Remy

22. Remy

REMY

She turns and walks away,my gaze eating her up until she disappears around the van.

It takes everything in me not to follow. Not to chase after her and somehow rid her of the hollowness that seems to have carved its way inside her.

Instead I stand there, punishing myself with the what-ifs.

What if Flynn hadn’t sent me a photo of Ollie at the front of the club?

What if I’d arrived at Smoke Mirrors ten minutes later?

What if that piece of shit hadn’t attempted to rape her and just went in for the kill?

I shove a hand through my hair, the rage reigniting. I wait until her engine purrs to life, until the low rumble disappears into the distance. Then I turn on my heel to find my men, and take pleasure in burning my employee’s body to bone.

I spend days thinking about her. Worrying about her.

I picture her alone in that house, isolated with her struggles.

I should’ve done more to make sure she was okay. The only thing that stopped me was the threat of what would happen to her if I defied Lorenzo’s orders. He’s still too much of an unknown. A familial ally, yet potentially a patriarchal monster. Just like my father.

Once she’s back at work, I demand updates from Wesley more frequently.

I hound him with questions.

Is she eating enough?

Ask her if she’s sleeping.

Is she still wearing my ring?

None of his answers appease me. I want to hear them from her. Want to see for myself that the shadows under her eyes are gone. But cutting ties as much as our renegotiated terms will allow is for the best.

She said it herself: “I don’t want to be in this situation again.”

She doesn’t want to be around me, surrounded by the aftermath of my brutality.

I don’t text her again for weeks. But when I do, it’s another painful truth?—

Me

I’ve been thinking about you.

The aggravating mental gymnastics have been constant. Egregious. A dedicated, obnoxious train of thought that doesn’t quit.

She’s always on my mind. Those impassioned hazel eyes. The whimsically braided hair.

I hadn’t thought the cartel would lay as low as they have. They’re practically in hiding, with the whispers on the street being that there’s a struggle to find a suitable replacement for their slaughtered leadership.

It’s one of the bartenders at my brother’s whiskey bar that triggers my reunion with lust-filled insanity, his stupidity at peddling drugs on family property ending his middle-aged life.

I would’ve spared him—sent him on his way with my personalized version of a slap on the wrist—if only I hadn’t been informed of the transgression from a cop on the payroll who said the punk was willing to throw Salvatore under the bus to escape conviction.

This time when Ollie drives into the funeral home parking lot during the midnight hours, she remains in her car. Her vehicle is nowhere to be seen by the time the betrayer’s body has been reduced to granulated bone.

And I, being the sick, pathetic fuck I am, miss her.

I’m frustrated that I don’t get to speak to her. That she didn’t break the rules so I could hear her voice.

More weeks pass. The cartel settles into new leadership, and Salvatore and I remain on alert for backlash that doesn’t arise.

I contemplate killing a random just to see Ollie. For the mere excuse to be in her fucking presence.

Winter turns to spring, and I convince myself it’d be a good idea to meet with Carlo once a week to keep updated on his cancer status when what I’m really attempting to orchestrate is a dose of pretty little Pyro proximity.

Some weeks I’m successful because Ollie often works late.

One night I catch sight of her locking up as I drive around the back of the building to chat with her dad.

Weeks later, our cars pass in the drive, but when I hit the brakes and attempt to meet her gaze she speeds away.

Even when I do get to see her it’s never enough.

But the visits aren’t a hardship.

I appreciate Carlo.

He’s a realist who holds a moral compass I admire. He’s also the only father figure I’ve known who hasn’t had homicidal tendencies. We chat about everything. Sometimes it’s only for a few minutes. Other times it’s for hours over coffee in his living room, the conversation flowing like we’re old friends instead of mafia criminal and innocent business partner.

I tell Salvo the meetings are a necessity. That keeping an eye on Carlo’s health means I’m keeping an eye on the stability of our contract, and my brother agrees with the logic.

But I’m yet to get what I really want. Time with her.

Everyone I come in contact with becomes a potential candidate to facilitate a pretty Pyro rendezvous. I think about killing twenty-four/seven just for the sake of being around her.

I end up getting lucky in the early days of March when I find two enemies tailing me around the city. Russo and Valenti torture them for info. Apparently the cartel aren’t laying as low as they want us to believe, and my head is in their sights.

I’d probably give a shit if I wasn’t so fucking pumped to have an excuse to message Ollie.

Me

I can’t stop thinking about that night at the dive bar. How you shuddered under my touch.

