She smiled some more, the small gap between her two front teeth opening up a path to a heart that was mine for the taking.
We married the day she turned eighteen. Four years later, we had a kid and a crappy apartment that felt like a sanctuary. We were teammates, taking turns to run marathons from our pasts. Mine took me to the front lines of Iraq and eventually Afghanistan. Hers took her deeper and deeper into herself, to a place I found harder to visit when I was on leave.
We bent and warped, until she broke first.
She smelled like summer rain and strawberry crush.
At seventeen, she offered me a life like an old Springsteen lyric, and I played that fucking tune until her and our son’s funeral six years later.
Later still, there was a girl and a laugh with an even sweeter melody. Hate silenced it for a time, but war would make it sing again.
8
Joseph
The tires on my SUV sound like a dying animal as I skid to a halt outside Rick’s mansion. It’s been a few months since I last set foot here. The place still looks the same, even if it’s under new management. The white stone fascia and marble columns do fuck all to disguise the rivers of blood running beneath its foundation. It’s a Miami perversion of the Greek Parthenon. We worship very different gods in our line of business.
Its former owner was a Bratva pakhan, another who paid the price for his involvement with Dante Santiago. Dante was next on the kill list if I hadn’t intervened, but there was never any hesitation on my part. Saving the life of the man who had saved mine, twice over, was an easy decision to make.
Rick greets me in the doorway with a large whiskey and an even larger smirk, neither of which surprise me. He drinks his own bars dry on a regular basis, all thirty-three of them, and derision is his resting bitch face. Tall and lithe like a bird of prey, his hidden talons are twice as lethal. The bastard clawed his way out of Brooklyn and into Santiago’s business, and then sank those talons in, bone-deep.
He’s richer than Midas, has an IQ of one-sixty, and is loyal as fuck to Dante, but the next few minutes are going to be about as enjoyable as a hand job from a pack of razorblades. I don't ask for favors from anyone, least of all from him. He’s the kind of asshole who’d hold it over you for the next thirty years, transferring the debt down through your family tree until every branch was tainted. But for her I don’t have a choice.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Rick steps aside to let me into his property. He doesn’t offer to shake my hand. He knows I’d crush every metacarpal, given half the chance.
“Fix me a drink first, asshole,” I say, thirsting for that savage burn. “We’ll talk afterward.”
Instead of unloading his Glock into my stomach for my disrespect, Rick tips his head back and laughs. He’d no more kill me than I’d kill him, but that doesn't stop us batting the idea between us like tigers at play on occasion.
“Have you and Dante ever considered taking lessons in social decorum?” he ruminates. “A simple “hello” usually suffices about now, not an all-out declaration of war.”
“Is that so?” Stepping further into the foyer I spin a one-eighty real slow and offer him my blankest, most dangerous of expressions. “Why not go ahead and ask him?” I hold out my cell like it’s the fucking hammer of justice. “Maybe preempt his response by volunteering to dig your own goddamn grave first.”
Rick’s eyebrows arch in mild surprise. “Who the hell pissed in your Cheerios this morning?” I watch him take a slow, deliberate swig of whiskey. “Has this charmless visit anything to do with my ex-girl, or are you just spoiling for a fight?” He glances back through the open door toward my empty SUV. “I thought she was getting out of rehab today. I was kinda looking forward to the welcome home party.”
“Ex-bar girl,” I correct him tersely. “Let’s tuck those misbeliefs away with what’s left of your fucking morals, shall we?”
“Would you like your drink thrown in your face, or shoved up your ass?” he replies idly, gray eyes flickering over me in amusement.
Still, it’s a warning shot, and I won’t be getting another. I need to dial it down a notch before Dante rips me a new one for starting shit. One problem: there’s a snake slithering right below my surfaces with his fangs bared, waiting to strike.
It’s not just Rick. It’s everything. It’s her.
She’s running from me again.
This time it’s different. I showed her the color of my hand, and she chose to leave anyway. Even after I’d felt her body calling out to me. Even after I’d moved in so damn close to her I could smell the sweetness of her lust beneath her fear.
How do you hold fast to a bleeding heart when it keeps on slipping through your fingers? You find a box, and you lock that shit up.
My hand strays to the chain around my neck again. Whatever is between us is spiraling. The more she pushes me away, the sharper the twists. The harder the fall. For the first time in nearly two decades I want a woman in my bed who doesn't leave by the chill of the morning light. Not just any woman—the one who’s merging with my every thought, every movement, every kill.
I want to consume her, overwrite her. But first… First, I need to find her.
“You gonna answer me, Grayson, or just stare at the goddamn staircase all night?” Rick kicks the front door shut with a bang, and I feel the burn of his look as he passes.
“She’s gone.”
“Gone where?”
“AWOL.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
I follow the coil of white bannister all the way up to the first floor to distract myself from doing something stupid. This isn’t the time for macho bullshit. I need to keep her safe from herself more than I need Rick’s blood on my hands.
“She’s lost.”
I lost her.
“Is that a euphemism for her head space?” Rick pauses at the entrance to his study.
“I found her in an alleyway a couple of hours ago.” I slide my hands into the pockets of my jeans to stop them drifting anywhere near my chain again. “She checked out of rehab early. Decided to celebrate with a gram of blow. A couple of guys were busy taking advantage until I rang the bell on them.” A grim smile threatens to break through my deadpan expression, and I catch him glancing at my bloodstained hands. I don't regret kills. I don't even consider them a sin anymore.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “Do you need cleanup?”
“Done and dusted.”
“And then?”
“I turned my back,” I say, my gaze slamming into his.
For once, Rick doesn't capitalize on the chance to act like a dickhead. Instead, he pulls out his cell and starts tapping out a number.
“How many men have you got, stateside?”
“None. They’re all on a flight, Pacific Ocean-bound. Already off-radar.”
Dante’s private island has location coordinates more enigmatic than those of the Bermuda Triangle. It’s his base. His life. His family. His home. I used to consider it mine too, but I’m not so sure anymore. I’ve been drifting rootless for a while now. If I’m honest, I’ve been drifting since I was twelve years old.