16. Rage
Chapter 16
Rage
75 th and Main is one of the most well-known cafes in the upper half of the city. It’s boujee, made for girls having peppermint lattes and dainty little breakfast sandwiches before they walk the Avenue to window shop—or in Celia’s case, where she has the most unfulfilling breakfast of her life.
Not only does she keep looking over my shoulder to check the door every minute, but she won’t speak more than three words to me.
How’s your toast?
Fine.
Are you cold?
No.
Do you want another coffee?
I’ll get it.
No, thank you for taking me to breakfast or thanks for picking me up despite your busy schedule . I glare at her plate, the slice of bread with green mush spread on top a fucking offense. “You can order anything you want,” I repeat, grinding my molars. It’s becoming a habit the longer I spend with Celia. It’s like she’s always looking for ways to upset me, and my body handles it the only way it knows how: by grinding the feeling into dust until it disappears altogether.
She takes another bite of avocado toast and shrugs one shoulder. “This is good. Really.”
Four words. An improvement.
“How’s your coffee?” I ask, spreading my arms across the back of our booth. The movement catches her eyes, the lightest dusting of pink on her cheeks. She likes how I look. I know she does.
So why is she acting like she’s embarrassed to be seen with me?
I look good. I smell even better. I’ve got more money than I could ever spend, and I’m willing to throw it all at her feet. If she told me to take her down the Avenue for a shopping spree, I’d cancel all of my meetings and spend the day following her around.
Happily.
Because she chose me.
Her outfit is cute, the skirt high enough to show a solid two or three inches of warm skin where her stockings end halfway up her thighs. The sweater hugs her tits. Her boots are worn but clearly well-loved, the soles scuffed but not torn apart. She put effort into her appearance this morning, spending what little time she had between our messages and my arrival to put together an outfit that I would enjoy.
No, not me.
Rebel.
The fucker.
“Where is he, anyway?” Celia picks at the flaking crust of her toast, trying to look casual. But there’s a tension in her shoulders that gives her away. The way she wrings her hands together when they’re not clutching her mug. Her knee bouncing up and down.
“Who?” I lift an eyebrow, knowing damn well who she’s talking about. I want to hear her say his name.
Meeting my eyes, she straightens her spine, her mouth twitching as she wrestles with how to respond. We’re in public, so I doubt she would make a scene. Her upbringing would have conditioned her to be polite when out in the city. Really, it should have conditioned her to be polite all the time, no matter what I do or say to her.
Apparently she trained herself out of that.
“The better brother.” She traces a manicured nail along the edge of her cheek as she brushes a lock of hair behind her ear. “Obviously.”
I lean across the table toward her, crowding close enough that I can smell her perfume. She holds her ground, looking up at me from beneath her long lashes with a wide-eyed innocence that I know is as fake as my smile. “I assure you…” Brushing my knuckles up the back of her forearm, I bring my lips to her cheek. “Whatever fantasies he’s put in your head won’t live up to the real thing, krosotka. ” I press a gentle kiss to her skin, holding her jaw to keep her from moving away. My mouth lingers long enough that I’m tempted to claim her lips, too.
But I don’t.
I release her, enjoying the simmering outrage sparking in her amber eyes as I go back to lounging on my side of the booth.
“You’re full of shit,” she says casually, like this is just another conversation. I suppose that’s a skill she perfected, too. Despite the fire in her eyes, she’s no longer nervous or twitchy at being alone with me. She’s in control, putting on a perfect show for anyone foolish enough to eavesdrop.
“I will never lie to you, Celia.”
“You’re so threatened by your own brothers—” her smile is fucking dazzling —“that you can’t let them win, can you? Not even for a moment. I bet they’re suffocating, living with you. Under your rule.” She takes a slow sip of her coffee, letting her words sink in. “How does it feel to be the reason your family is so fucked up?”
I let her think that she’s right for a full minute. She preens like a bird ruffling its feathers, a cat-like glow to her eyes. She’s fighting back—not with her fists, but with her words.
I fucking love this side of her.
“We look out for each other. We always have. That’s why I agreed to share you with them. Not because I want to—” I hook my foot around her ankle and pull her leg closer to mine—“but because I have to.”
