Ruthless: Mob Boss Book One (26 page)

She took a seat on one of the upholstered chairs. “What’s all this?”

“Indian,” he said, not looking up from the tattered book in his hand.

“What are you reading?”

“Utopia.”

“A little light reading, huh?”

He didn’t say anything, and she put down the spoon she was using to serve herself tandoori chicken and looked at him.

“Luca.”

He didn’t look up.

“Luca,” she said more forcefully. “Come on.”

He raised his gaze to hers. His blue eyes were icy. “What?”

“I’m sorry, okay?” She hesitated. “You can’t be mad.”

“I can’t?”

“No. You guys have been holding me hostage for over two weeks. Didn’t you think I might want to go home at some point?”

“I was responsible for you.”

“I know,” she said. “And I’m sorry if I got you in trouble.” She smiled. “At least I came back.”

“Why did you?” he asked.

She rubbed the corner of a cloth napkin between her fingers. “I love him, among other things,” she said softly.

“Good.”

She looked up and was relieved to see the kindness had returned to his eyes. “Good?”

He nodded. “Are you here to stay?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “I think… well, I think we have to see what happens with my father. It’s… complicated.”

Gray, she thought. Not black and white. So very gray. All of it.

“Don’t leave again,” he said. “Not like that. He was crazy with worry.”

Something in her heart twisted at the knowledge. “Deal.”

They finished dinner in companionable silence, then Angel went to change. She chose a slinky black dress by Tom Ford. It had long sleeves, but with a hemline that brushed her upper thighs and slits cut into fabric at her shoulders and arms, it was anything but dowdy. She slipped on a thin black thong, skipping a bra in a nod to the the back of the dress, which dipped low enough to brush the top of her ass. She finished it with a pair of gold Gucci heels, then wrapped her hair in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. She kept her face bare, with only dark, smokey eyeliner, several coats of mascara, and a careful swipe of red lipstick. She was admiring her reflection in the mirror, reveling in the way the silk dress skimmed her bare body, hinting at what was underneath rather than making it obvious, when Nico’s arms slid around her waist. He met her eyes in the mirror.

“You’re the most exquisite woman I’ve ever seen.”

She turned in his arms, taking in the tailored slacks that hugged his strong thighs. His eyes seemed lighter than usual, the amber standing out against the fitted, midnight blue button-down stretching across his shoulders and back.

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” she said softly.

He ran his hands down her back to her thighs, then slipped them inside the dress to cup her ass. It was like lighting a stick of dynamite attached to her core, and she felt herself grow wet as he he pulled her against the rigid length of him.

“This was a bad idea,” he murmured, looking into her eyes.

“What was?” she asked, breathless.

“Coming to check on you.”

She let her hand travel down the iron plane of his stomach and pressed the flat of her palm against his erection. “I’m glad you did.”

He groaned and stepped away, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “We have to get out of here,” he said. “Now.”

She smiled. “If you say so.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re a wicked little thing.”

She headed into the hall, casting a glance at him over her shoulder. “Maybe.”

“You’re killing me, Angel.” His voice followed her into the hall, and she couldn’t help laughing a little. For once, they were just like everyone else, and she realized this is what it would be like to be with Nico without all the bullshit between them.

Hot. Sexy. And yes, fun.

Would they get there? She hoped so. She really, really hoped so.

A car was waiting out front, and they made their way through town with the London eye lit up and looming in the rear window. Luca looked sharp in a fitted suit. His dark hair was combed back, highlighting the angular lines of his face. He was a good-looking man, every bit as handsome as Nico in a different way. She wondered idly if he had a woman in his life.

They finally stopped in a seedy area that stood in stark contrast to the sanitized cleanliness of the parts of the city meant for tourists. Nico slid out of the car and took her hand. Luca followed, and Angel didn’t think it was her imagination that the atmosphere had gotten significantly more tense.

“Stay by my side,” Nico said. “Unless I tell you otherwise.”

She wanted to bristle at this commanding tone, but then they stepped up to a large metal door guarded by two men with dead eyes and arms as big as her waist. She stepped a little closer to Nico. She thought they might be questioned going into the club, but one of the men nodded at Nico and opened the door without a word.

