Good Girl: Valetti Crime Family (A Bad Boy Mafia Romance) (8 page)

A
nxiety races
through my body as I climb the stairs. I feel like a sitting duck staying here. But I’m fucked if I leave. I shove my nerves aside. I killed a man today. Not just any man. I’ve killed before and felt next to nothing. All of them were bastards who deserved to die. Each time I pulled the trigger and never looked back, unless it was to make sure he wasn’t still breathing.

But today I killed a man that could haunt me. A man who Abram’s going to be pissed about losing. It’s only a matter of time before he finds out. Or before the Valettis tell him. I’m almost certain they won’t, but it’d only take a single man to tell. Just one lowly soldier in their
famila
could bring about my death sentence.

Between the two of them, the Petrovs and the Valettis, I trust the Valettis more. But I’m not fucking stupid. I’ve trusted men before and gotten shot at from behind. I need to figure something out. I half expected a call by now from Abram. If Vince was going to make a move, he would’ve by now. He could’ve easily taken a shot today. He didn’t though, and I’m not exactly sure why. I imagine they’re displeased with the current business arrangement, but I need to find out exactly what’s going through his head.

Right now I feel the need to run.

I need to get the fuck away from Petrov and all that shit. I’m not going to do this shit for him, and I know that telling him no isn’t going to go over well. I could run on my own and take Ava with me. But I fucking hate that idea. I’m not a little bitch. I didn’t run when my own
famila
came after me, but back then I was fueled by anger. I’m using my fucking head with this one. And going in there by myself against his powerhouse; that’d be fucking stupid.

If I had the backing of the Valettis though…That’s a different story. Right now I don’t know what to think about Vince and the rest of them, but I’m going to find out. I need to do it quick before Petrov gets wind of what happened. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time. When he finds out, I’m fucked.

All because of Ava. And it was fucking worth it.

She’s quiet when I open the door, lying on her side and curled up like her stomach is hurting her. Her back is to me. My eyes travel the length of her small body as I walk into the room.

I feel like shit that she’s sick over this. I know she said she’s happy that he’s dead, but I still shouldn’t have told her to do that. She would have done anything I told her to do. And I had her kill a man.

Felipe was her keeper though. He was her tormentor. I can only imagine the fucked up shit he did to her. I’d want to see him dead if he’d done that shit to me. I set the bowl down gently on the nightstand and sit on the edge of the bed. It creaks and dips with my weight. She starts to get up, but I place my hand on her hip to stop her. She needs to rest.

I need to know. It’s killing me to not know what she went through. I want to understand. I need to help her.

I clear my throat and ask, “You feeling any better?”

“Much,” she answers with a small smile. She looks so sweet and innocent. Her face is still pale though. I was afraid she was having a panic attack at the table. This is too much for her. I’m a fucking prick for putting her through that.

“I’m sorry, Ava.” I take her hand in mine as she scoots closer to me, giving me her full attention. She shakes her head, but I don’t give her the opportunity to make excuses for me.

“I never should’ve told you to take the gun.” I press my lips into a straight line as I remember standing behind her, steadying her hands. “I thought it would help you. I didn’t think you’d get sick over it.”

“I’m alright,” she states, as though everything is perfectly fine. It’s not.

“You almost had a fucking heart attack at the table.” I squeeze her hand tighter. “You’re just a woman. You shouldn’t even see things like that.”

Her eyes flash with anger so briefly, I question it. I can see she wants to say something, but she’s holding it in. I fucking hate that. “Tell me.”

“It was because you told me to forget everything that happened. I wasn’t sure if you were testing me or not.” Her eyes dart to the door and then back to me. “I didn’t know what to say.”

My forehead wrinkles with confusion. And then it hits me. She thought I was testing her? “Did you think I was going to hurt you, Ava?” My blood boils, and I resist the urge to show how angry I am. Not at her, but at the fact that she expected that shit from me.

Her lips part and her eyes fall as she admits, “I wasn’t sure.” Her tone is so sad. It fucking breaks my heart.