All three of us need her, but I still don’t think she understands that.
She tries to pull her leg back, but I trap her thigh between my knees and squeeze. If my hand were under the table, I’d slide it up her stockings and beneath the cheeky ruffle of her skirt.
Those red fucking panties are a tease.
I know she wore them for Rebel, but I’m the one who’s going to enjoy them while he’s locked away in his room, unable to get out. Ruin will return home eventually and shove the furniture I used to barricade his door out of the way, but until then… Celia is all mine.
The flash of anger in her eyes turns me on.
“You’re so full of yourself! Like you’re God’s greatest gift to the world.” She laughs loud enough to turn a few heads, but they see the same thing I do: a diamond sparkling in the sunlight. Warm rays bathe her honeyed skin, highlighting auburn streaks in her hair. I wonder if they’re natural or if she goes to the salon. Her nails are perfectly manicured, too, but she could do them herself. I could see her being picky enough that anything less than perfect isn’t acceptable.
Will she turn that perfectionism onto our children, or will she love them in spite of their flaws?
Oh yes, I remember our little texts from last night. I’ll never forget them. She let a secret slip—revealing the lie she told the other night.
She definitely wants children.
And I’m going to give them to her.
Celia is still on a verbal rampage, though, so that conversation will have to wait. “They don’t need you to take care of them?—”
A woman wearing the most obnoxiously loud perfume and white platform boots interrupts Celia with a shriek, running from the front end of the cafe to our table in the back. “Oh my stars! Is that really you, darling? It’s been ages! Oh, you look stunning!” She leans over the table and forces Celia into a tight hug, wrapping her arms around Celia’s shoulders and squeezing. “When I heard about the divorce, why, I just knew you’d be a wreck. But look at you now! You’d never know that snake of a man ever bit you.”
I catch Celia’s frozen smile and wide eyes before she corrects herself. “Heather Hanson, you are too much!” Her expression warms as she looks the older woman over. “What are you doing here? I thought you moved east.”
Heather waves her hand. “East side can’t handle me, darling. I was only there for two months before I moved right back. But that’s old news—what’s this I hear about you designing again? Janette Fowler will not stop talking about these dresses you’re making for the upcoming charity gala. You have to show me the sketches! Janette’s keeping them close to her chest, and you know how much I love to come out on top. I can’t be outstaged, darling.” She laughs, but there’s not a joking bone in this woman’s body. Her gaudy rings catch on Celia’s sweater as she tightens her grip. A threat. Celia better not design something too pretty for this Janette Fowler, or Heather will retaliate.
Blood rushes to my head, pulsing hot in my ears. I glare at Heather’s hand, her skinny little arms, her fake fucking tits.
No one threatens my woman.
Before I can react, however, Celia has a business card in one hand and a sketchpad in the other. “Tell me what look you’re going for this year, and I’ll draft something up for you.” She slides the business card into Heather’s purse. “At a discount, for a friend.” When she smiles, it draws Heather in, and the older woman suddenly slips into our booth and hurriedly whispers in Celia’s ear. Nodding while she draws a preliminary sketch, Celia must capture the essence of Heather’s vision, because Heather’s already pulling out her checkbook.
I count the zeros in her deposit and can’t keep a smirk off my lips.
This cafe isn’t just a trendy place to show off your haul from the day’s shopping spree. It’s a networking opportunity.
“I’ll call you once I have the initial mock-up ready,” Celia promises, tucking the sketch into Heather’s hand and curling her fingers around it. “Expect to hear from me by the end of the week.”
Heather thanks Celia excitedly before strutting across the room to her own table, immediately nodding toward us the moment she sits down with another two ladies. Their eyes ping between me and Celia, curiosity in their gaze.
“You didn’t introduce us.” I rap my knuckles on the table. “Worried she might like me?”
Even my presence can’t pop Celia’s bubble. She wraps up the remnants of her toast in a napkin and shoves it aside. Shaking her head, she exhales, yet even that is brimming with excitement. “Worried you might ruin the sale. I saw that look.” She stares across the table at me, a coy smile on her lips. “You wanted to eat her alive.”
“Never,” I murmur, reaching across the table to take Celia’s hand. There’s only one woman I’d like to devour. I link our fingers together and squeeze. “But dismemberment? That’s still on the table.”
