The Marriage Merger (12 page)

Until Julietta came on the scene.

He liked control. Needed it at all times in order to ne-gotiate his life now. But for just a moment, he almost lost it, unbuckled his pants, and slid into her wet heat without a thought. And that, as he learned, was dangerous. How many years had it taken him to finally curb the violence and anger? The frustration of being dependent on people whose only goal was to let him down? only two people in his world ever gave him a glimpse of something more.

Jerry White.

And Mama Conte.

The familiar twinge in his gut drove him to his feet and toward the back of his office. Toward the hidden door behind the mass of bookcases where a slice of peace and sanity were close enough to yank him from the abyss.

Fuck, he hated such weakness.

Sawyer stepped into the room. He took in the surround-ings made for physical torture—soundproof so no grunts of pain were ever heard. The mats were thick beneath his feet, and the various instruments were there for one single purpose.

Sweat.

He toed off his shoes, stripped off his clothes, and changed into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. He tied his hair back with a rubber band, shoved his feet into the sneakers, and donned the gloves. He started with the bag first, warm-ing up with some jabs and letting his brain empty out into his body, ready to ease out the poison.

one. Two. Three.

The memory flickered.

“You’re a fucking pussy, you know that.” It was Christmas
Eve, but there was no tree, no lights, and no warmth in the
hellhole. His foster father drank from a rapidly declining
bottle of Clan MacGregor and the smell drifted sickly sweet
and sharp to his nostrils, making him gag. He kept quiet,
knowing the trick of the game was to say as little as possible.

He was chained to a chair in the dirty kitchen. The cheap
yellow linoleum held an array of scratches and stains. He
let his mind go and focused on the tiny circle by the broken
chair leg. Round and round his gaze followed the pattern
and his mind began to drift. The other kids were asleep in
the basement. He’d locked the door behind him so Asshole
couldn’t get in, knowing the holidays were one of his favorite
times to play. It was easier to piss him off and get him to go
after him than sacrificing the rest of the crew for a group
party.

Unfortunately, it worked better than he planned.

Sawyer tamped down the trickle of panic. His feet were
still free, and the more Scotch that disappeared, the worse
Asshole’s reflexes. No problem.

The burning sting of the cigarette pressed into his fore-arm made him jerk, but he kept his gaze down, on the circle,
round and round.

The laugh was pure mean. “You like to play the hero,
don’t you, boy? Always thought you were better than us. Time
to teach you some life lessons and take you down a peg.”

He ignored the taunts. The first punch cracked him hard
and he knew it would be a long night. . . .

Sawyer moved, ducked an imaginary opponent, and slammed his fists over and over into the bag. Lightning swift, he fought the memories gouged in his head until the sweat poured off his skin and a sliver of light shone from the grunge of his past.

oh, Asshole had made him pay that Christmas eve.

The broken rib was taped up later, and the burns left scars he didn’t give a crap about. What he gained that night was more important.

Hope.

He was growing bigger and more dangerous. of course, if he didn’t take it, the younger ones suffered, and he’d rather have physical bruises than an ache in his gut that’d eat him alive. No, it was easier to take the punches, but time was running out. He’d be free in nine months, five days, and four hours. eighteen years old meant freedom. escape.

Maybe he’d be able to go to social services then about the others. Maybe . . .

The raw fury choked him, so he punched harder, kicked higher, and fell to the brutality of the streets, where winning was so much more than a competition: It was a matter of survival. So stupid to think he’d be able to outrun his past.

The last shred of innocence ripped from his soul when the knowledge he’d failed almost killed him. Almost. Instead, he accepted that he’d killed his foster brother Danny out of his own greedy need to escape. Forced the acceptance into the dark closet and locked the door. Then decided to live.

“Sawyer?”

He spun around and crouched, still only half in the present. Breathing hard, he recognized Wolfe standing by the doorway. The kid was rarely surprised by anything, but it seemed discovering Sawyer knocking the shit out of the bag in his private chamber threw him off. Sawyer straightened and walked to the bar. “How’d you get in here?”

The kid thrust out his chin. “Door wasn’t completely closed. Found a weird notch in the bookcase, so I checked it out. I wasn’t spying.”