It wasn’t the best message to send in the early morning hours after months of radio silence, but fuck, those thighs of hers have been playing on my mind to no end.

I even go to the extent of storing one of the dead cartel in our van overnight, risking life in prison, just so I have an excuse to go back to the funeral home two nights in a row.

Me

Do you remember how wet you got for me?

Again, it’s not the most practical text, but I can’t help it.

She’s in my fucking head, constantly tinkering with my libido.

She doesn’t message back. Those three dots of potential conversation don’t appear. All I get is the update that the text has been read, and it’s enough to get my blood pumping. To make my dick hard as I wait just inside the funeral home as she arrives to watch the building until she finally drives away.

The remainder of the month is slow. Carlo gets weaker with each visit, his jovial demeanor becoming tainted from the chemo. Then April hits, another cartel member takes a bullet, and I sit like a giddy schoolgirl behind the wheel of my Bentley, trying to think of the perfect line to text my obsession.

I dream about fucking you. About how gorgeous your face would look when I make you come.

No. Sex isn’t an option, so texting it into existence is a monumental mistake.

I delete the message and try again.

I fantasize about tasting you. About gliding my tongue between your pussy?—

Fuck. What is wrong with me?

Delete. Delete. Delete.

Would your panties get wet if my hand slid back between your thighs?

No. Jesus Goddamn Christ.

I clench my fists as Russo and Valenti stare at me through the windows of the van parked across the street, waiting for me to pull my shit together so we can hurry up and dispose of the evidence.

Me

You mess with my head, Ollie… but for some reason I don’t want you to stop.

I hit send before I can think too long about it, the delivered status turning to read in less than thirty seconds.

This time I wait, leaning against the outside of the building like I did the night she was attacked, while my men handle the disposal.

She reverses in to a spot across the opposite side of the lot, her car idling as she stares at me through the windshield, her wavy hair framing a hypnotizing face.

My dick stirs without my consent. My fucking limbs thrum.

I have to get closer. I need to talk to her.

Lorenzo and safety be damned.

I push from the wall and stride toward her but before I’m halfway across the lot she takes off, driving into the night with my goddamn fucking sanity.

Two days later I’m still reeling, my head distracted, my thoughts in the gutter as I enter my penthouse apartment early in the evening to a mass of Flynn’s shoes scattered haphazardly in the foyer.

“Welcome home, boss,” he calls from another room.

I scowl, hating how he refers to me in a business sense after months of us living under the same roof. “Hey.” I dump my wallet and keys on the entry table and stroll into my open living area, the illuminated city skyline blinking its lights in the background.

“You’re home early for a Monday.” Flynn sits on my leather sofa, arms spread along the backrest, legs crossed and casual. “Do you want to join the party?”

Three white lines of powder sit on the glass coffee table, the display of drugs an obvious attempt to rile me.

All these months and I’m yet to raise my voice to this little fucker. But tonight might be the night.

The thought of him out on the streets buying coke, let alone touching it and spreading it into lines, has my animosity pulsing.

“Where’d you get that shit?” I keep my tone level. Measured.

His mouth kicks with a sardonic smirk. He’s trying to get in trouble. To push me. To see if I’ll push back, shoving him through the front doors, never to return.

The sad part is I get the psychology of it. The kid has a good thing here, but he doesn’t think it’ll last. He’s trying to end it on his terms before it gets stolen from him.

He pulls this shit all the time. Pretends to be a rebel. Flirts with breaking the law. Attempts to get under my skin.

He even did a deep dive on Ollie after her stint at the club. He tried to taunt me with his underhanded knowledge of all things Olivia Pelosi. The little fucker then proceeded to print hundreds of online photos and plastered them over my bedroom wall.

The joke was on him though because I loved that shit. The kid constructed a shrine to my obsession without me having to lift a finger.

He shrugs, running a bank card along the outside of the white powder. “Here and there. I made more friends. They gave me a discount.”

“Is that right?” I fail at keeping the snarl from my voice.

His lips kick higher.

Fucking masochist.

I clench my jaw, count to ten, and drag in a deep breath through my nose.

Do I smell baby powder?

That little fucking shit stain.

I’d laugh if the baggage from his childhood trauma didn’t have him so messed up.

“Yeah.” He kicks back, hefting his sock-covered heels onto the table beside the fake coke. “They seemed like good people.”

“I’m sure they did.” I discard my suit jacket and throw it over the back of the sofa. “You better not let it go to waste then.”