She laughs, the sound rich and full of life. “If she stiffs me, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
I neglect to inform Celia that if either Heather Hanson or Janette Fowler dare insult my woman’s work or skill by shorting her money or praise, they’ll be screaming it from the rooftops while I peel off their eyelids.
Either way, it’s a win.
I get to hold Celia’s hand, and she gets to sit across from me looking just and pretty and perfect and happy as she deserves.
Once Celia has a to-go latte in hand and we step outside the cafe into the late morning chill, she pulls us to a stop on the sidewalk, clears her throat, and straightens her spine, like all of a sudden, walking down the street by my side is more serious than sitting with me in a cafe. She looks up at me with a tiny divot between her eyebrows.
I don’t care what it is she has to say, as long as she keeps letting me hold her hand. It’s a funny thing. We’re barely touching, yet my entire body’s on fire. My cock could cut glass, and I’m sweating beneath my suit jacket. She fidgets with her purse strap while she stalls for time.
“What is it?” I ask, trying not to laugh. She was perfectly in control of herself inside the cafe, but now that we’re out of familiar bounds, she’s twitchy again.
I long to kiss the nerves right out of her system.
So that’s exactly what I do.
Pulling her into my chest, I cradle the back of her head and cover her mouth with mine, humming at how sweet she tastes, like cinnamon. The tension in her shoulders eases, and she leans into the kiss.
My heart damn near beats out of my chest. This is different from all of our other kisses—I’m not forcing it on her because I can’t stand the distance between us, I’m doing this as much for her as for me.
She melts.
It’s satisfying as fuck.
When she looks up into my eyes, I can finally see it— gratitude .
“Thank you,” she murmurs, her cheeks turning pink. “That was, um, okay. The breakfast. Not the kiss. That was—” her breath hitches—“fine.”
“We can do better than fine ,” I promise, slanting my lips over hers. She lets me in for the briefest moment, her dainty hands clutching my shirt as she just… lets me . Taste her. Hold her. Fuck. It’s everything I’ve wanted, yet nowhere close to complete. It’s a glimpse of what our future could be like—these small, soft moments. Then it’s over too soon, somehow turning my body into fucking lava despite how brief it was—but also so fucking worth it. There’s this dazed look in her eyes, and the little dimple on her forehead is erased.
She likes gentle kisses.
Maybe that’s why Rebel’s so fucking whipped for them.
“I, uh…” She licks her lips. “I need a new phone.”
“Mmm.” Maybe I’m a little dazed, too. I inhale her scent and try to wrap myself in her presence. My lips ghost over hers.
“Rage,” she murmurs, peeling herself from my arms. She stands a few feet away, catching her breath. “Did you hear me? My phone broke this morning. I need a new one.”
I drag my hand across my jaw. She was texting us just fine two hours ago. “What’s wrong with it?”
She shakes her head. “It got wet. I dropped it.”
I blink at her. “In the toilet?”
“In the shower! ” Her mouth gapes. “I need a new one, okay? Please take me to the phone store.”
What was she doing in the shower with her phone? I narrow my eyes at her skirt, imagining the smooth, creamy velvet of her thighs hiding beneath, a hand sliding between them and white, frothy suds dripping from her fingers. “Why did you have it with you?”
Her cheeks burn. “I was texting.”
She sure as shit wasn’t texting me.
Sighing, I nod. “We’ll get you a new phone. I know a guy.”
Celia follows me back to the car. “I don’t want a guy , Rage, I want a phone store. You know, how normal people fix their phones.”
“We’re not fixing it, we’re getting you a new one. Isn’t that what you said you wanted?”
She purses her lips. “I want a phone that works. It doesn’t have to be new.” This woman gives me whiplash. It’s like she goes out of her way to disagree with me.
While she buckles, I call my guy and put in the order. Extra-wide screen. Amazing speakers. The best tracking device in the country, linked directly to my phone, laptop, and car.
Only the best for my girl.
“It’s so big!” Celia fiddles with her new phone while I handle payment.
“I know you like them big,” I rumble, smirking at her.
