Chapter 1
Massimo
“Another top off?” she asks with a smile. Always chipper, that one. Not sure what she had to be so damn happy about.
In return, I give her a nod. Do I actually like the cup of cheap java? Not in the least, but there has to be some reason I’m here.
Her smile grows bigger. “Today’s special is Mamaw Jones’ blueberry cobbler if you want to give it a try.”
Frowning, I shake my head negatively. I’m not here for the cobbler, the pie, or even the fucking company. Mission: information.
“Black coffee only, got it,” she mutters more to herself than me. “One day, I’m gonna get him to try something, sheesh.”
Ignoring her challenge, my attention goes back to the newspaper in front of me. There isn’t a damn word on this paper I care about. Just like every other day for the last three months, I skim the words in front of me, sip this poor excuse for java, and watch.
Patience. A must-have skill in my line of work.
To truly capture a prey, a predator must be calculating, swift, but patient. The timing is crucial. Currently, it’s not time, but it’s creeping up faster than I would like. I need to sort this shit and move on.
Does she know how deep she is?
Not one fucking bit.
Does she know she’s on my radar?
Not a single clue.
Does she even know who I am?
Not at all. Hell, she doesn’t even know who she is.
Hadley Bernard has no idea of her roots and how far they grow.
She knows shit about shit. And I hope to keep it that way. This world isn’t for her. She’s had enough darkness in her life; it’s time for her to be free to have peace and happiness. Nothing I can give her will allow her that. Some skeletons need to remain buried. Her history is one of nightmares, and the less she knows, the better. Except I have a nagging feeling it’s coming crashing down all around us.
Will I save her from the aftermath?
Not in the slightest.
My endgame isn’t to ease her burden. Even if she is a masterpiece. Yes, the woman who serves me this god-awful brew day after day is fucking gorgeous.
Her sun-kissed golden skin, long dark hair, strong jawline, and brown eyes any man can get lost in all come together with this undeniable allure. Add in her resilient nature, smartass mouth, and this sweetness I sense lies underneath her; it can really undo a man.
It’s more than her looks. Her stature is confident. Given the life she’s endured, at least what I’ve read from the report I was presented, it’s amazing she can still smile day in and day out. She carries herself like a woman wise beyond her years. At twenty-two, most women are finding their place in life—from getting an education, following a career path, and going out to enjoy the nightlife; things are easy at her age.
Well, for anyone but her.
Hadley has no one to lean on but herself. Day after day, she puts her feet to the floor, serving every customer who comes into this joint and doing it with a smile. She lives in a fucking shack of a trailer about five miles up the road. She drives a damn nineteen-ninety Oldsmobile Cutlass that has seen better days. Then again, she had no one to give her some help in life. She grew up in a fucked-up foster care system that didn’t bother to find her actual family. A family with roots. There isn’t one single doubt in my mind that someone would have taken her in after the tragic loss of her parents. Instead, she lived being tossed from home to home and then tossed out at eighteen. She’s had to work her way through life.
Granted, our government resources don’t run as deep as my personal reach. Given the way she was passed around from toddler years to early elementary school before landing in the system, it would be difficult for anyone to sort out where she actually came from. Stolen by a thief in the night when her parents took her on her first vacation. Leaving the security of their tribe, their world, and getting caught up in a dangerous place with an innocent infant looking like a prize for the taking. They died, and I doubt she even has the first memory of them.
Tragic.
If my life were something other than it is. In order to survive, I have to be hard. I’ve accepted it. If I were a different man, I might actually pity her. If I were a softer man, I might truly feel guilty about her life. I don’t feel anything but the need for answers and vengeance for the betrayal to my organization.
I don’t have any guilt, though. Anger, yes. Pity, no. We all have obstacles to face. I didn’t put her on this path. I’m simply here to see if I can determine how far back the bullshit goes.
I have to admit, the more I learn of her past, the more the intrigue inside me grows. I could take her out of this situation. I could give her the information I hold. I don’t. She is a means to an end, and so is this information.
That’s not on my agenda. I can give her credit for being strong, though.
It's admirable—her work ethic, her drive.
To some degree, I can almost feel bad that it all needs to come to an end. How will she handle knowing who she is? Whether I tell her or not, she’s bound to find out at some point. I don’t plan to be the one because if she’s tied to me, she’s in more danger than simply being where she is today. She’s at risk in a world she doesn’t know exists.
Frankly, I’m no one’s hero and I’m not about to become hers.
In my world, knowledge is power. And power is everything. This na?ve young woman in front of me has none. She wasn’t born into this world, but there are people wanting to pull her into it. Not only are they wanting to drag her into it, but they are determined to make it happen. I didn’t make the call that created this domino effect on her life and my organization. I will, however, avenge it, and she’ll never be tied to my name again.
In my world, determination is a guaranteed way to rise to power. It takes grit to make the decisions necessary to keep things in line.
Everything requires balance: good and bad, light and dark, friends and enemies.
Although I can’t say I have anyone I can call a friend, I do have people I trust.
