12. Savio
12
SAVIO
I’M IN DANGER.
T he thought pounds through my head as I look down at Nicci, pinned underneath me, looking up at me with those defiant eyes. She just won’t fucking quit. Even now, trapped by my arm around her neck, held down by the weight of my body, the threatening line of my cock grinding into her thigh, she won’t tap out. She won’t admit defeat.
It makes me like her. And that’s unacceptable.
I’m not supposed to like her. That was never part of the plan. The plan was to buy her, take her, claim her. To steal her from my brother after he’s in the grave, the way he stole the woman I thought I loved from me while I was still living. To make sure that everything he ever had is erased, beginning with his claim on Nicci.
I was going to use her until I was finished with her, and then put her to some other use.
The first mistake was agreeing to her reckless plan to take out the Crows. I see that as I look down at her, as I battle every primal urge within my body that says I should take her now . But it aligned with my plans. And I was curious.
I shouldn’t have let myself be curious about her—because now, I’m learning things about her. I’m learning that she’s defiant, but she knows when to bend. That she’s patient. Wily. That she’s stubborn, refusing to let herself be broken. That she’s capable of controlling herself, too…at least to an extent.
Last night’s scene at the restaurant proved that she’s not always capable of it. Anger burns through me again at the memory, at the reminder that defying me was preferable to her being seen with me in public, as if she’s still the precious jewel in the Armand family crown. As if she wasn’t thrown away and then dug out of the trash to be sold to me.
I shove myself away from her, ignoring the throbbing in my groin. Last night wasn’t enough. I’m aching to take her, and I know I’m going to have to find the right moment to unleash that desire soon. One where I’m in control. It’s just that she seems to threaten that control so easily.
“Again,” I tell her sharply. I try to focus on the rest of the workout, on showing her where her faults are, her weaknesses…and there are plenty, that’s for sure. But I can’t stop thinking about her strengths, too. No matter how many times I send her down to the mat, she always gets up. I don’t doubt that she’s hurting after last night, sore and stiff despite the stretching routine I put her through, but she’s kept going anyway. She’s still going, pushing herself through every instruction I give her, until I finally call an end to the session.
She’s silent on the ride back, clearly tired, but she doesn’t complain. She doesn’t say anything at all, looking out of the window at the cityscape as it slides by. When I return her to her room, she hands me the clothes back without a word, too, before heading to the shower.
I watch her walk towards the bathroom, feeling a sudden itch under my skin, a desire to follow her. To shower with her, run my hands over her body, pin her up against the wall, and run my mouth over every inch of bare, exposed…
I shake my head sharply, pivoting on my heel. Nothing about what I just imagined fits with the place Nicci has in my life. I bought her to consume her.
Not to fall for her.
—
Still, I can’t help but be curious. Sitting in my office an hour later, after I shower and change, I flip through a list of contacts, wondering who might have additional information on Nicci. I’ve had people here in the city that I could rely on as sources, contacts who occasionally filled me in on things I might need to know. I found out about Barca’s death that way.
Saul Brokov. He was the one who leaked the news to me about my brother’s death, a contract killer who mostly keeps to himself. I’m always careful what I tell him—information is one of his currencies, and I know he could sell my secrets just as easily as I’ve gotten some from him. I’ll have to be careful how I inquire, but he might be able to tell me more about Nicci.
I dig a burner out of my drawer, dialing the number. He answers on the second ring, his voice clipped.
“Hello?”
“Savio Valenti here. I have some questions about a former associate of my brother’s. I’d like to meet. I’ll buy you a drink, of course.”
By 'buy you a drink,' I mean pay you for your information. Saul knows that, and I hear him clear his throat before he agrees.
“Meet me at Paradox,” he says gruffly. “10 p.m.” And then he hangs up.
