CHAPTER THREE
AINSLEY
I t’s been a horrible day. Sister Mary Helen was infuriated by something I’d said. That’s nothing new. She’s the one soul at Sacred Heart Academy who isn’t afraid of me or my family, so irate with Ainsley is basically her whole personality. I kind of love her for it. She’s a badass, but got super pissed when I told her that. Fierce yet still a stick in the mud.
None of it really matters. It’s senior year, and my father owns the school and the town. Graduation is in the bag. All I have to do is play the dutiful-daughter role and skate through the next four months. Of course, then I’ll be forced to marry someone, likely by the time I’m twenty-one. Someone who will assume an administration position for my father and build a legacy with me in our wing of my parents’ multigenerational home.
Having no sons is my father’s greatest regret. So, he’ll certainly milk the daughter angle for everything it’s worth. My bet is on Nicholas Vittori—the youngest son of our rival Mafia, who is more controllable than the older two brothers and would be thrilled to edge them out. The Vittoris don’t hold the same power as us, but they do have a foothold in some appealing industries. If Nick is folded into our family, my father will own them. It could be worse, and there’s no arguing with him anyway. I’ll make it work.
That isn’t now though. Since I got booted from class, I’m walking home alone. Kind of. George—my driver and personal attendant—is following behind me because I refused to get into the limo. It’s thirty-nine degrees and gray, and I’m smack-dab in the middle of snooty suburbia. Manicured lawns, strung-out housewives, and basement bookies—all signs of the Morelli dictatorship. But I’m bundled up and free. Sacrificing warmth affords a fruitful payoff.
“Need a ride?”
The deep timbre startles me, but I don’t let on. That’s a founding principle for the Morelli clan—never show fear or surprise. Confidence wins ninety percent of battles before they’re even fought.
This guy is cute—thick, dark brown hair, a lean build, and a beautiful bronze complexion. Must not be threatening or George—and the security detail with him—would be honking. And shooting. Neatly trimmed hedges dressed in crimson would be a travesty.
I throw my thumb over my shoulder, alerting him to my transportation option that is hard to miss. “Nope. I declined that one already.”
“I’ll walk with you for a minute,” he says, hands in his jeans pockets and black leather jacket fitted on his athletic frame. “My bike is parked up here.”
“Motorcycle?” I ask, adjusting the strap on my backpack, and when he nods, I tack on, “Who rides a motorcycle in this weather?”
“I do.” He grins. It’s crooked and cocky, and it does something strange to my insides.
That’s when it hits me—the smile. He knows who I am, and I’m aware of who he is. So aware that I should walk the other way. This guy—Josh Ricci—started working for my father a few years ago, when his heroin addict of a mother sold him to my father to pay off her debts. He was fifteen—nineteen now, I think. It’s not something I’m supposed to know. George spilled the story to me when we saw Josh at a festival last fall. For some reason, it stuck in my mind.
But neither of us puts it out there. Nothing good can come from acknowledging either of our identities. And yet I’d do anything to make this interaction last a little longer. He’s the hottest guy I’ve ever seen, and it’s a rare day that anything—or anyone—impresses me.
“Well, a motorcycle this time of year is kind of dumb.” I huff. Holding my tongue isn’t really my thing. “You’ll be chilled to the bone. Were you being kind by offering me a ride or hoping to get off on torturing me?”
He barks out a chuckle, dragging his hand across his smirking lips as our strides sync up. “I’ll decline to answer that. For now.”
As I play my words back in my mind, I realize the innuendos in there. Embarrassing. My heart gallops in a violent stampede over my lungs and rib cage, and my cheeks are aflame, but his reaction is worth the mortification. That teasing smirk bolsters me with confidence I never possess in this arena.
“Probably for the best.” I giggle—so nauseatingly girlie. Who knew I could even make that sound? “But I guess it could be one and the same under the right circumstances. Sometimes, pain is pleasure.”
That is the most brazen flirting I’ve ever done, but years of lurking in the foreground of filthy-mouthed guards shouldn’t be put to waste. It’s the only experience I have, but it’s something.
He tilts his head and clears his throat, evidently surprised by my forwardness. So, I pin my lips and count the cracks in the sidewalk.
Searching for a segue, he attempts small talk. “If you don’t like motorcycle rides in the cold, what are your hobbies this time of year?”
Hobbies? Puzzles, Bingo, hanging out with senior citizens. Maybe I shouldn’t lead with that.