My downfall might come from those very souls. Trust is a fickle thing. It takes patience and time to build. Yet, in the blink of an eye, the split of a second, it can be gone. This unease inside me grows with every day. Someone has crossed me—possibly for years—and she might be the ticket to tying it all together. I just haven’t sorted it all out yet. Too many pieces of the puzzle are missing.
The noise of my phone ringing pulls me from my questions about who I trust and what I should do next.
“Costa,” I answer, not bothering to look at the caller ID. If someone has this number, it isn’t a scam call. There is no reason for me not to take the call.
“We have a situation. We got a load stuck at the border.”
I fight back a growl. “Drop it. Why are you callin’ me over this shit, Emilio?”
He knows how I work. Product moving or not, if it’s tied up at the border, we drop it. Leave it for the feds and move on to the next shipment. While we have someone who works at the border, shit happens from time to time and we can’t get the load through. It’s much easier to lose one load to the feds than fight to recoup it from some locked-down fortress that the government is sure to guard. There is nothing in the shipments that can tie back to my organization. Even the drivers don’t know who they are working for or what they are carrying. They can be interrogated for hours and they have nothing worth sharing. It will all lead the agencies on a dead-end trail. We’ve already dealt with this very scenario more than once.
“Tony, Gio, and Thomas are locked up,” Emilio informs me.
That changes everything. I lean back in the chair. Suddenly, I feel the weight of my responsibilities. The contingencies I work so hard to put in place have failed. The numbness that engulfs me in every breath eases as the anger climbs. I don’t make mistakes in my plays. My people do not fail, and they do not get caught. The space of the diner feels like a trap.
Small fucking tables. The ambiance of the place is old-school diner. Then again, what can I expect at a place named Clyde’s Country Cookin’. I need to leave. I need to beat the shit out of something and get my crew over to the border to get the three fucking stooges out of hot water. They won’t rat, but they aren’t always clever with their words and may slip. A dive joint currently dressed up in tinsel and freaking Christmas greens like it’s a damn mall Santa Claus picture backdrop against some of the walls.
It’s a staple in Uncertain, Texas. This place isn’t where I am needed now. I’ll be back tomorrow.
Small-town life is a double-edge sword. It’s easy to get comfortable, but new people always stick out. For a man like me, I like the advantage of knowing everyone around me. However, I must admit in a city to blend in is much easier. Some days, I miss the hustle and bustle of the city. Growing up in Dallas, Texas, there was always noise. My early days there weren’t many opportunities for a kid like me. I didn’t have the patience back then. School didn’t keep my mind engaged, and I only did enough to get by.
With my dad in the wind (at least that’s what we were told), my mom worked three jobs to keep food on the table for me and my younger brother, Emilio. Hating to see her work her body beyond exhaustion, I wanted to provide so she wouldn’t have to.
Yeah, most kids get jobs at a fast-food joint or a grocery store, and maybe I should have taken that route. Only I didn’t.
I got in bed with the Uccello family. The Boss of that time, Miro Uccello, was first-generation American Italian. His grandfather brought his father over from Palermo when he was a young boy. First born boy here in the states made him their prize. Family matters, and the core of the Uccello organization, is generational legacy. The connections all over the world were passed down from Adone Uccello to Matteo and then to Miro.
I doubt they expected that legacy to be me.
As a teen, I didn’t ask questions. Miro saw potential in me, took me under his wing. The more power I was given, the more I craved. To be on top is to be untouchable and wanted all the same.
I relish the challenge then and now. At twenty-eight, I took over and now, at forty-one, I’m not about to be undermined by anyone, even if I took the organization.
On his deathbed, the entire organization fell in my lap, literally. As his body bled out from the knife I put in his neck, the transfer of power came to me.
My vision, my goals aren’t what the Uccello men wanted.
I wasn’t born to be on the sidelines anyway. If I see something I want, I’ll get it, even if I have to take it.
Right now, I want answers.
Hadley Bernard is the key to getting those, and I won’t be stopped.
Hadley
Silently, I look to the parking lot. Apparently, today is his day to be flashy. The shiny red Corvette can’t be missed. How he fits inside it is beyond me. I know Massimo Costa is well over six feet tall. How can a car that practically sits on the ground be comfortable for him?
I guess it’s fun to go fast. Who knows? It’s not something I can afford.
This isn’t his only car. He usually comes in one of those giant SUVs that’s all blacked out like he’s the damn president.
The way he carries himself is powerful, but he’s not a politician. I don’t know what he does. I only know his name because Gilbert told me. He’s a one-man show here at Clyde’s. He inherited the diner from his brother. It’s small, so there are a couple of servers, and he’s hiring a backup cook, but we don’t have one yet. The other servers are unreliable, which means most days it’s me and Gilbert handling it all. We don’t have huge rushes, but we do have our regulars.
Like Massimo Costa, who has become a regular coffee consumer in the last few months. I can’t remember exactly when he started his daily stops, but they don’t seem to be skipped over anymore. Why he comes here for coffee of all things piques my interest. The coffee is not anything more than a bulk can from the grocery store made in a commercial brewer. We don’t even offer flavored creamers.
