CHAPTER TWO
GAGE
M y thoughts are a goddamn cyclone. That sultry warble emanating from the shelter has been a haunting for the entirety of my existence as Gage Porter. Not my first identity. Probably won’t be my last.
I scrub my hands over my face. It sounded like she said, “I know that voice.” No way I imagined that.
Unless the stress of Wells’s interrogation is getting to me. He’s the dad of our group, always intent on keeping us in line, the leader in our past life, and a chair for KORT now, which is the country’s most powerful cabal. And he’s onto me. While I ordinarily own my indiscretions, the fact that I threw three men from the Mafia family I loathe into another Mafia family’s house and burned them all to a crisp, thereby starting a war, might be reason enough for the Chief to kill me.
Ty tromps through the door, slamming it behind him. “What’s up?”
A flustered expression cloaks his features despite his best efforts to school them. He’s a sensitive motherfucker. Been through hell and back, but is finally deliriously happy since putting a ring on his Little Moon’s finger. He always yearns to make the right choice—whatever the hell that means. So, the aura of conflict he’s sporting has my hackles rising.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I glare at him. “You tell me.”
He chuckles, his brows darting for the sky as he shoulders past me. “That’s gonna be tough since you’re the one down here, blathering about the fire.”
That’s valid. Ty was the reason the Morellis were tossed into the house we set ablaze. Partly. I had already tortured and killed them before we obliterated the foot soldiers of a family we were supposed to be aligned with—an oversight or case of mistaken identity. And their own fucking fault. Anyway, we needed to draw the heat away from us. It was a whole two-birds-one-stone solution that we’ve already been reamed for. It makes sense that he’d be spooked about Wells knowing it’s worse.
My feet are rooted to the welcome mat though, refusing to budge. “Wells just asked me if I knew anything about the Morellis being torched with the Balzanos. I hightailed it out of there, claiming I had to piss, so we could get our story straight.”
“C’mon then.” He waves his arm and strolls toward the golf cart. “Let’s get it straight.”
I flick my gaze back to the shelter, and my gut latches on to that echo of the past. From a lifetime ago. When I was Josh Ricci, the fastest-rising foot soldier for the Morelli Mafia. And she was … everything. My whole world.
Deceitful bitch.
So, actually, I gave everything up for her. And she gave me up for everything she really wanted.
Maybe hearing her was a hallucination. That fucking family has been consuming me lately. I’d all but forgotten about my plot for revenge until I saw the Morellis two months ago. Before that, I had found myself in a sweet spot. Content for the first time in years.
The guys and I fell ass-backward into a family we’d never expected to have. They were already like brothers to me, but then Wells married Ivy—a firecracker with more loyalty in her pinkie finger than most have in their whole body. They’re both KORT chairs and created the cutest little princess, Felicity.
And Liam—second-in-command for the Cabrini empire, which is Wells’s domain for KORT—was brought to his knees by Celeste, making him act like a total dipshit until she agreed to be his. My money was on her from the start.
Most recently, Ty—the second-in-command for the O’Reilly camp, the family Ivy heads for KORT—found happiness with his wife, Rena, the heiress to both the Noire and Balzano empires.
So, we have a cozy houseful of corruption and giggles.
“Something’s off,” I venture, studying Ty’s subtle movements as he gears up to respond.
“If Wells is onto us, I’m sure there’s quite a bit off.” He doesn’t flinch, but his attention drops for a millisecond to my hand, which is reaching for the doorknob.
Maybe that’s simply because, other than Ty, no men set foot inside the shelter unless it’s for a security breach. It’s a sanctuary for abuse victims.
“How many women you got in there today?”
“Three,” he answers quickly. Too quickly.
It’s possible I’m about to look like a total psychopath, but coincidences are just a coward’s way of ignoring signs. And right now, there are too many stacking up—Wells knows about the Morellis, Vargas needed him to pick up a girl last month, and that voice.
Any doubt lingering in my mind dissolves as the cool metal glides against my sweat-soaked palm. It’s as though I can smell her. Citrus and coconut. Like a day at the beach.
Right before a tsunami decimates it.
I crack open the door and holler to Celeste, my heart thumping against my sternum. “How many ladies, Celeste?”