I’m so out of my element and probably horrendously awkward at whatever this is. My attempt at flirting clearly crashed and burned, so I give it to him straight. “Nice of you to ask, but I guarantee we have nothing in common.”
“I doubt that,” he contends. “What about that movie Breakfast at Tiffany’s ?”
Scrunching my lips to the side, I can’t hide my surprise at how specific that is, and I do like classic films, but it’s still a no. “Sorry to disappoint. I’ve never seen it.”
He smiles big and bright, the sexiest crinkles forming around his mischievous eyes. “Me neither. So, we’ve got that.”
I laugh, realizing he’s referring to that ’90s song about the film being the one thing they’ve got in common. This is the opposite, but … warmth rushes my skin. He’s funny.
Throwing my hand into the air, I surrender. “Bonding over a movie we both haven’t seen. I don’t even know how to argue with that.”
Seizing the opportunity of my arm being extended, he swipes my backpack off my shoulder without a word, which is so gentlemanly, but I don’t like being seen as fragile.
“Thank you,” I say, not knowing what to do with my hands, which has me fidgeting. “That’s considerate, but I don’t need you to carry it. If it was too much for me or if I was tired of lugging it around, I’d throw it in the car.”
He drones a disgruntled sigh, but stares straight ahead. “That’s got nothing to do with it. I shudder to think what kind of sorry-ass guys you’ve been around, but the ones worth your time don’t carry your bag because they think you can’t.”
He pauses, side-eyeing me and clearly waiting for my full attention to finish.
So, I play along. “No? Enlighten me then.”
While we maintain our pace, his hypnotic ambers lock on to me. They have an orangish hue when the overcast sunlight hits them just right. Mesmerizing. “I guess I can’t speak for other guys, but I’m aware that even strong people need taken care of, and I’d like to …” As if that partial admission overwhelms him as much as it does me, he trails off for a few beats before continuing, “I’d prefer you save your strength for other things.”
Other things?
Lord, have mercy. Is it hot out? I’m so thirsty. And clammy. Feverish maybe.
A boastful smile blasts across his face, likely because my tan skin tone suddenly transformed to pink—a supernatural feat. That’s what I get for my pain is pleasure comment.
We cover the next ten cracks in the sidewalk in silence, proving that we truly don’t have anything to build on, other than this unseasonable heat. But I’m content just to have him near me, so I pray he doesn’t take off yet. And he finally breaks our quietude.
“You’ve got a wicked little temper.”
He doesn’t expand on that, but it’s not a shocking statement even though it came out of nowhere. More proof he knows who he’s strolling with. Every time I get escorted out of class, someone films it for the entire town to gawk at.
“Yeah. So I’ve been told.” I roll my eyes, suddenly irked by the interaction.
Why did I assume this would be any different? It’s all anyone ever sees. That I’m a Morelli, bullheaded, and I have eyes that are off-putting. I hate being someone people talk about, assuming they know me. I didn’t ask for any of this, not the position or the presumptions.
“It’s your best attribute,” he adds, and when that quite literally stops me in my tracks, he winks. It isn’t creepy, like when some guys do it.
Despite how ridiculous his statement is, there’s a sweetness about him. I mean, he’s an arrogant fuckboy, like so many. And based on his past and the fact that he works for my father, he’s certainly witnessed and done things that are far from sweet. But he’s more.
Or maybe I just hope he’s more, that all these tiny things he’s doing in this brief snippet add up to be one perfect package. Not that it would do me any good. The better he is, the less willing I should be to talk to him. It will only get him killed.
But not right now.
“Said no one ever.” I belt out a laugh, my feet still rooted to the sidewalk as my limo cruises up beside us. I offer a subtle I’m-good headshake to ward off the dogs, but Josh never tears his focus from me.
“I just did,” he rasps, drinking me in. A searing perusal that makes me feel naked. Or want to be naked.
“Right.” My breath hitches in my throat. I’ve never had butterflies that weren’t the result of a roller coaster before, but … “Except you—the boy with the amber eyes—who doesn’t know my attributes well enough to determine which one is best.”
He leans in—so close that his spicy cologne envelops me as he bends to speak into my ear—and his hand boldly glides over the small of my back, the heat of it surging through me. “I know strength when I see it, no matter who it belongs to. And you’re a force. Not because of your last name. Despite it.”
Despite it? I like that. Because the Morelli name is a mixed bag, one I’m cinched inside. Or suffocated by. I like that he said it even more because I didn’t tell him that. He just knew.
And it’s an audacious statement to make. One my father would have his head for. How does he know I won’t?