She inhales sharply, that spark of defiance in her eyes. I turn back to Terrance and hand him her old phone. “Upload the data to our server.” I’m going to find out what was so distracting that Celia gave her phone an unexpected bath. “And text me once it’s done.”
“You got it.”
My phone rings in my pocket as Celia walks back over to me. She chats idly with Terrance, thanking him for helping on such short notice and promising to send more customers his way.
“He doesn’t need references,” I inform her, checking my phone screen. Ezra. My boss. I have to take this call. “I keep him busy enough.” Really, the entire bratva keeps Terrance busy, but she doesn’t need to know whose money paid for her phone.
If she finds out it’s blood money, she might throw the fucking phone in my face.
“Does he handle your security at the club?” Celia wanders the room, idly checking the dozens of monitors, hard drives, and technological baubles lining the walls. She’s probably referencing all of the security panels within our apartment. There’s one on the outside wall, then one more for each bedroom door within. An armory has two separate scanners, one for hands and the other for eyes, and the escape hatch hidden beneath the floor is connected to a completely different system.
She doesn’t need all of that information. “Something like that.” Terrance doesn’t have access to any of the security feed or systems within the apartment, but he monitors the club. It’s close enough that I don’t have to bend the truth too much.
The call goes to voicemail, and I immediately call back. While it rings, I keep my eye on Celia. Thankfully, she notices a picture frame on Terrance’s desk and strikes up a conversation with him about his kids, giving me time to step into the hallway and greet my boss. “Ezra.”
He grunts across the line. “You missed meeting this morning.” His Russian accent is thick today, meaning that he’s likely been up most of the night. “Have you found Jimmy?”
The only good reason to miss a weapons trade with a rival bratva is finding one of our missing men, apparently. I know it’s been bothering Ezra, that one of our own would disappear into thin air. He takes the family aspect of being a member of the bratva seriously. As the head enforcer-turned-bodyguard to the bratva, all men, women, and children are under his protection. “Haven’t seen him.” The lie flows easily. If Ezra finds out that Ruin killed him on my orders, we’ll both be punished for acting without permission. It’s okay to kill an enemy at our own discretion, but killing one of our members, even someone as two-faced as Jimmy, is bad for our reputation.
But Jimmy was fucking shit up left and right. I don’t have proof, but I know he was intentionally missing drops and pocketing something in return. Until I have the proof, though, it’s my word against a dead guy’s. The odds would be unfairly stacked in my favor, and it would look suspicious.
Best that Ezra thinks Jimmy ran off on his own?—
“There is killer on loose,” Ezra murmurs, sounding displeased. “You know this.”
—or that Jimmy died to some stranger with a death fetish.
Catching killers is only my forte when there’s money involved or the boss puts in the hit. We don’t know who this new player is, and until bodies start dropping on my doorstep, I’m not too concerned. “I’ve heard the rumors. Only women are being targeted. Jimmy might be ugly, but he’s not the guy’s type.”
Ezra grunts. “Jimmy could be practice dummy. We need to find body. Confirm death. See if there is connection between victims.”
I stay silent. Technically, he hasn’t given me an order. We don’t really play detective in the bratva—we shoot first and ask questions later. Or, we used to. Having a new Queen could change things, but those decisions are above my pay grade.
Apparently, they’re above Ezra’s too. Once I don’t supply him with any new details, he moves on from the serial killer topic and goes back to Jimmy. “We need to tell family. Mother is nice woman. Go see her today. And call the Kolzovs to reschedule meeting. They will not be patient.” A woman’s voice in the background says something about flowers. Ezra grunts again. “Bring flowers to family. Put on best face.”
I glance across the room at Celia. “I’ll go tonight.” I hate dropping her off back home so suddenly, but visiting a bereaved family member sounds like a shit job. Dragging her with me won’t exactly endear her to me. I’d rather she sit at home alone than watch me pat some old woman’s back in fake concern for her missing son.
“You will go now. I have canceled other meetings. This is most important. Kolozovs will wait until tomorrow, but not after.”
Shit. It will take me at least thirty minutes to get to Celia’s house, then another thirty to wind my way through the streets to Jimmy’s. The fucker still lived with his mom. She should be grateful that he’s no longer around to leech from her saggy tit like overgrown devil spawn.
