge rose.

  David pulled up his fists.

  Was this it? My way out?

  David glowered at Lorenzo, his eyes promising untold pain.

  I gasped.

  “There she is!” A man I’d seen before but couldn’t identify walked into the room, his smile wide. “And David, I already heard from Hector how you saved the day. I knew I’d chosen right when I assigned you here.” He walked over as David dropped his hands. “You all right, Lorenzo? Looking a little pale.”

  I quickly stepped away from Lorenzo as he lied about bad seafood and yammered on at the newcomer. My heart pounded so loud I couldn’t listen anyway. The moment was broken, but I hadn’t imagined it. David was on the brink of destroying Lorenzo and saving me from this hell.

  He didn’t look away from me, a fire that only I could see raging beneath his cool façade.

  He hadn’t come riding in on a white steed to save me like I’d imagined for so long. But did it matter? He was here. Maybe there was a chance for us after all.

  Hector walked in, his face serious as he mopped it with a handkerchief. “Based on this mess, I think it’s best if we move the wedding up. One month. As long as that’s fine with you, Lorenzo.”

  My stomach dropped, the floor lurching under my feet. I kept my balance, barely, and silently hoped Lorenzo would object.

  “One month. Of course.” He grinned at me, ugly hunger in his eyes. “The sooner I have my bride, the better.”

  14

  David

  The room next door to Angel’s was overdone like the rest of Hector Blanco’s home. Gold leaf on the walls, gleaming hardwood floors, and frufru everything else.

  A low hum came from downstairs—the cleaning crew removing blood from the carpets and rugs. Four guests died in the shootout. A low number, really, suggesting that the attack had been more of a shock and awe approach rather than one seeking mass casualties.

  Now the house was locked up tight. Double the guards, double the firepower, and everyone on edge. I threw my rucksack onto the flowery chaise lounge next to the wide windows. The four-poster bed looked like a florist vomited all over it, but it would do. I’d only be here for a month.

  I sank onto the bed and dug the heels of my palms into my eyes. Angel. What the fuck was I going to do about Angel?

  The answer was obvious: I was going to keep her safe and deliver her to the church on time. If I didn’t, my life—and Peter’s life—would be forfeit to the Genoa family.

  I shouldn’t have kissed her. Even thinking those words felt like a betrayal. Lying to myself like a fool. How could her mouth still feel like that when it had been five years since I’d last seen her? Setting me on fire, tying me to her, igniting a connection that was long dormant. It didn’t seem real. We were different people now. And I couldn’t ruin what I had going with the Genoa family over a stupid childhood crush. It didn’t matter what happened when we were kids. This was the big leagues. She had a purpose and so did I.

  My cell buzzed. It was a message from Peter. Though I didn’t care much for conversation, something about the impersonality of texting appealed to me. Peter seemed to sense this and had taken to texting me, sometimes even if we were in the same room.

  Peter: How’s the
digs?

  Me: Better than prison.

  Peter: How’s Angel?

  Me: Engaged to be married.

  The three little dots bounced and bounced.

  Peter: How do you feel about that?

  I shook my head and pocketed my phone. I didn’t do feelings. Not even for Peter. Fuck that shit.

  Voices in the hallway drew my attention. One hand on my gun, I walked over and cracked my door. Blanco and his right-hand man Jorge appeared at the top of the stairs. I dropped my hand, but not my guard, and stepped out to meet them.

  “David.” Blanco smiled. “How are you settling in?”

  “Fine, thanks.”

  “You know Jorge.” He patted the younger man on the shoulder. “He’s usually the one taking care of my sweet Angelica. But, given Serge’s keen interest in this match and your reputation, I’ve instructed Jorge to give you the lead.”

  Jorge’s left eye twitched just a hair. He was probably ten years my senior, the scars on his face telling a story of his loyalty. But all I saw was someone who didn’t want to take orders from me. I’d have to work on that. My pleasure.