“I know.” He guzzled a half bottle of cold water, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “This is private space—no one else knows about it.”

A strange expression crossed the kid’s face. Hurt?

“Like I give a crap. I won’t gossip at the next tea party. Just wanted to tell you I’m heading over to La Dolce Famiglia for a few hours before dinner.” He turned halfway. “What is this anyway? your secret Batcave?”

Sawyer swallowed a laugh and grabbed a towel. “Kind of. you work out?”

Wolfe studied the walls of free weights, punching bags, and bars around the room. A bad-ass sound system was wired to an array of hard metal that Sawyer loved. A flash lit those blue eyes, almost like longing. “Nah, not into it.”

Sawyer wiped off his forehead and studied the boy.

He’d been with him almost eight months now and still knew relatively little about his past. of course, he knew enough.

The abuse was evident, like a beaten dog that cowers at loud noises and growls to warn off strangers. Wolfe’s tattoos, shaved head, and piercings showed he searched for his own sliver of peace and probably hadn’t found it yet.

Sawyer only meant to give him an opportunity in the business world and get him off the streets. Instead, he became his mentor, dragged him to Italy, and put him in charge of his biggest operation. He even lived with him, for God’s sake.

The memory flashed before his vision and played out in slow motion.

He’d been staying at the Waldorf hotel in Manhattan—
an elegant queen set amidst the class of Park Avenue in
midtown. The exquisite richness of service and class New
Yorkers demanded from a top-class hotel was achieved
with marble floors, antique furniture, rich tapestries, and
golden, dripping crystal chandeliers. He’d been consult-ing on a project and was walking down the hallway to his
next meeting. An employee passed by with his head down,
and though he was distracted, Sawyer immediately realized
when his wallet was lifted from his suit pocket.

Quick as a snake, he reached out and grabbed the man’s
hand. Someone else probably wouldn’t have noticed—the
guy was good—but living on the streets had given Sawyer an
edge most didn’t own. The quick indrawn breath and frantic
tug made Sawyer squeeze harder, until a pair of blazing blue
eyes lifted and locked on his.

A kid. Maybe eighteen—dressed in the hotel uniform.

Before he had a moment to process the information, the kid
shoved him hard and he fell back. The kid raced toward the
end of the hall with his prize. And slammed right into one of
the hotel managers.

The next few hours blurred as they discovered he’d been
living in the janitorial quarters, stealing uniforms, and basi-cally living off the guests. Taking food from the room service
trays. Washing in various bathrooms around the hotel. As the
story came full blown, the memories of his own childhood
choked him mercilessly. Trying to find a safe place to sleep
and knowing the shelters were the most dangerous places to
hole up. Finally getting smart enough to target one of the
big hotels and learning the ins and outs of the system. My
God, if Jerry had never taken him under his protection, he’d
be in jail, too. And now, years later, he looked upon another
teen in the same position. He’d be endless trouble and a huge
complication Sawyer didn’t need. Better to walk away from
the whole mess and not look back. He’d get the hotel to drop
the charges and make the whole thing go away. Then wish
him luck.

Instead, he made a bargain. Got the charges dropped.

Then offered the kid a job where he could keep an eye on
him.

Sawyer never thought it would work. After all, this kid
was surly as hell and full of scars. He was a minefield ready
to explode or implode. He traced the paperwork to a boy
named Vincent Soldano who had been linked to numerous
foster homes and a list of complaints. At eighteen, he was
now on his own with nowhere to go. Sawyer got him a room
at the hotel he stayed in and offered to train him as his assistant. Hell, he figured the kid could at least learn to file, copy
things, and be a general errand boy. With his full black hair,
blue eyes, and classic features, he’d polish up nice in a suit
and tie.

Sawyer shook his head at the memory.

Oh, yeah, he remembered that polite conversation all
right. Vincent had nodded and told him he’d give him his answer in twenty-four hours. When he returned the next day, he
had a gold ring piercing in his brow, a snake tattoo around his
neck, and he had shaved off half of his hair. He confronted
Sawyer with a snarl and a comment that changed Sawyer
forever. “This is what you’re really getting. I’m fucked up
now inside and outside. Do you still want me now?”