There’s no way I can take Celia home without Ezra finding out about it. “I don’t know shit about flowers, Ezra.”
A pause, then, “ask your woman.”
Fuck. Of course he knows about Celia.
“Yes, sir.”
Ezra hangs up the call, and I watch my woman fawn over a bundle of pictures dangling accordion-style from Terrance’s wallet. The man must have a dozen kids. She smiles and compliments each one, her laugh bubbly and bright, her enthusiasm genuine.
If that’s how much she likes a stranger’s kids, I can’t wait to find out how much she’s going to love our own. My heartbeat trips as I imagine Celia sitting in a rocking chair with one toddler bouncing on each of her knees, while I hold up a picture book for her to read aloud. Or the opposite. Maybe I’m the one with two kids in my lap, and Celia is sitting across from us near the fireplace, rocking a baby in her arms, the most beautiful smile on her face as she pours her love into something we’ve created.
That’s what I’ll give Celia.
The family she’s always wanted.
I picture her with a rounded stomach, our hands meeting over the swell of her belly, and everything in my body feels fuzzy.
“Are you ready?” I ask, taking her by the hand. She’s still smiling when she turns to me, but there’s a shine in her eyes that wasn’t there before. She hastily looks away, thanking Terrance again before slipping her hand from mine.
“Yeah, I’m ready.” Her voice catches, and I follow her out the door and onto the street. She’s walking fast enough that I have to jog to catch up.
“Celia.”
She ignores me.
“ Celia. ” I grab her arm and spin her around.
Tears track down her cheeks, and she chokes on a strangled sob. “D-don’t get mad,” she squeaks, patting both of her cheeks. “I’m sorry, they’ll stop soon, I’m so sorry?—”
I pull her into my arms and mentally curse Terrance to every single level of hell there is. “What did he say to you?” Cupping her face, I search her eyes. “Did he hurt you? Touch you?” My voice clips, a rumble vibrating through my chest. “I’ll kill him.”
“No!” Celia clutches my neck, pulling my face down to hers. Our foreheads meet and she clenches her eyes shut. “No, he didn’t do anything! This is my fault! I’m just—I’m a mess, okay? Just take me home.” There’s a pleading whine in her voice.
Whatever is going on in her head must be serious if she’s turning to me for comfort. She doesn’t even like me. I’m not flirtatious Rebel or mysterious Ruin.
I’m the man who keeps hurting her because as much as I can get off on her pleasure, I also enjoy her pain.
But apparently even that has its limits, because seeing Celia like this when it isn’t my fault, when I’m not the one who is causing her pain, makes my world go haywire. I keep my voice as steady as possible. “What’s wrong, Celia?”
“It’s nothing!”
We’re close to one of our safe houses. I can take her there until she calms down. I don’t want to drag her to Jimmy’s house for her to start crying all over again. Then I’ll have two hysterical women on my hands. Besides—“I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.” I brush my thumbs over her cheeks. “Tell me what’s wrong, krosotka. ”
She shakes her head in refusal, making my next decision easy. I lift her into my arms and carry her back to the car, buckle her in, and speed down the road. The safe house is in one of the grimier parts of the city. We call this area The Backyard , because it’s only a few streets away from the influential, high-end storefronts like 75 th and Main. As we pass by run down alleys and boarded windows, Celia starts to pay attention.
“This isn’t the way to my house,” she murmurs, rubbing her eyes.
“We’re not going to your house.”
Her eyes shine with unshed tears as she glares at me. “Take me home.”
“No.”
She raises her voice. “Take me home, Rage! I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.” Something about Terrance, the phone, the store? That can’t be it. The pictures? The children? I keep an eye on Celia as we close in on the safe house, its location only a few minutes away from the Avenue. Something set her off. Something sharp, digging into her chest, making it hard for her to breathe. I can see it in the way her hands shake. How her eyes keep glazing over, unfocused, as she loses herself in an internal fog.
Ignoring the problem isn’t going to fix it. She’s probably been doing that for months. Years. That woman from earlier, Heather, hadn’t seen Celia in ages. If I had to guess, Celia’s been hiding ever since her divorce. Ignoring her problems. Ignoring her pain .
There’s only one way I know how to handle something this deep—by burning straight through it.