“Three today,” she volleys with ease.
Rehearsed or the truth?
“And now?” I press, partly because I’m not a monster. I don’t want to scare any battered women who have been through enough. But I only heard one voice other than the two that belonged to my family.
Celeste parrots my query. “Now?”
She’s stalling. There’s a still beat when I question my sanity, but in the next second, I lock on to Ty’s remorseful brown eyes.
“Don’t, man,” Ty warns in unison with that grating warble from another life. “Maybe I’m going crazy. Can I just see him? I’m—”
Bursting through the door, I quit being a man the instant her face is before me. Even my position as a deadly enforcer would be too mild for the venom coursing through my veins. A turbulent ferocity heats my cells. A fucking animal ready to pounce.
And the growl that lurches from my lungs corroborates that assessment.
She has the audacity—or stupidity—to beam at me. Her feline icy-blue eyes, which are undoubtedly the mark of a devil, bounce.
“Josh?” she breathes as I fly across the room and pin her against the wall without a coherent thought.
Her shoulders and tailbone reap the brunt of the force, but don’t go feeling bad for the little demon. Her brows furrow in disgust before I even open my mouth.
“Josh is fucking dead,” I snarl, digging my fingers into her curved waist while my other fist clamps on to her silky-as-fuck hair. “You should be too, Wicked.”
That nickname was once a flirty term of endearment for a girl who had a spark inside her that could rival most warriors and a beauty that could kill. Turned out to be far more apropos than I could have imagined.
Her eyes—which most find unnerving, soul-searing—rove all over me. Either she’s stricken because her plan for my demise failed or she’s trying to figure out if I resurrected a new physique. I’m not the pansy-ass boy she knew. I’ll end her right here.
Could be three seconds or three hundred, but we stare each other down as Ty and Celeste shout sentiments aimed at defusing the situation. Those fade into white noise.
It’s just me and Wicked. Chests heaving. Breaths panting. Hearts pounding in tandem.
Christ, I’ve waited so long for this. I fucking hate her. For everything she did. But also for all she still is.
Gorgeous. Traitorous. Alive.
She locks her jaw, her pouty lips pressing together like a dragon preparing to blow fire. “I went to your fucking funeral, asshole.”
“Yeah.” I all out guffaw in her face. Some goddamn nerve. “With your husband. I know. I was hoping to attend yours after offing your kinfolk. Thought for sure Balzano’s guys would be coming for you. How fortunate I’ll get to do the honors myself.”
Rage rises to the surface of her high tan cheekbones. Never could back down from a challenge. She grunts like the unstable, self-centered witch she is and slams her fist full force into my bicep.
Mother. Fucker.
“Oh my God,” Celeste gasps, covering her mouth in my peripheral vision.
There happens to be a fork gripped inside Ainsley’s evil palm, so the tines are now firmly stuck in my muscle.
“Jesus, fuck,” Ty scoffs as the intruder alarm blares for three successive beats, sending a warning to security. “Did you just stab him, Leigh?”
Blood trickles down my arm, but my eyes never waver from the hold on hers, and my smile is that of a demented maniac. “Didn’t feel a thing.”
She gauges my response, Arctic-blue daggers prancing all over me. She’s aghast. No longer the one with the upper hand—although she twists hers, burrowing the tines deeper. “You’re a lunatic.”
“Says the bitch who stabbed me with a fork.” I squeeze her hip bone so tight that the blood begins gushing around my wound. “Twisting it too. Like the knife in my fucking back.”
“Yeah, well, I liked you better in the casket, ya goddamn strunz .” She sneers her Italian American slang for asshole in all her rabid lioness glory.
My fist tenses in her hair, wrenching her neck back. “Feel that? One snap, and you’ll be the one buried. You’re mine now. At my fucking mercy.”
“Gage,” Celeste says, more tentative than she traditionally is, “you’re scaring me. Can you let her go so I can clean up your arm and we can figure this out?”
“I’m okay,” I assure her without sparing her a glance. “Nothing to worry about, angel.”
Ainsley issues a barely audible growl as steam spurts from her devil horns, her eyes narrowing at Celeste before planting on me again.
Interesting. Jealous or just a spiteful cunt?