I recognize the name of the bar—a place in Brooklyn that was once an upscale martini bar and is now a dive, though the new owner didn’t bother to change the name. With that settled, I try to turn my attention to other things that I need to get done—administrative work for my businesses, checking my accounting, that sort of thing—but my thoughts keep drifting back to Nicci.
She must be going stir-crazy up in that room. Maybe I should give her something to entertain herself with. Books, maybe. A television. I remember her excitement last night at going out, which she tried unsuccessfully to hide. She was itching to get out of her cage, and deep down, I can’t really blame her. I’d be going insane if I were her.
There’s that admiration again. I grit my teeth, trying to refocus, before I finally give up and go upstairs again, changing clothes to go out for a run. Physical exertion seems to be the best way to keep myself occupied, and I push myself hard before returning to shower and order dinner in—part of which I deliver to Nicci.
I don’t speak to her when I leave the tray in her room. She’s sitting cross-legged on the bed when I walk in, a bored expression on her face, and she doesn’t say a word to me. I try not to look at her, because even though she’s been kept naked in here every day since I bought her, I still haven’t become desensitized to it. Every time I see her, a jolt of lust shoots through me, and I feel myself fighting for control.
I leave the food behind without a word, go downstairs to finish my dinner, and then get dressed to meet Saul.
Paradox isn’t the kind of place I would normally go. I prefer more upscale establishments—the kind of place it used to be—but it’s fallen far from that since then. It smells like cigarettes and beer inside, even though smoking isn’t technically allowed inside the building. It still drifts in from the entrance and exit, making the air stifling. Adding to that is the warmth of bodies— the space is small, and surprisingly popular. It has all the dive bar necessities: a dartboard, a pool table, a jukebox. Seating consists of stools lining the bar and high-top tables scattered throughout the room and along the far wall, and I see Saul sitting at one in a corner, carefully tucked back into the shadows.
I get a drink from the bar—whiskey and Coke, difficult to fuck that up—and join Saul. He looks exactly as I remember him: close-cropped dark hair shaved to the skin on the sides, sharp blue eyes, a trimmed dark beard. He’s wearing jeans, a nondescript t-shirt, and an Army salvage jacket, and I have no doubt that there’s at least one gun under it and a couple of knives. Brass knuckles in a pocket, probably.
“A former associate of your brother’s, you said.” Saul wastes no time with the pleasantries. “What is it you want to know?” He takes a long drink from the beer in front of him, but his eyes don’t leave mine. We’re associates, but he doesn’t trust me, which is likely wise. I don’t really trust him, either.
“There was a woman with him for the last few weeks before he died. I want to know more about her.”
Saul chuckles. “There were probably plenty of women. Barca was known to be a bit of a ladies’ man.”
My jaw tightens. Ladies’ man, indeed. Enough that he was able to take Sophie from me. Convince her that he was the better brother. The better man. The one with a future ahead of him—power, wealth, influence.
Now he’s six feet under, and I’m a billionaire. That should be enough revenge all on its own, but it isn’t. It makes me wonder sometimes, in the quietest part of the night when it’s hard to silence my mind, if anything will ever be enough.
“This one was particularly close to him. She and her father convinced him to run the job that ultimately got him killed—trying to kill Evelyn Yashkov.” I narrow my eyes at Saul. “Nicci Armand. Does that ring any bells?”
Saul chuckles. “I’ve heard of her. Socialite, right? Heiress to a billionaire empire. Or she was, anyway.”
“Was?” I feign surprise, though it was clear to me from the moment I found her in the Gilded Lily that she’s not heiress to anything now. “Did something happen to her?”
Saul shrugs. “Fell out of favor, I guess. Word was that her father was pissed when her engagement to Dimitri Yashkov fell through. After Barca died and that job fell through, he tried to marry her off to some German heir who was set to inherit a lot of cash and take over one of his family’s businesses here. Franz something-or-other. Mr. Armand set up an entire to-do for the proposal, supposedly arranged it to happen at this huge charity event, where all the who’s who of Manhattan—legit billionaires and crime families alike—would be. From what I heard, he snubbed her in front of all of them. She disappeared after that. No mention of her online, on gossip sites, those social media pages that follow fashion—nothing.”