  “I’ll leave you to it, then.” Blanco’s plastered-on smile never faded. “Angelica has an appointment in an hour at Maison de la Félicité for wedding dress fittings. We had to move everything up given the unfortunate events from yesterday, and that includes choosing her gown.” He turned to Jorge. “You know what I want, yes?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Blanco winked at me. “My Angelica is a princess and should be dressed as such at all times.”

  Yeah, I saw how he’d made her dress yesterday—like a little girl with pigtails, but like a woman with how much skin she was showing. Hector Blanco was a sick fuck, and I was more than happy to put Serge’s grand plan—the one that ended with Hector choking on his own blood—into motion.

  After a few more beats of him staring, perhaps waiting for me to respond, he finally turned and retreated down the stairs.

  Jorge immediately dropped his act of compliance and stepped to me. “I don’t give a shit what the Genoas want. I’m in charge here. You stay in your fucking lane and follow my lead, and everything will be fine.”

  I stared down at him. He was a large man, but I dwarfed him easily. If he was looking to get a rise, he’d come to the wrong place. He could talk and threaten all he wanted, it didn’t change the pecking order.

  He swallowed audibly, his throat clicking, and blinked his dark eyes. “I’m glad we’re in agreement.”

  A laugh threatened in my throat at how pathetic he was, but I buried it and kept my demeanor. Nothing wrong with a poker face.

  He nodded, as if reassuring himself, and turned his back to me. Fool.

  Thing is, I wasn’t going to hurt him. Not yet. I intended to give him enough leash to think he was in charge before yanking him up and hanging him with it. But then he did something stupid.

  Striding to Angel’s door, he reached for the handle.

  He. Didn’t. Knock.

  I was on him before he could get the door open. With one hand, I fisted the back of his gray suit coat and ripped him back. With an easy jerk of my arm, I pulled him off his feet and slammed him onto his back in the middle of the hallway.

  He yelled, but I cut that off with a fist to his jaw. Lights out.

  I straightened again and smoothed out the lapels of my jacket. The chandelier over the stairwell tinkled lightly from the violence up on the landing, and I was certain anyone on the first floor had felt the commotion, but no one came looking. Smart.

  Jorge was still out, so I toed him in the ribs until he blinked his eyes open. Still dazed, he stared up at me.

  “Knock.” I stepped back so the idiot could get up.

  “What?” He sat and then got to his feet, his face reddening as he brought up his fists.

  “When you want to enter Angel’s room, you fucking knock.”

  His mouth dropped open. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Do you want me to show you how much I’m not kidding by dropping you again?” I didn’t raise my fists. Didn’t have to. If he took a swing at me, it was his funeral.

  He didn’t drop his hands, but he didn’t advance, either. “I guess you didn’t hear me when I told you I’m in charge, asshole.”

  “My hearing works fine.” I jerked my chin toward the door. “Knock. This time and every time.”

  He held his ground, clearly sizing me up. Even a man of his limited mental prowess could see that going up against me with nothing but bare knuckles was a bad fucking bet, so he backed off and shook out his shoulders, then gingerly touched his jaw. There would be a bruise. I hoped it hurt.

  Without a look in my direction, he approached the door again and knocked.

  A few beats passed before Angel called, “Come in.”

  We entered her room—which was even more garishly overdone than my own, full of décor meant for a twelve-year-old girl, not a woman like Angel.

  She sat at a white vanity, her eyes on us. “You knock now?” she asked Jorge’s reflection.

  My blood simmered at the thought of Jorge busting up in her room whenever he wanted, catching her sleeping or undressed or in the shower. I ground my teeth together but stopped just inside the doorway and reminded myself this was a job, and above all, Angel wasn’t mine. She never was.

  Standing, she walked to her closet and grabbed another pair of girly white shoes with a strap across the top. She wore a pink polka dot dress with a white ribbon tied beneath her breasts. There’s no way she’d dress like that if she’d had her choice. In fact, I was certain she wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t be engaged to Lorenzo if she had the slightest chance of escape. Did that sit well with me? No. Could I do fuck-all about it? Also no.