“Too much of a pussy to kill me now?” she jeers with a catlike wheeze. “Some things never change. Still wishing you had the moxie to be one of the Morelli men. Spoiler: you were never enough for them.”
Spiteful cunt it is.
“Those threatening Morelli men.” I chuckle and move my lips to her ear, the scruff from the outskirts of my goatee scraping a burn onto her satiny cheek. “Did you miss the part about me killing them? I ripped them apart limb by limb, Wicked, until they bled out. But I’m not opposed to a reenactment. I prefer to take my time, play with my prey. Promise I’ll make it last until you’re pissing your pants and begging for death, just like they did.”
Ainsley releases her grip on the fork, but not before issuing one last violent thrust, driving it deeper so that the sensation pierces my marrow. I swallow every ounce of pain, refusing to give her the reaction she wants.
Rex—the head of our security team—emerges out of nowhere, hand on his gun. “Take it easy and step back,” he orders, directed at me. No bite to it, but still. He can’t be serious.
I belt out an indignant laugh and draw my pistol in a blink. “I swear to Christ, I’ll shoot anyone who gets too close. This is between us.”
“Fucking hell. Dial back the threats, Big Guy,” Ty howls as Wells comes barreling in.
“Jesus Christ,” he hisses from behind me. “What the hell is in Gage’s arm?”
“Fork,” Celeste supplies.
His footsteps move closer until he’s standing beside Rex with one hand in his pocket and the other yanking on his black hair. “Stand down, Big Guy.”
“Not gonna happen,” I grit out, irritated by the intrusion.
“Now,” he demands, his green eyes both insistent and entreating. “We’re not doing this here.”
“How long, Chief?” I ask, and there’s no concealing the sense of betrayal swarming me.
He drags his hand down his face, well aware of what I’m asking and clearly donning the same conflict Ty was. “A week.”
When I spout a slew of expletives, Wells leers at Ty and Celeste for explanation.
“Things got a little out of hand,” Ty interjects while I return to my prize. “That’s why we pressed the alarm.”
“Sissy-ass move, Tytan,” I snipe, soaking in the traitor in my grips.
And the whole fucking family must be joining us because Liam’s cackle fills the room. “Out of hand? I’ll say. Shit.” He claps, like a moron. “This is gonna be fun.”
Ainsley’s icy blues blow wide before squinting a moment later as she drinks in all the people that are here for me . She’s scared. It didn’t occur to me before, but she’s in the damn shelter. On the run.
My, how the tables have turned.
Rena skips in and plops down at the island near Ty. “Hey, girl,” she trills, unfazed by the scene, her pink-and-blonde ponytail swishing. “I’ve been wanting to meet you, but hubby here is insanely protective. And … well, looks like maybe that aligns.”
“By all means,” Ainsley deadpans, “pull up a chair. Maybe someone can get the Bratz doll some popcorn.”
“Bratz doll?” Rena balks. “So rude, Maleficent .”
Maleficent is fitting—both the villainous connotation and the resemblance to a young Angelina Jolie. By the stifled scoff, it doesn’t appear that Ainsley agrees with the impression though.
“Rena,” Ty admonishes, no doubt envisioning the impending cat fight.
“This is enough,” Ivy asserts as she boldly struts between us. “Put your damn gun away, Gage, and stop manhandling her like that. What the hell is happening? No matter who she is, she’s a woman in our shelter. This isn’t who you are, certainly not the man who loves my daughter like his own.”
The room grows eerily quiet. Wells sticks his other hand in his pocket—a throwing-down-the-gauntlet gesture. Ainsley scrutinizes Ivy and me, puzzled about the culpability marring my face, no doubt. I might be the one with everyone here, but that makes me weaker. Maybe that’s what she’s thinking. Because Ivy is right. In spite of being an enforcer, it would destroy me if Felicity ever saw me as cruel. So, the moral of the story is, I can annihilate Ainsley elsewhere, but it can’t happen here. Not in the pint-sized princess’s sanctuary.
I reholster my gun, release Ainsley’s hair, and take a half step backward, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Taking orders from a tiny ginger now, huh?” she taunts.
Ivy reels on her, finger pointed in her face. “That’s enough out of you too. You stabbed a member of my family. Next time, I’ll shoot you myself.”