Sawyer realized it was both a challenge and a plea. His
gut lurched as he glanced at the kid’s freakish appearance
and admired his stubborn spirit.. “You can never touch drugs
or I throw you out. And no stealing. That’s nonnegotiable.”

“I’m not a user. And I won’t steal from you.”

The truth gleamed in those blue eyes. And Sawyer gave
him his answer. “Yes, I still want you. We need to buy you
some clothes. You start tomorrow.”

Sawyer figured he’d get him on his feet and the kid would move on. eight months later, they were still together, with a fucked-up relationship both of them were afraid to probe.

He had tried setting him up with a shrink, but the kid almost bailed on him, so Sawyer decided just to keep him close and see what happened. Looking at his homemade gym, he realized he might be able to show Wolfe another way of slaying the monsters. He chugged the rest of his water and slammed it back on the bar. “Come with me; I need a spotter.”

The gold bar in Wolfe’s eyebrow caught the light as he arched it. “No, thanks.”

“Don’t think you can pull your own weight?”

His lips twisted in a snarl. “I could take you any time, old man.”

Sawyer grinned and tossed him a pair of shorts and a tank. “Prove it. you may wear some pretty jewelry, but I don’t think you can lift.”

His taunt worked. The kid disappeared to change, then trudged to the bench press. Sawyer noticed he didn’t wear the tank, but had replaced it with a long-sleeved tee that covered his arms. Wolfe loaded on the weight, lay back on the bench, and put his gloved hands elbow width apart.

“Count it down.”

He did a full set, rested, then did another. They switched on and off, while the sounds of classic Guns N’ roses blared around them and drowned out any attempt at conversation.

They worked the circuit together, pushing, pulling, grunt-ing, and sweating, until Sawyer’s mind was clear and his body exhausted. He threw Wolfe a bottle of water, and they guzzled it down with sheer greed. “you did good,” Sawyer said. “Those skinny arms surprised me.”

Unbelievably, the kid half smiled. Sawyer realized he’d rarely, if ever, seen any type of emotion cross Wolfe’s face.

especially a hint of laughter or happiness. Sawyer’s heart did a weird little flip that almost embarrassed him. “I’m surprised a man your age can still box.”

Sawyer snorted. “I studied boxing for years. It’s more than just punching a lousy bag. It’s about balance, flexibility, controlled power.” He remembered sparring in that hole of a gym. He did the shittiest jobs so the men would keep him around. Cleaning bathrooms, washing disgusting towels, taking punches as a sparring partner, all in the hope of a few hours of staying in a place that made him feel safe.

Practicing for hours in order to make sure he survived on the streets. “I’ll teach you.”

The kid’s head swung around. Suspicion gleamed from his eyes. “Why?”

Because he needed something to help him empty out the pain. Because he had to start living and stop just existing. Because Sawyer didn’t know what else to do to reach him.

He shrugged. “Because I get bored by myself. I’m here by five a.m., then I go back to shower and change for work.”

“Five fucking a.m.?”

“you like your beauty sleep, huh? No wonder you’re a bit soft.”

The snarl was back, but this time it came with a spark.

“you wish. Fine. I’ll join you, but just because you need a challenge, old man.”

Sawyer grinned and tamped down the impulse to squeeze the boy’s shoulder. He’d learned a few months ago touching was off-limits to the kid. “Welcome to the Jungle”

pounded through the room. Sawyer threw the bottle across the room and made a perfect dunk shot into the garbage.

“Let’s get back to work.”

They left the gym together.

Julietta stared out the window and looked at the gray, misty scene before her. Motorbikes whipped in and out of the roadways and fought with the crowds. Almost lunch-time. Many people held cups of cappuccino in hand, smok-ing furiously and ducking their heads from the drizzle of rain. The Duomo rose in the distance, and for a moment, she wished she were one of her younger sisters. Venezia would bound toward the elaborate shopping galleries and get lost in Prada, Armani, and Dolce & Gabbana. Carina would take a stroll on the uneven pavements, nibbling on a buttery pastry and enjoying the scene before her, rain and all.