Lifting my chin, I let my gaze dance all over his smooth, pretty-boy face. “Seems risky to make that observation to someone with an unhinged temper and a threatening last name.”
“Maybe,” he concedes. He licks his lips and glances around before returning to me. “But that’s not all I see, so I’ll take my chances. See ya later, Wicked.”
Wicked? He nicknamed me because of my strength. God, I like that way too much.
“Later,” I mutter as he passes me my bag and struts away, my heart sinking.
My destiny has never bothered me until this moment, but this is the first time I’ve ever wanted someone to stay.
The loss is so disarming that I’m stuck, gripping the strap of my backpack as though it were a security blanket and staring at him like a drooling idiot. It would be a devastating sight for Fulvio Morelli—my father. Thank God my guards are excellent secret keepers.
When Josh is halfway down the block, he turns back and smiles as he rakes his gaze over me once more. “You never asked my name.”
I’m not sure if he’s worried that I know who he is, if he hopes I do, or if he’s saddened that I don’t want to, so I mull over the best way to phrase it. Because while offering too much would be a tease since nothing can ever happen, I want to acknowledge that this brief encounter meant something even though it shouldn’t.
“I don’t need it. No matter what your name is, you’ll always be the boy with amber eyes.” I choose not to extend my final thought— the one who saw me clearly.
The memory nearly chokes me. He’s got a new name. New look. But I was so wrong. Those cold amber eyes aren’t the ones that saw me clearly. And certainly not the smoldering embers that belonged to the man I loved.
Josh is still dead.
I thought I had felt betrayed by my family, but this is worse. I’ve been grieving a man for eight years—blaming myself for his death—when all this time, he was living a happy, new life. Even the years before he died were agony. Separated. Stuck. Sentenced. And for what? So he could fake his own death and leave me? How did he even manage it? I guess if his best friends are erasers, the answer is, easily .
I should have seen it coming. He always wanted to run.
And he cost me everything, which was fine when it was because I was avenging us . But this … it’s too much.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” He scrubs his hands over his face before parking his glower on me, and I’m baffled as to what those ambers hold right now.
Disappointment? Disgust? Hatred?
“You killed Nick and your father? I’m at a goddamn loss.” He hurls his hand through the air, dismissing me like trash. “Get her the hell out of here. She won’t survive the week, and I don’t want this shit around our family.”
The lump in my throat is nothing short of oppressive, and my nose burns with the need to release a sob, but we don’t show fear or surprise. Or sadness for that matter. Even if I am a deserted Morelli now.
There’s no point in fighting with him either. Some of his anger is justified. Not all of it. And I have a heaping mound of my own to contend with, but this is the final fucking straw. I’m done.
Even my memories are false. Utterly abandoned. Then and now.
My heart stutters erratically in my chest like it’s forgotten how to maintain the rhythm of life or it’s simply rebelling, considering double-crossing me, like everyone else. I take a beat to center my breathing, deliberating on how I want to handle this. That’s when I catch the curious scowl of the Bratz doll. Guilt and rationalization war within me for how disparaging I was. She belongs to Ty, and I like Ty. Plus, I’m never cruel, not in a mean-girl way. I hate mean girls. Cowards. But if I hear Josh— Gage —refer to one of them as angel again, like he did Celeste, stabbing will be the least of their worries.
“I don’t owe you a fucking explanation,” I snipe, waving an over-it hand at him. “You said it. The man I knew is dead. You’re nothing but a no-name beefhead with roid rage.”
Okay, so I’m not nailing the not-a-mean-girl role. But I’m flying blind here. Even in my wildest nightmare, I couldn’t have fathomed him rising from the dead with a fury to kill me. Hurt? Sure. Murderous seems a tad much.
For that half a second earlier, when I realized that the voice did indeed belong to him, I didn’t think about everything that would be between us. I just felt happy. An emotion I hadn’t experienced in eleven years, which includes the three and a half years he served in the Navy before he died .
Fleeting ticks of rapture, obliterated by his pronouncement.
Josh is dead.
Every muscle and vein in his face and head, neck and corded forearms pulsates as he glares at Wells and growls like a beast. “She might have a week out there, but she won’t last an hour around me. Get her the fuck out, or I’ll end her myself.”
“It’s not that simple,” Wells rebuffs. “Which you’re aware of.”
God only knows what that means. What the hell does this guy want with me?
You’re either the hunter or the hunted. The lion or the lamb.