Not being the female that everyone bows down to is going to be a tough pill for the Morelli princess to swallow. She’s in Ivy’s house now. Sometimes, the universe has a way of leveling things.
Ainsley grinds her teeth, but the column of her throat works overtime on a laborious swallow—a subtle sign of her distress and fear. She was never great at masking her emotions—a failing for Mafia royalty who are expected to be unaffected and callous—but she knows she’s cornered.
She’s a petite thing, but never appears that way. She holds herself with all the might and confidence of a six-foot-five king. But right now, she seems small. Fragile.
For the briefest beat, I have an unsettling urge to ease her concern, comfort her, assure her that my family would never harm her. They’re not monsters, like her savage bloodline.
She’s probably sick to her stomach with terror—much like I was as a POW. Sweating it out, brutally tortured and barely surviving, praying I’d make it back to my girl, that I wouldn’t sentence her to a life alone, grieving me. Only to escape and find that she had given herself to someone else after she insisted that I go and promised she’d wait for me.
Yeah, fuck that. I’d rather make her suffer.
Scorch. Stack. Salt.
Wells rams into me, pushing me toward the couch like he’s herding cattle so we’re away from the others. “That was a long-ass piss you took, Porter, which answers my question.”
I suppose disappearing when he mentioned the accusations flying between the Morellis and the Balzanos did blow any cover I would have fabricated, but it still seemed wiser to have Ty beside me. No one stays mad at him for long.
Wells and I have a different relationship than he does with the other guys. Ty and Liam were both lost when they came to him, and he became their guide. So, with them, he’s more of a father figure. But I wasn’t adrift until years later. He was simply my superior when we met. A respected leader during our Navy years—a damn good one who kept us fighting when we were beaten, spent, and ready to give up—and part of a means to an end.
It was when we were erased that he became my lifeline, a cherished friend and mentor. He and the guys kept me from spiraling too far when I was on the brink of blowing up the whole goddamn world. That instilled in me another level of veneration for the Chief. Very few stick by you at your lowest. Even fewer invest the time and care to build you back up, regardless of what it costs them. But an element of that lifeline was a promise he made to me. And no matter how much I love and esteem this man, he owes me some answers.
I plant my feet, glowering at him and keeping my frustration hushed. “Yeah, you got me. I did exactly what you already know I fucking did. It was long overdue. Since I had waited years for revenge, per your request. But this?” My gaze drifts to Ainsley, who is now surrounded by Ty, Ivy, and Celeste. “Keeping this from me was far worse.”
“I’m not pissed that you improvised after the Balzano fuckup. I would have wanted you to do whatever was necessary to save Ty’s ass. And I don’t give a shit that you exercised some justice. I’m pissed that you didn’t tell me,” he quietly spits out, and I’m hit with a wave of guilt. “That’s not how we do things. I’m always on your side. I could have gotten out in front of it.” He squares his shoulders to me, hurling his hand in the air. “And I wasn’t keeping this from you. I’ve been trying to sort through the details before I got you involved. Trying to protect our family.”
“Details?” My temples are throbbing, along with my bicep and the rest of my arm. But I’ll be damned if I admit that to a soul.
“Sit,” he orders, waving Liam over to issue him another demand. “Get a first aid kit and tell Rex we’re good. No one else comes in.”
At least he’s not attempting to corral me back to the house. But taking a seat feels like defeat since Wicked is still standing, so I dig my heels in.
“Do you want the details or not?” He quirks a brow.
Fucker.
“I can hear fine on my feet, Chief .”
He diverts his vexed gaze and plucks a Tootsie Pop out of his pocket, generally reserved for moments when he refrains from biting someone’s head off, chomping it instead.
His explanation is hardly above a whisper as he unwraps his treat. “She won’t talk. It’s a damn mess. And KORT is asking why the Balzanos are at war with two families we want nothing to do with. Since it isn’t out that Balzano is dead and Axel took the seat, there is speculation from those groups that the Balzano family is acting on behalf of KORT.”
Well, shit. I didn’t see that coming.
I rub my fingers over my goatee, digesting that as Ainsley’s snark catches my attention.
“I’m calling Vargas,” she announces, waving her burner like a threat. “He promised me safety, and that’s obviously not here.”