Interesting.

They stepped into a stairwell lined with purple lights. Music pumped from somewhere beneath them, vibrating the ground. Nico started down the stairs, and Angel had never been more glad to feel Luca’s presence behind her.

They emerged into a large warehouse space filled with writhing bodies dancing to the music that invaded the space from invisible speakers. At the front of the room, a massive movie screen was playing Scarface on mute. A giant pile of cocaine sat in front of Al Pacino, the movements of his mouth working in strange synchronicity to the music in the club.

Nico stopped in front of a small man wearing a headset and sunglasses. Without a word, the man hooked a thumb to a staircase at the back of the cavernous room.

Nico took Angel’s hand and started through the mass of bodies, the crowd seeming to part in front of him like he was the Messiah himself. They passed several more men on their way up the stairs but proceeded without incident down a long hall that seemed to wind its way into the bowels of the building. The music faded slightly, the bass pounding like an electric heartbeat in the background.

They came to the end of a hall and a door guarded by four men holstered with semi-automatic weapons. One of them had a scar that ran the length of his face under eyes that made Angel shudder.

Dead. Soulless. All of them.

She’d thought Nico and his men imposing—and they were—but Nico’s operation looked nothing like this. Here she knew there would be no mercy, no New Age attempt at reconciliation or pacifism. Here violence wouldn’t be a last resort but a opening salvo to any kind of engagement.

She swallowed hard as one of the men opened the door. Then Nico was pulling her into a room beyond the hall. The door shut behind them with a heavy thunk that made Angel think of the door to a tomb.

Clearly, not your average warehouse door.

She didn’t know what she was expecting, but the room was nothing like any of the places she’d seen belonging to Nico. Instead they could have been in any abandoned faculty building. It was large and bare, the furniture old and mismatched. The air was heavy with smoke, and Angel caught a whiff of something earthy and bitter.

A man stood behind a rusted steel desk, and she had to fight the urge to recoil.

He was massive, at least a couple inches taller than Nico’s already impressive height, with a scar just above his left eye. His hair was cut close to his head, his face shaded with the the kind of five o’ clock shadow she’d never seen on any of Nico’s men. Violence emanated off him in waves, a tsunami of psychic misery that pulled at her like a riptide.

Nico was the iron fist inside a velvet glove, danger masked with refinement.

This man was something else entirely.

There were no guards inside the room, but Angel wasn’t comforted by the thought. This was not a man who was afraid. Of anything.

“Farrell,” Nico said, stepping up to the desk.

“Vitale.”

There was no warmth between them, none of the brotherhood that was so evident when Nico talked to his men. Farrell’s eyes traveled unashamedly over her body, and she felt Nico tighten next to her.

“I didn’t expect to see you in this part of the world,” Farrell said in a British accent that looked way too refined for the kind of man he was. He sat down behind the desk. “Heard trouble’s brewing across the pond.”

Nico didn’t sit, and she tried to follow the train of posturing; who was more important, who was making a point or taking a stand through their actions. It was like trying to decipher an argument in a mysterious language.

Nico handed him a piece of paper. Farrell held Nico’s eyes for a few seconds before reading it. When he looked up, his expression hadn’t changed a bit. His gaze returned appreciatively to Angel.

“So this is Rossi’s daughter.”

Angel flushed, although she couldn’t have said if it was because of his frank appraisal or because he was yet another person connecting her father to this world.

“It is.” Nico’s voice was hard as granite.

Farrell nodded, and for the first time, a trace of humor showed in his eyes. “You know what you’re doing here, Vitale? Seems like you might be off reservation on this one.”

Nico held his gaze. “Raneiro doesn’t seem to think so.”

Farrell glanced back down at the piece of paper. “Or maybe he’s just speeding along your untimely demise.”

Nico didn’t say anything, and Angel forced herself to remain still, tried to make her face impassive in the ensuing silence.