“Trust me when I say, I’m gonna make it very simple.” Gage pauses, his cutting timbre slicing through me, just as he intended. “And it won’t be me in the fucking ground this time.”
Ivy—the five-foot-three-ish redhead—thrusts herself in front of me, as if she’s capable of being my shield.
Yeah, okay. I might only be a couple of inches taller, but her innocence makes her useless. The Bratz doll would be better backup. She’s clearly unhinged. Not because of the piercings or the pink hair. There’s a wildness to her. Fearless. But I guess it’s nice someone is invested in me still breathing. And Ivy is snarky, which I respect.
“What did I just say?” she chastises. “This isn’t who you are, Gage—not to us, not to me.”
To her?
He hangs his head, hands on his hips as a ragged exhale puffs out of him. But then his head snaps up, and he smiles.
At her.
And it doesn’t matter that his biceps and neck and thighs are all three times the size they were. Or that he’s bald and tatted. More than a decade older. Angry and bitter. That smile was mine. I hate him with every cell of my makeup.
That was the most effective way to stab me in return. Not my finest moment, but I’d do it again. He’s lucky that fork didn’t spear his balls.
“You’re right, Ives. You, Felicity”—he peers around at the others—“you’re my family, what’s important. I just need a breather.”
So much about that knocks the wind out of me. My knees nearly give out. Ives? His family? I am so fucking confused as to what’s going on here. This group looks like they’re coupled off and yet also intimately connected with the others. And there isn’t anyone who is clearly his. If he’s involved in some polyamorous shit, I’m going to lose it. Another minute here, and I’ll be jumping out of my skin.
Ivy seemingly senses this, spinning to scrutinize me as Gage tromps toward the door. “I won’t take the phone from you, Leigh, but it’s important that you don’t call Vargas.”
I’m far more aware of that than she could imagine. Vargas will be lucky if he keeps himself alive. Calling him would be like a smoke signal to the foot soldiers who won’t stop until I’m dead. But I don’t admit to any of that.
“I think we’re all aware my name isn’t Leigh,” I snap, grimacing at her and then the rest of them—one by one.
There’s a tall blond in the back who appears to be Celeste’s guy. He’s the only one I haven’t met. He was amused when he swaggered in here, but now his expression is full of condemnation, despite the mixed emotions Celeste seems to be sporting. And Ty.
Even with the few sympathizers, there is no sense in pretending this shelter is where I belong.
“A safe house is ineffective when the people harboring you believe half-truths,” I announce with as much strength as I can muster. “So I’ll make my own decisions on how to proceed and be out of your way by morning.”
I’ve survived this long. I’ll find my way.
With that, I saunter toward the hall that leads to the bedrooms, but Gage’s low rumble has the tiny hairs on the back of my neck standing up.
“Half-truths?” he barks, so I keep on moving.
The pounding of his footsteps, his huffing breaths, and the chiding remarks and demands of his family chase after me, but I refuse to bolt, to show any sign of fragility.
Unfortunately, that leads to him coming right up on me. “You didn’t kill Nick and your father?”
There’s a bite to his inquiry, and perhaps it’s wishful thinking from a past life weaving through my mind, but I swear there’s also hope. So, I whirl around and flick my gaze to his.
To the boy with amber eyes.
The moment freezes, immersing me in a chill of all that’s lost, which only enhances the remembrance of his warmth. And a symphony of our panting breaths and broken story swirls around me like a dust fleck that can be spotted but never caught.
“I did,” I confess with arched brows that show no remorse. “I shot Marco and Sonny too.”
If I could have a do-over, I would riddle their bodies with bullets.
Family means sacrifice.
The muscle in his jaw pulses as he crowds me against the wall. We’re at the tip of the hallway, which is narrow. Close and partly concealed from the others. The rest of the room is so silent that I can hear them breathing.
“Why?” he roars.
There’s a split second when I want to let it all go, tell him everything, be forgiven. When I wonder if he’d embrace me if he knew what I’d been through. But this isn’t Josh. This man doesn’t trust me, see me, love me. I won’t relive my nightmare with him.
“I had my reasons,” I say simply. Once upon a time, that would have been enough.
He was my safe place. A sanctuary.
“Fucking rich,” he sneers, slapping his hand on the wall above my head and looming over me so his rigid body grazes mine. He smells like coffee and caramel, gunpowder and suspicion.
A mystifying mix of bitter and sweet. Ruination and power.
Like a late-night war room.
Even the Black Rifle Coffee T-shirt clinging to his bulging muscles, which has a red, white, and blue assault rifle on it, screams that he’s battle ready. That and the sleeves and neck tattoos conveying a general warrior theme. Or a deranged madman.
