14. Noah
Noah
S omeone was trying to kill me.
The explosion was all over the news. I watched the reports, and I was waiting for one of the reporters to show videos of Del and me riding away on his motorcycle.
Thankfully, Del had already returned to the scene—or maybe he said he’d called someone, I can’t remember—and collected all the footage recorded on cell phones or surveillance.
I don’t know what he—or whoever helped him—did while he was there, but not long after, the blast was deemed an accident: Mrs. Crowley’s gas oven was broken and leaking, and it blew up when she lit a cigarette.
Now it’s been a little over a week hiding out in Del's safe house in Brooklyn.
He hasn’t been around much. Despite the men wearing masks in the surveillance video, Del was determined to identify them.
He’d be gone all day, then return late at night after I’d already fallen asleep on the couch or in his bed—I’d hoped he’d join me, but he never did.
I wondered if he was avoiding me again because of how… personal we’ve become with each other.
After I picked up my new encrypted phone, I made the necessary calls. First, I contacted the bar where I work to let them know I’m taking an emergency leave of absence. I don’t financially need the job, but I love the excitement that comes with the bar scene, making drinks, and fucking strangers.
Sometimes I find my marks at the bar.
Next, I texted Sage to let her know I was alive and that I’d be recovering at my father’s townhouse on the Lower East Side. I knew she wouldn’t want to visit because she’s not a fan of Gio Lenetti based on the things I’ve told her about him. Some were lies, most were the truth.
My father was a bit harder to convince. Especially after lying about being at Sage’s, giving him a false address, and sending his goons on a wild goose chase.
I told him that the building’s landlord put us up in hotels for the time being, and he demanded I tell him where so he could send his cronies to come get me.
New bodyguards because Bryan and Ryan were fired—or killed—after I ditched them.
I force myself out of bed and dress in a pair of sweats and a tank.
I lost everything I owned in that explosion. My photos—including ones of me with my mother—some of my favorite outfits, little things I’ve collected over the years while traveling. Del managed to salvage a few of my clothes but not many, so I ordered a whole new wardrobe express delivery.
I make a pit stop in the bathroom before heading out to the kitchen to find something to eat. The clank of a pan stops me in my tracks. I grab a vase from a table in the short hallway and lift it as I silently walk into the kitchen.
My heart beats faster and my vision blurs because all I see is a man with a weapon. I run towards him with the vase over my head. Seconds before I crash it down, he turns around and grabs me by the throat. His strong fingers squeeze the column.
“Del?” I wheeze out.
“Hello, Skittles,” he muses, still not letting go.
I whimper because I'm a little bit turned on. Definitely not thinking about him slamming me down on the table and fucking me while choking me and calling me his dirty little slut.
The whimper surprises him and he lets me go, taking the vase out of my hand and setting it on the counter. He turns back to the stove and... he’s holding a spatula, not a weapon.
He’s making breakfast?
Not only that... he’s making breakfast shirtless while wearing low-hanging gray sweatpants and an apron.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, surprised to see him.
“I live here?”
I scoff. “I mean, yeah, but you’ve barely been here since the explosion.”
He shrugs. “I ran into dead ends. So, now I’m back.”
He places two plates of food on the table.
I gasp. “You made waffles?”
“Sit,” he says and points at a chair. It was bossy, and I want to defy the order, but my stomach growls.
He set out all my favorite toppings. How did he know? I ignore how suspicious that is and prepare my waffle: butter, drowned in maple syrup, and topped with strawberries.
I cut into the pillowy bread and savor the sweet tastes, moaning my appreciation.
“Holy fuck, Del. You’re a fantastic cook.”
“I know,” he says, while pouring me a mug of coffee. He adds a shot of creamer and one packet of sugar since he apparently knows how I like it.
He really is a stalker.
He hangs up the apron, but declines to put on a shirt, and prepares his waffle—no butter, but he adds syrup and whipped cream.
The fun we could have with that whipped cream.
It’s probably best he hasn’t been around this past week. I needed to heal from my injuries, but that wouldn’t have stopped me from jumping his bones. I constantly think about our kiss before he stabbed me, and I’m more than ready to continue what we started.
We eat in silence, and my thoughts turn to our conversation before the explosion. I’ve been wanting to ask him more about what happened the night he was forced to kill his mother, specifically the men who made him do it. Were they ever caught?
He said he was twelve when it happened.