  “Come on.” Jorge just got here, but was already impatient. “Your daddy got this appointment special for you.”

  Daddy. Disgusting. Angel finished fastening her sandal and looked up, catching me mid-scowl.

  “Are you going to be with me from now on?” She stood and walked toward me.

  The question sent a memory through me from that one stolen day. How I’d promised her I’d see her “tomorrow,” how I wanted to see her every day from then on. But that was before everything went to hell.

  “Until the wedding.” Jorge grinned. “And then you aren’t my problem anymore. Or his.”

  She tilted her chin up and walked out of the room, snubbing Jorge as best she could.

  I followed her down the stairs and out into the misty morning. Workers scrubbed the stone steps outside the front door, the bloody marks washing away with each swipe of their sponges.

  Angel stepped around the workers, her wide eyes following the crimson water flowing down into the manicured rose bushes along the front of the house.

  “The car.” Jorge walked around her and slid into the front passenger seat of a black SUV. “Get in.” He slammed the door.

  That prick wasn’t getting under my skin. It took a lot more than his dickish behavior to do that, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t looking forward to ending him when the time came. And it would come, hopefully sooner rather than later.

  Angel began moving again, turning away from the mess that was the mafia life. I opened her door for her and she slid inside, the short skirt of her dress riding up her smooth thighs. It made me want to see her in a woman’s clothes, not this kinky baby girl shit Blanco forced her to wear.

  The drive to the dress shop was only half an hour. Sunday traffic was minimal, not even the churchgoers bothering to clog the highways with their useless search for meaning. The shop sat at the corner of two wide downtown streets, the bottom floor a sea of glass windows with wedding dresses displayed on backgrounds of bright pink and turquoise blue.

  I didn’t care for the glass. A well-placed shot could end this little shopping trip. A pang flickered in my chest and died away. Nothing would happen to Angel. Not when I was here to protect her. I glanced her way. She’d been staring out her window m
ost of the time, though she’d stolen more than a few looks at me. What was she thinking about?

  The SUV pulled up right out front. I stepped out and looked around, Jorge doing the same. A few cars passed, and distant church bells rang, calling the faithful. Not so much as a breath of wind moved, and the faint, misting rain had tapered off and given way to a gloomy sky. This set-up was too open for my tastes.

  “This place doesn’t have a back entrance?” I blocked Angel from getting out of the car.

  Jorge raised his brows and shook his head a little, as if that thought had never occurred to him.

  “Go inside and tell them to open the back for us.” I eased into my seat and closed the door.

  Jorge stood there fuming for a moment before following my instructions.

  The driver didn’t need to be told and began circling the block. “There’s an alley back here.”

  “Go.” I kept my eyes on the windows of the nearest buildings and the dumpsters down the street. We weren’t as exposed, but there were plenty of nooks where a clever killer could hide.

  We prowled down the pothole-filled pavement until a back door ahead of us opened and a woman with severely short black hair waved curtly.

  “Get close.”

  “Yes, sir.” The driver edged to the open door.

  “You think someone’s here?” Angel had a death grip on her door handle. “For me?”

  “Unlikely.” But that didn’t mean I wouldn’t be prepared for it.

  She didn’t relax, every muscle in her body tense.

  I tried again. “I don’t think anyone’s here. No one knows about this appointment.”

  She nodded and took a breath, then crumpled a little. “I don’t know why we’re even doing this. Blanco wants a marriage. Fine, sell me off at the courthouse. Having a big wedding is putting a bullseye on my back for no good reason.”

  “You want to marry Lorenzo?” I cast a glance to the driver, but he didn’t look at me, despite my outburst.

  She met my eyes, and I saw the girl I’d known. The one I’d kissed. “I want to live.”

  She was a survivor.