“Hm.” I sit back. It’s something, and nothing, all at once. I knew she’d fallen out of favor with her family, obviously. I knew about the failed marriage to Dimitri and my brother’s failure to succeed at the plans he made with Nicci’s father. The rest is news to me, although it doesn’t tell me much about Nicci, beyond adding a layer to the reasons why she didn’t want Estella Gallo to see her with me at the restaurant. Estella might have witnessed her humiliation, and seeing her out and about would have started a new, fresh rumor mill.
“What about Barca? Anything about what she did for him?”
Saul shrugs. “She wasn’t with him for long. From what I heard, he used her as a lure. If he wanted someone dead, he’d use her as a honeytrap. Get them alone in a room, and his men would make their move.”
My gut tightens at that, an instinctive anger surging through me at the idea of Barca using Nicci as bait. And, on the heels of that, a surge of guilt.
Didn’t I do exactly that? Don’t I plan on doing it again?
Am I no different from my brother?
That thought sends a cramp of alarm through me, from my chest to my stomach, painful enough that it makes me physically cough. Saul looks at me, raising an eyebrow.
“You alright?”
“Just swallowed a bit of my drink wrong.” I clear my throat, but the thought remains. How are my goals any different from my father’s, from Barca’s? Just because I’m going about it differently, because I’m more careful, smarter—the goals themselves aren’t so different. And now it seems that I’m treating Nicci much the same.
She asked for the deal. She wanted to do this. The thought doesn’t make me feel any better.
“Anything else you can tell me?” I reach into my inner jacket pocket, sliding out the envelope of cash that I brought for Saul. “I could be inclined to throw in a bit extra.”
“As much as I’d like that, I’m afraid I don’t have anything else for you.” Saul glances at the envelope. “She was a socialite. Barca was a low-level gangster before he threw in with the wrong people and tried to reach too high. It’s not as if either of them belonged to one of the major families.”
I nod, nudging the envelope towards him. “Thanks anyway.”
It’s not as if I found out nothing at all—I think on the ride home, the burn of cheap whiskey still lingering in my throat. But largely, Nicci still remains a mystery to me. And the longer she stays mysterious, the harder it is for me to pry her out of my thoughts.
—
After our training session a few days later, I hand Nicci a folded piece of paper. She’s leaning against the wall, trying to catch her breath, and she pushes a damp piece of hair away from her face, glaring at me.
“Give me a second,” she pants, and I smirk at her.
“Don’t you want to see the next Crow that I found? See if you recognize him?”
She narrows her eyes, reaching out to snatch the paper out of my hand. I should punish her for that, I think, but it doesn’t dig in like before. Instead, something rebels in me at the thought of trying to break her spirit further.
I like her fire. Her refusal to admit defeat. Her innate stubbornness. The idea of destroying that feels wrong, and no matter how often I remind myself that I put this all in motion, that I chose to buy her from her father and make her mine, I can’t help feeling that maybe…maybe I made a mistake.
What I need is to fuck her. Or fuck someone else. Clear my head. I’m not thinking straight—that much seems obvious.
“I do recognize him.” Nicci’s voice cuts through my thoughts, and I blink, refocusing on her.
“You do?”
She nods. “He was an errand boy for Barca. Marco Black. He would try to grab me if he ever got the chance, just inappropriately enough to make me uncomfortable, but never enough to get himself in real trouble with Barca.”
My jaw tightens. “Touching you at all wouldn’t have gotten him in trouble?”
Nicci’s face goes blank, as if she’s trying to hide her emotions from me. It makes me want to reach out and shake her, force her to reveal them to me, like a magic 8 ball that’s not giving me the answers I want. “As long as it wasn’t more than an ass-grab or ‘accidentally’ touching a breast, then no. Barca liked to let them think they could have me, eventually, if they worked hard enough. And he liked to make me squirm, make me think that he’d do it, if I pissed him off.”