It’s ironic that he’s the one who rose from the grave, but I’m under interrogation.
“Yeah, you might know something about that,” I quip. “Reasons for killing or pretending to die.”
“Don’t you fucking dare.” His glare grows colder, but there’s a glimpse of pain in it, the warning bell that he’s about to bash me. “Let’s not pussyfoot around things, Wicked. You want to plead your case, start with the facts. Let everyone hear your answers about who you were long before you shot your flesh and blood. And the man you chose .”
Choice is a loose concept. But I don’t say anything because I know what’s coming. The deserved wrath. Although what I did wasn’t without reason. Still, we’re in the age of cancel culture, and he’s already settled on a verdict. Never mind the intent. I’m willing to bet he rationalizes acts far less justifiable. Regardless, I’ll let him berate me in front of his groupies and then move on. That can be my gift to the man I gave up everything for. I’ve survived worse.
Another sacrifice.
He glances away, but then those gleaming eyes bore into mine, his delivery eerily calm. “Did you insist that I do whatever your father told me, even join the Navy, which meant we’d be separated for years?”
Starting with the basics. This should be fun.
“Yes,” I reply with ease, my features schooled to indifference.
“Did you tell me that was the only way you could be with me, that if I loved you, I’d go?” His chest heaves through his words.
Mine too—just anticipating the questions is dredging up the anguish he’s yet to serve.
“Yes.” I nod, fighting the tears.
He grinds his teeth, leaning further into me because he’s dangerously close to what he really wants to rage about. “Did you send me a letter, stating that you had to stop writing, but you promised— promised —you’d be waiting for me?”
“Yes.” I believed it.
And here it comes.
“Did you marry another man?” He halts there briefly, another growl leaping from his lungs, and when he continues, his volume rises, the bass in his tenor huskier. “Play house with another man? Get fucked repeatedly by another man while I was being tortured by terrorists, trying to fulfill your goddamn wishes?”
Tortured by terrorists is new information. God, I think I’m going to be sick.
I swallow, unwilling to proffer anything other than the truth, no matter how skewed it is. “Yep.”
My intention wasn’t for that to sound flippant, but it’s daunting to admit something that I hate myself for. The detail that there was nothing in my power to escape those circumstances doesn’t make it any easier to look at myself in the mirror.
He spins to the wall behind him, and the crash that blasts through the space from his fist pulverizing the pristine plaster rattles my bones. It wasn’t next to my head though. That’s what Nick or my father would have done. Josh was always gentler—as gentle as a man in that world can be. Maybe he’s still in there somewhere.
The crumbling drywall is nothing compared to the rumble ripping from his lungs. It’s animalistic. My breastbone quakes from the thumping of my heart as I remain cemented, like his clan of onlookers.
Returning to me with fervor, he clasps my jaw, yanking my chin up to him even though I never hung my head. But I allow it, granting him this tantrum over things he doesn’t understand. Some that would surely infuriate him more.
“Did you attend my funeral on the arm of that husband,” he rasps, “hold your head up in front of my coffin, and not shed a single. Goddamn. Tear?”
“Uh-huh.” I’d expand if I could, but I won’t risk shedding one now either. They’d be as worthless as the ones I released in the limo that day.
My stomach flips, nausea in full force. He was watching?
He lets go of me, and the loss of his fingers on my skin—an irate clutching or not—is devastating. This was never us. I really did prefer him in that casket, where my torch for him could always burn. Where our memorialized banter was flirty, his arms were lifeless but still the relic of protection, and his smile was mine. Forever mine.
Josh is dead.
He shakes his head with a scoff, failing to keep his emotions at bay. Those ambers glisten like a vivid sunset, just before the darkness descends. “Then I have all the truth I need. I did everything. For. You. Fucking everything. And you were the worst thing that ever happened to me.”
That about covers it. In ways, he was the worst thing that ever happened to me too. He planted dreams inside me that I had no business feeding. Dreams that made the terror I endured that much more agonizing. But that was also why I believed he was the best—the glimmer of hope in a sea of darkened sacrifice. In one life, he set me free from a prison. In the next, he’s slamming the cell.
I say, we’re even.
“At least you’ve got your facts straight.” I slink out from under his arm and amble to my room, shutting the door and sliding to the floor in a heaping mess to finally liberate my sobs.
I’ll sneak out of here later and figure something out. I’d rather face the Morellis than endure that again.