The man is a mystery. An enigma. And my imagination runs wild with what’s behind his presence.
He has this fierce, pissed-off face at all times. His dark hair is beginning to show specks of gray. His beard is feathered with grays that only make his face more chiseled, if that is possible, considering it’s carved from granite. Every time I approach, his brows furrow, making his eyes have a deeper inset, leaving them looking almost black.
I wish I could say he’s ugly. Except he’s not.
He’s absolutely sexy in the way that will make your body hum while shattering your heart. No thank you. I don’t need a heartbreak. Life is hard enough on its own.
Granted, I shouldn’t admire him, even from afar.
First, he’s obviously old enough to be my dad.
Second, he’s clearly one angry man. Seriously, for months he has been coming in every freaking morning, it seems. He sits at the same back table, facing the door with a newspaper. It’s a diner, but does he eat? Nope. He gets coffee.
Black.
No cream.
No sugar.
Who does that? I’m sure coffee at home is easier.
And he tips!
I guess if you have money like he does, tossing a twenty-dollar bill down every morning for a two-dollar cup of coffee might be easy.
I wouldn’t know.
I’ve never had anything extra.
There’s only one glitch in the matrix.
Saturday and Sunday mornings, though, he’s here with his son, who orders chocolate chip pancakes with a side of seasonal fruit. (Which, if I’m being honest, is nothing more than strawberries, blueberries, and bananas, bought at the grocery store. There isn’t any seasonal special to it. I don’t make the rules; I serve the customers.) Massimo doesn’t eat; he still drinks his coffee. Instead of being engulfed in a newspaper, though, he engages his son in conversation and even smiles from time to time.
The innocence of childhood. His son is young, maybe six or seven, and so polite. He’s always happy, and I can’t stop myself from smiling when I bring him his pancakes. When he says, “thank you,” his father always smiles at him with pride—a smile that doesn’t show up any other time I bring Massimo coffee. With Christmas approaching, I decorated for his son. We don’t get regulars with kids often, and I thought it would be fun to make things festive. Gilbert gave me some cash and to the dollar store I went. Even on the long shifts, the twinkling lights weaved in the cheap garland and silver streams called icicles make me smile.
Christmas only comes one time a year, even Scrooge learned to love it.
The first time Massimo smiled, I had to make sure the clock still ticked and time hadn’t stopped. Seriously, I don’t understand why he doesn’t simply stay home and have coffee there. He brings in his own paper, leaving me wondering day in and day out why he comes here.
Third, we are obviously not ever going to be friends. Not that I need friends. I learned as a child that less is more. In fact, I keep my circle so small one could say it’s a dot.
Scars run deep, and people are, well, people. They will fail you, and you will fail yourself. It’s just a fact of life.
I’m thankful to be where I am today. I may not have the best of everything, but I have what I need to survive: a job, a car, a place to live, food, and finally, for the first time in my life, a small (and I do mean small) savings account. It isn’t a full month’s emergency fund yet, but if Massimo Costa keeps tipping me like he does, then it won’t be long.
Gilbert dings the bell: order up for table two. Not that we are so crowded I need to know where it goes. Mr. Morton is in his usual breakfast spot. His wife died a few months ago. Since then, he comes in for every meal. Apparently, after fifty-four years of marriage, he never cooked because she always did. Now, he eats alone here three times a day. I grab the plate and take it to his table.
“Here you go, Mr. Morton,” I say, setting his plate of corned beef hash with rye toast and cheese grits in front of him. “Hot sauce today?”
“It’s Charlie, and yes please,” he replies with the same soft smile he always has.
“You got it.” I move to the bar, grabbing the bottle of sauce and going back to him. “Here you go, Charlie.”
“I hope you get fifty-plus years of meals with someone special, Hadley,” he tells me kindly.
I smile, “I get to have all these meals with you and everyone else who comes in. I think I’m pretty lucky for that.”
“She cooks, she cleans up, and she’s sweet. You’re a catch, Hadley girl, don’t ever forget it.”
I give his hand a squeeze. “Thanks, Charlie, you are pretty special yourself.”
That’s what I love about my job. I meet all these locals who come in regularly. Sure, some days my feet hurt and swell so bad I leave here fighting back tears. Then there are days I have to cook because Gilbert has to take his wife for her treatment. Those days are longer because as much as I don’t mind cooking, I hate feeling like I have a grease facial from the fryer oil. The hours pass by quickly when I’m the cook. Between prep for each shift and cleaning, I always have something to do.
It's a double-edged sword. When I have to cook, I don’t get the tips like serving, but Gilbert usually slips me some extra at the end of the week. It all works out in the end.
I hope I can get back to school for the next semester. Even though it’s community college, I can get my cosmetology certificate. I tried two years ago but couldn’t commit to the program and work. My job then didn’t have evening shifts, and that particular course requires me to be at the school full days three days per week. Since coming to work for Gilbert at Clyde’s, I can rotate to evenings on the days I have to be at school.
The future looks bright. I can’t say I’ve ever had this much hope before. I feel it in my gut.
Everything is about to change for me in the best possible ways.