Finally, Farrell leaned forward and scrawled something on the piece of paper Nico had handed him. “Word is he’s at a safe house. You didn’t hear it from me.” He slid the paper across the desk but didn’t let go when Nico tried to take it. “But I’m not with you on this. Understand?”

“I don’t need you on it.” Nico’s voice was flinty. “I just need you to keep your men out of the way until it’s over.”

Farrell let go of the slip of paper, and Angel glanced around Nico to see what was written there; 21 George Row.

Nico pocketed it, guiding Angel in front of him as he and Luca headed for the door.

“Does she know what’s going to happen to dear, old dad when you find him?” Farrell asked behind them.

Angel looked back at Farrell, now holding a lit cigar, then up at Nico.

“Let’s go,” Nico said, ushering her out the door.

41

They rode back to the flat in silence, although Nico had a feeling that wouldn’t have been the case if Luca hadn’t been with them.

Fucking Farrell Black.

Angel waited until they were behind closed doors in the bedroom of the flat to ask the question he’d known was coming.

“Are you going to kill my father?” she asked, folding her arms over her chest.

He walked to the dresser and removed his cuff links. “That’s not my intention, no.”

“What does that mean, Nico?”

He turned to face her, forcing himself to remain calm. “It means that my intention is to obtain evidence of his part in my parent’s murder and then hand it over to the Syndicate.”

She scowled. “You don’t sound convinced.”

“I’m convinced that is my intention,” he said carefully. “Because it is.”

“Then why did Farrell seem to be saying otherwise?”

The torment in her eyes sliced through his soul, but he hadn’t lied to her yet. He wouldn’t start now. “Because Farrell knows how these things sometimes go down.”

“And how is that?” she asked.

Nico took a deep breath. “These are not good men, Angel. Your father—”

“My father isn’t a good man,” she finished for him. “Isn’t that what you want me to know?”

“No. Not what I want you to know.”

“But what you believe is true.”

He chose his words carefully, not wanting to hurt her. “There are all kinds of men in this business. Some are more… selective than others in choosing their income streams.”

“Income streams?” Her laugh was brittle. “You’re not an investment banker, Nico. You’re a criminal.”

He flinched, then hardened his heart. “I’ve never lied about what I am, Angel.”

She stalked to her suitcase and took off her shoes. “No, you just wrap it all up in a designer bow and hope no one will notice.”

He turned away from her. “You’re not being fair.”

“None of this is fair,” she said.

“No.”

She turned to face him, her face streaked with tears. “I know my father isn’t a perfect man. The evidence is pretty much irrefutable. But he’s my father.”

“I know,” Nico said. “Believe it or not, I understand the bonds of family more than you might think.”

She seemed to consider his words. “Then I guess we’ll just see what happens.”

He started unbuttoning his shirt. “You have my word that I’ll tell you everything. Luca will be there, too, so you can ask him for his version after it all plays out if it makes you feel better.”

She went still. “What are you talking about? I’ll be there with you, Nico.”

“No.”

“No?” She shook her head in disbelief. “You don’t get to tell me no.”

“The hell I don’t,” he said, stripping off his shirt.

“He’s my
father
, Nico.”

“I think we’ve established that. And we’ve also established that this is an extremely dangerous situation. I can’t risk having something happen to you.”

“That’s not your decision to make.”

“You’re entitled to your opinion.”

“It’s not an opinion,” she said. “You may own me in the bedroom, but it’s not a literal interpretation of the word.”

“I’m not taking you with us,” he said simply. “And Luca won’t take you. So you’re not going.”

He walked into the hall and shut the door behind him. The flat was quiet, and he poured himself a drink and opened the doors to the balcony off the living room.

The lights of the city glimmered in the darkness, London’s monuments lit up like trophies to the past. He loved Europe, loved the history of it, but sometimes he was fucking tired of looking behind him. Angel made him want to look to the future, and Carlo Rossi was standing in his way.

He hated telling Angel no, wanted to give her everything she asked for, everything she wanted and more. But this was one thing he couldn’t—wouldn’t—give her. The potential price was too high. Not just death, but the probability of seeing her father at his worst. Of watching Carlo Rossi do what Carlo Rossi did.