So, how long has it been? Since I still don’t know a lot about Del—including his last name, that fucker—I assume he’s my age, give a year or two. So that means it’s likely been twenty years for him as well.
Huh.
That’s got to be a coincidence. I mean, murders happen every day. I’m sure our mothers were killed weeks or months apart.
“How old are you?” I ask, then take a bite of my waffle.
“Thirty-one.”
Okay, so that would mean his mother died nineteen years ago, not twenty.
“Why?” He looks up at me, his brows pinched.
“I think we can help each other.”
“Yeah? With what?”
“Find our mothers’ killers. You tell me everything you have, and I’ll share all the evidence I’ve compiled. It’s helpful to have a second set of eyes on things like this.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Hmm. Maybe.”
He returns his attention to the newspaper he’s holding while eating and sipping his coffee. All he needs is a pair of glasses and he’d look so studious at this moment.
I scoff, and he looks back up at me.
“What?”
I cross my arms and lean back in the seat. “You don’t trust me, do you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then why?”
He sets the paper down and crosses his arms to match my stance.
“Fine. What do you want to know?”
Oh. Okay. I didn’t think he’d give in that easily.
“You were twelve when it happened?”
He nods. “It was my twelfth birthday. Christmas Eve.”
“What?”
“We celebrated my birthday that morning and then that night—”
“You were forced to kill your mother on your birthday?” My voice cracks as I ask the question, and my vision blurs with tears.
“Yes,” he says and clears his throat.
“It snowed.” Del continues, surprising me that he wants to talk about it. “I was excited that it was going to be a white Christmas...” His words trail off. “But after what happened… it’s why I no longer celebrate my birthday. Why I hate Christmas.”
My mind races with this information. My stomach souring as I make the connections.
Twenty years ago on Christmas Eve…
Is Del… a QBM or Lords heir? No. He can’t be… I thought I knew all the heirs… Elias Carter and Cillian O’Connor. Did I miss one?
That’s the only explanation. I’m scared to voice this suspicion because I could be wrong. But if I’m not…
We sit in silence for a few seconds before I speak. “My mother was killed the day before on Christmas Eve. Twenty years ago.”
Del sits up straight, finally understanding my words.
“Our mothers’ murders are connected. They have to be,” I whisper, barely able to process this revelation. “Del, if we compare notes—”
“I know who killed my mother.” He stares down at his half-eaten plate of food as if that would have all the answers.
“Who?”
He grinds his teeth, his nostrils flaring.
“Who, Del? Tell me.”
I watch him silently battle over whether he’ll share this information with me. I need to know if my suspicions are correct. I almost grab him by the throat and yell in his face to tell me when he blurts out, “Gio Lenetti.”
My entire body stills, only my heart beating wildly in my chest.
“What?”
“The leader of the Empire Mafia.”
“No.”
His head jerks back up at me.
“What do you mean, no?”
Within seconds, Del stands and grabs a knife from the bamboo block on the counter. I hop off my chair and get into a fighting stance.
“What the fuck do you know about Gio Lenetti? Who is he to you?”
This is it. This is when he finally kills me.
“He’s my… my…”
“He’s not...”
“He’s my father.”
“Of course.” Del laughs like a maniac and rubs a hand down his face. “Barry McAllister. Your dull fake life. How could I be so fucking stupid?”
He did a background check on me? Of course, he did. He’s the Marionette. That smart, cautious mother fucker.
Del rushes towards me, knife over his head. I block his arm coming down, but the blade slices my cheek.
Oh hell no.
I slam the heel of my hand into his Adam's apple, and he wheezes, grabbing his throat and stumbling back. While he’s distracted, I swipe my leg out, taking him down to the ground.
The moment I climb on top of him, he tries to grab me, but I take hold of his hand and twist. He cries out, letting me know I've done some damage.
“Stop. Fighting. Me.”
“You killed her,” he growls, attempting to hit me with his other hand. I scoop up the knife he dropped on the ground and stab the blade through his right palm. “Goddamn it, Noah.”
“Fuck you!”
I punch him and his head ricochets to the side.
His eyes flutter as if he’s about to pass out, so I give him a titty twister, which makes him growl. “Stay awake so we can talk about this.”
He tries to buck me off him, but he’s still somewhat dazed by my sucker punch.
“I was eleven when your mom was killed. Obviously, it wasn’t me.”
“It was your father. He ordered her death.”