“I wouldn’t do that to you. I wouldn’t set you up.” I cup her chin in my hand and tilt her head. “I’m not like them.” I fucking hope I’m not. I don’t know what she’s been through. But I hate that she thinks I’m some sick prick like the fuckers who got their hands on her before me.

I have to change the subject. I’m getting too fucking worked up. “Can you eat?” I ask, as I drop my hand.

She nods her head and answers with a confident, “Yes.”

That makes me happy. She needs to eat. I give her a small smile and reach over for the bowl as she sits up.

“I’m glad you’re eating. Did they feed you?” I need to know. After seeing her reaction to killing that prick, I want to know what all that fucker did to her. I wish that bastard were still alive, so I could take out this anger on him and make him suffer for what he did.

“Yes. I was always fed something.” She says it simply. But it’s a veiled answer.

“Something? Be more specific?”

“Some fed me whatever it was they were eating.” Some. My throat closes and my eyes fall. How many men have hurt her? I swallow thickly and turn to her with the spoon held out. I want to feed her. She doesn’t hesitate to lean forward slightly and part her lips.

“Good girl.” She swallows and smiles with a small blush. The color looks beautiful on her cheeks. I like seeing it. But I know my next question is going to take her happiness away. I need to know, though. “Tell me what happened, Ava.” I dip the spoon into the hot broth and keep my eyes on it as I add, “I want to know.” I bring another spoonful to her lips.

There’s not a trace of a smile on her lips. Or any other emotion. A bit of disappointment, maybe.

“What would you like to know?” she asks warily.

“I want to know the names of the men who hurt you. All of them.” I raise the spoon again, but she shakes her head with a small frown.

“I’m sorry; I can’t.” Her answer pisses me off. I know she owes me nothing. I grit my teeth knowing I’m still waffling on what I’m going to do when I finally see Abram again. But a very large part of me doesn’t want to let him ever see her again. I’d rather lie and say she was dead. I need to think of something and let her know.

“I don’t know their names. Not all of them.” I give her my attention and try to control my anger.

“How many? Tell me what you can.” I clench my jaw realizing I’ve given her a command. Just like I did earlier with Felipe. What the hell is wrong with me? I set the bowl on the nightstand and get off the bed with my back toward her. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me anything.” She doesn’t owe me anything, and if she doesn’t want to talk about it, she doesn’t have to.

“I think I’d like to talk.” I turn to look at her and stare into her blue eyes. I nod and clench my fists. I look at the bowl and then the bed. I don’t think it’s smart of me to sit next to her. This shit is getting to me, and she doesn’t need my aggression. But when I look back into her eyes, she’s begging me for comfort. She leans forward slightly and adds, “If it’s alright, I want to talk.” She noticeably swallows and looks back at the bowl of soup on the nightstand.

“Are you still hungry?” I ask. I quickly reach for it and climb on the bed to give it back to her.

“There’s more downstairs if you like it.” It’s just a can of homestyle chicken noodle. But it does smell good.

She takes the bowl eagerly and smiles. “I do like it. My mother made us chicken noodle when we were sick, too.” She spoons out the broth and blows on it before taking it into her mouth.

She seems happy with the memory, but the mention of her mother makes me sick. It reminds me of my own mother. Both our mothers were slaughtered.

“My mother did, too. Never from a can though.” I grin at the memory. “My mother loved cooking,” I say matter-of-factly, and settle on the bed next to her. This is better, I think. Besides, I’d rather talk about this.

She chuckles into the spoon and takes it greedily into her mouth. “My mother hated cooking. We had a chef. But not when I was little. Back then it was different.”

I try to recall what I know of her father, but it’s not much. I suppose her
famila
made more money later on in her life and that’s why things changed for her. With the right setup and connections, there’s a shit-ton of money to be made.

“A chef sounds nice.” She shrugs her shoulders and takes another bite.

“I like cooking. But it’s nice every once in a while.”

I huff a humorless laugh. “I can grill, and I can bake, but I tend to burn shit on the stove.”

She looks at me with a wide smile as she asks, “But it’s harder to bake, isn’t it?”

“Nah,” I lean farther back and rest my back against the headboard, “Baking is just mixing up a simple recipe and you pop it in the oven.”