My gut tightens. I’d kill any man who touched Nicci other than me. If Lucas hadn’t already been marked for death, I would have killed him as soon as I saw his hands on her. How Barca let that happen when she was his is beyond me.
But she’s mine now. Which means no one else will ever have her again.
“So what’s the plan?” Nicci waves the paper at me. “Where are we going after this one? I can do the seduction routine again, same as last time, depending on where?—”
“No.” I shake my head. “We’ll do it differently. He frequents a bar in Hell’s Kitchen. He’s there just about every night.”
Nicci narrows her eyes at me. Her demeanor has shifted, and even though her attitude is the opposite of the submissive behavior I’ve demanded, I don’t think she can help it. I can see the wheels in her head turning, her mind spinning as she works out how we’re going to tackle this problem.
In this moment, I realize, whether I like it or not, we’re partners. As far as she’s concerned, anyway.
And I like it more than I should.
“A bar is perfect, then,” she insists. “Marco will easily fall for a ruse where I pretend that I want to go home with him. You follow like before, and we’ll kill him.”
She says it smoothly, almost too smoothly, and I catch a small flicker in her expression. Lucas was the first man she ever killed—so far as I know, anyway—and I’m well aware that leaves a mark. But she also wants revenge, and I know that leaves a mark, too.
I leave it alone. I doubt she wants me to dig into her feelings about anything, and the last thing I need is a reason to care more about how she feels than I clearly already do.
Her eyes are still narrowed. “Why do you care if I try to seduce him?” she asks smoothly, her words quick as a striking snake. “Why does it bother you that Barca used me as an enticement for his men?”
I know he used you as a lure for others, too. It fits with what she just told me, further confirmation that Saul’s information, as sparse as it was, was good.
“Fine.” I bite out the word, my stomach twisting in knots at the thought of this man touching her. But that’s why I should go along with her plan, precisely because it bothers me so much. At the end of the day, she’s meant to be mine to use as I see fit. If that’s as a honeytrap for these men, well, the difference between me and my brother is that those men are going to die. I have no plans to actually let them have her.
Nicci looks startled that I’ve capitulated so easily. “Really?” There’s genuine surprise in her tone, and for a moment, the careful guard that she always has up around me falls away. For that brief second, as her expression opens and turns curious, we might just be two people making plans for something far more normal than assassinating my brother’s former gang.
“Yes.” I take the paper out of her hand, a little too quickly, turning away from her before she can see just how off-balance she’s thrown me. “I’ll put someone on it tonight—watching for him, I mean. Be ready for me to tell you that we need to go. It could be tonight, or tomorrow…or later. It just depends on when I get the call.”
“Sounds fine to me.” There’s the sound of her weight shifting on the mats behind me, and she blows out a sharp breath. “Can we go hom—back? I really want a shower. Sir .”
There’s so much that I should address about what she just said, but I’m stuck at the beginning, at the moment where she very nearly called my penthouse home. A slip of the tongue, obviously… but something tightened in my chest when she said it. When she changed it, catching herself and realizing that she’d spoken out of turn. The rest had been almost sarcastic, as if she wanted me to focus on that instead of her mistake.
I should punish her for all of it. For her sarcasm, for nearly calling my penthouse her home, for her attitude since the moment I showed her Marco’s photo. She needs to be reminded of her place, and I clearly need to be reminded of why I started all of this in the first place.
But I don’t feel the desire to. Instead, once we’re back at the penthouse, I take her to her room and leave her there. I step back out into the hall, her workout clothes wadded up in one hand, and drag the other through my hair, reminding myself over and over of the mantra that has gotten me through since I left Manhattan.
I’m in control. I’m in control. I am the one in control.
And yet, for the first time since everything fell apart and I ran, it rings hollow, even in my own head.