“The fuck you are,” I scorn at the same time Wells responds with a simple, “No,” and a censuring leer back at me.
It all pisses me the hell off, so when Liam returns with the first aid supplies, I rip the fork out of my flesh, blood squirting from it like a geyser, which provokes groans of exasperation from my family and a haughty giggle from the demon with icicles for eyes.
“You’re staying here,” Ivy informs her while Liam, Ty, and Celeste bustle about, cleaning up the crime scene. But then she pins me with that bossy sternness she wields. “She isn’t wrong. Vargas sent her to us, so if something happens to her, it compromises all of Ty’s work with the shelter.”
Again, I’m brought back to the fact that Ainsley needs protection. Because of the war between the Mafia families? That doesn’t make any sense. If that were the case, her family would’ve stashed her somewhere. And Vargas could have protected her himself.
“What’s our wicked guest running from anyway?” I ask while Liam disinfects my wound. “And why couldn’t Vargas handle it?”
She averts her eyes, almost as if she’s ashamed. And I’m struck with one of those baffling twinges of compassion for the most duplicitous, evil woman I know, wondering if someone hurt her. What the fuck is wrong with me? I either need to torture her or get her the hell out of here.
“Glines is dead,” Wells provides.
Glines? That has a thousand thoughts racing through my head, but the first one is centered on why an FBI agent’s death has anything to do with her.
“You’re a goddamn snitch?” I surmise, to which she stays silent.
There’s a long pause and a heavy exhale from Wells before he fills in the rest. “She killed the Morelli Mafia Don and his primary administration.”
“The fuck?” I holler, and she holds her head higher. Evil doesn’t cut it. “Jesus, I knew you were disloyal to me. But I had a modicum of respect for you at least being a devoted daughter. You turned on your family and killed your father?”
“Why the hell would you care?” she snaps. “You went off and got yourself a better life anyway. Lost your hair. Inked your skin. Built yourself into a Vin Diesel clone. Found a bunch of couples to bunk with. You know, the American fucking dream.”
“Ooh.” Ivy beams, abandoning her big-boss hat. “I thought there was a Vin Diesel resemblance when I met him too.”
“I’m a hell of a lot bigger than Vin Diesel ever was.” I grunt, annoyed about the detour but too offended to ignore it. “Better-looking too. More like The fucking Rock.”
“To be fair”—Ivy bobs her head in concession—“I actually thought you looked like you’d eaten Vin Diesel and assumed his identity. So, yeah, bigger.”
That sounds about right. Ivy’s thoughts are always colorful.
Rena must be in time-out, probably because Ty doesn’t want her near someone with a tendency for violence. She’s been at the island with a scowl on her face since the Bratz-doll banter, but she bursts into a cackle, clapping her hands. “That’s so good. But you’re way foxier than Vin Diesel. Hotter than The Rock too, Big Guy. But he’s definitely closer.”
And as the girls have a way of doing, the mood is immediately lighter. Everyone joins in on the laughter. Even Ainsley’s lips are twitching, which only further infuriates me. She doesn’t deserve any piece of this. To waltz in here and enjoy them.
I’m about to say to hell with it and tell Wells to throw her ass back to Vargas, like she wants, when something he said pummels me.
“You said the Balzanos were at war with two Mafia families.” I pat down the bandage Liam slapped on me and fling my question at Wells. “Who else? We only threw the Morellis in that house with the Balzanos.”
He shakes his head, popping his sucker out of his mouth. “It wasn’t you. It was her.”
He takes her in for a minute, the slightest hint of either compassion or pity lining his features. She seethes in return. It’s a cover though. Her icicle irises are melting, glossy with a plea. But he twists back to me.
“It’s the Vittori family. She killed her husband too.”
That’s right. She’s technically Ainsley Morelli-Vittori now. Not that I’ll ever dignify the additional last name.
And she killed Nick? I guess he would’ve been part of the administration, but …
Jesus, that fucks with my head. It’s not like the ire has dissipated. But as my eyes glue to hers, she looks small again. Terrified. What the hell happened? And why do I even care? It shouldn’t matter who she killed, who she’s hiding from, or whether or not she’s single.
None of it should matter. She needs to leave.