“Oh, do you mean like Betty Crocker?” she asks, and I look at her with confusion.

“Of course, what did you think I meant?”

She sets the empty bowl down and tries to cover her mouth with her arm as she laughs while shaking her head. As I watch her shoulders rise and fall slightly with the sweet sounds of soft laughter, I realize how easy the atmosphere is between us.

This is Ava. I like this side to her.

“What kind of baking do you do?” I ask. I just want to keep the conversation going. I want this feeling to last.

“Like, fresh morning biscuits--” She looks reminiscent, and I interrupt to be an ass.

“They have those in a can. They’re called Pillsbury.” She outright laughs and swings her hand at me, playfully smacking me on the arm.

It triggers her, though. Her face falls and all sense of humor is gone. It’s as though I had the real Ava to myself, if only for a small moment. But now she’s gone. Replaced by the shell of a woman.

“Ava,” I say, as I reach out to her. Her eyes dart to mine, but her body is tense and I can feel waves of anxiety pouring off of her. My hand lands on her thigh and I decide to keep things light. “You have to know what Pillsbury biscuits are, don’t you?”

She quickly responds, “Yes. I’ve seen them before.” Her body stays tense as though she’s expecting a harsh reaction. It brings me back to reality. She’s so fucking hurt.

It breaks my heart. I clear my throat and lean back against the headboard, patting the seat next to me. She obediently scoots closer.

“You’re hurting. I want to help you,” I say simply. I know the only way to help her is to make sure she never goes back to them. I know that. And I want to make sure that happens. I question if she’ll ever be alright, but a feeling deep in my gut tells me I can heal her. I can take away her pain and make everything alright.

“Tell me what I can do, Ava.” It’s a command. It may be fucked up to take advantage of her submission. I don’t feel comfortable pushing her to talk. But I have no problems pushing to find out how I can help her.

Her sad blue eyes look up at me as the corners of her plump lips tilt down. Her lips part and then close as her eyes fall. This is my Ava. I know this is her because she’s giving me emotion, even if it is sadness. I pull her small body into my lap, wrapping my arms around her waist and she melts in my arms. Her hands grip my back, and she holds onto me tighter as I run my hand down her back with soothing strokes.

I hear her say something, but I’m not sure what she says since she’s so quiet. I pull back to look at her, but she keeps the side of her head pressed to my chest and her fingertips dig into my back.

“I’ve got you, baby. Just tell me what to do.” I run my hand along her back, hoping this is helping her. I was wrong before, with Felipe, but this can’t be anything but good for her.

“Please,” she barely whispers, “keep holding me.” Hearing her plea breaks my heart. I kiss her hair and rest my chin on her head. I hold her close and keep rubbing her back.

If she wants, I’ll do this all night.

Feeling her in my arms reminds me of the last time I held my mother. She didn’t hold me back, though. They’d already killed her. The memory flashes before my eyes.

The car slams into another vehicle. The bullets fly past me, barely missing me. But my father clutches his chest, each bullet jolting his body as they pierce his back even through the thick seat. It happened so fast. We were driving to the drop, and then all of a sudden we weren’t. The acrid smell of gas is still vivid in my memory. So is the sound of the bullets. My father’s eyes stayed open even as he stopped breathing. I can hear my own voice screaming.

I remember reaching for my gun. I only got one shot off as the tires screeched, and I saw them drive off. I saw Paul and Cory in the back. They didn’t see me stand back up as they slapped the front seats, urging whoever was driving to go faster. Unlike my father, I'd been wearing Kevlar, and it had saved my life.

I saw red. Nothing but red. But fear crippled me. I was barely coherent. I stood in the middle of the road as a car drove toward me. I walked toward it, forcing the driver to stop. My hand hit the hot hood. The thud sounded so loud.

“Are you alright?” the woman asked, as she clutched her chest. Panic was written all over her face. I remember how pale she looked, how frightened she was for me, but also
of
me. She wanted to help. Her eyes darted from me to our car. I saw them grow larger as she registered the bullet holes. I still feel like a fucker for pushing her to the right and getting in her car. She didn’t try to fight, just backed away as I stole her car and took off.