He blinks in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“I mean snort that shit and then clean up your mess. I’m starving, and there’s this place around the corner I want to try for dinner.”

He sits taller, his feet thumping back down to the floor. “You want me to do drugs?”

“Well, I’m not going to encourage you to waste them, am I?” I start for the kitchen, desperate to hide a smile.

“But… you don’t mind?”

I open the fridge. Grab a bottle of water. Crack the lid. “You know my work delves into some shady shit. Who am I to judge?” I watch him from the corner of my eye as I drink.

The poor kid is traumatized. Expression stark. Lips parted.

“Go on.” I jerk my chin at him. “I’m getting hangry.”

He glances from me to the baby powder lines then back again.

“You know how to do it, right?” I raise a condescending brow.

He cautiously scoots from the sofa to kneel before the table. “Yeah, of course.”

Fucking liar.

“Go on then.” I round the sofa to tower over him as he hesitantly leans toward the drugs.

He’s about to take a reluctant sniff when I lightly tap him over the back of the head with an open hand. “Don’t be a fucking moron. I know it’s not coke.”

He fumbles onto his haunches, remorse swimming in his usually playful eyes.

“You need to quit this testing-boundaries shit.” I jab the water bottle in his direction. “I’m not going to kick you out.”

He lowers his gaze to the table like a chastised puppy. “You will… eventually.”

A part of me dies every time he says shit like that. Every time he thinks I’ll give up on him. I may not be the best parental figure. I’m no Carlo Pelosi. But I’ll do everything in my power to make sure I’m nothing like the man who raised me.

I can bite my tongue.

I can be patient.

“Then you don’t know me very well, kid. I’m not the type to give up. I’m more likely to cuff you to your fucking bed and leave my men to guard your door until you wake up to yourself. Do you hear me?”

He keeps his gaze lowered with dejection.

“I said, do you hear me?” I jab the bottle into his shoulder.

“Yeah, I hear you.”

“Good. Because your folks may have taught you that ditching parental responsibilities was easy, but mine gave me a thorough education on how to use and abuse minions until they’re rung dry. You’re a smart kid and a valued commodity. I won’t be letting you walk out of here anytime soon.”

He blinks up at me, his eyes wide with alarm.

“I’m joking, asshole.” I reach out my free hand and help him to his feet. “You can leave whenever you like, but I’ll never push you to go. I wasn’t lying about you being valued. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders when you’re not trying to shove the world away.”

He relaxes. “But I don’t even have an education.”

“Yeah, you do. Yours was at the school of hard knocks. And as difficult as those lessons were, it will make you stronger. More adaptable.” I clap him on the back. I’d pull the poor, dejected bastard in for a fucking hug if I didn’t think he’d shove me away. “But you’ve gotta stop pushing against those who want to help you. Take what you can. Don’t hold back. Be greedy with it.”

He smirks. “Does that mean I should empty your safe and shit?”

“Nice try.” I nudge him with my shoulder. “We don’t bite the hand that feeds us.”

He chuckles, but something niggles at me. Something that turns my thoughts to Lorenzo and how I’m being a hypocrite for biting his metaphorical hand due to the updated terms with Ollie.

“Well, then, let’s get to feeding.” Flynn starts for the entry. “What’s this place you want to try for dinner?”

“It’s a Teppanyaki restaurant.” I walk around the sofa and grab my jacket. The temp outside is warm enough without it, but strolling around downtown Baltimore with a gun shoved into the back of my waistband isn’t a look I want to attempt to pull off. “I hope you like Japanese.”

He throws his hands up in the air, his expression light, as if we never even shared a heart-to-heart. “I don’t even know what Teppanyaki is.”

“Then I look forward to showing you.”

He leads the way to the elevator, and we talk shit on the descent. He tells me how his greatest memory revolving around food was when his dad took him to Applebee’s for his eighth birthday. But how they had to dine and ditch, only for Flynn to get caught by a security guard as he sprinted along the sidewalk while his dad took off.

It’s an odd juxtaposition to the way I grew up, yet the kid still feels like a baby brother. The only thing seeming to separate us is that his parents were horrendously derelict while mine were egregiously conniving.

We step out into the tepid spring night, just two guys living carefree and laughing at each other’s bullshit. I want him to have an easier life. To obtain the freedom I hadn’t experienced until recently.

I’m determined to make it happen. To be some sort of fucked up mentor.

The advocate I never had.

“It’s this way.” I jerk my head toward the left of my apartment building while Flynn continues to talk shit, ribbing me about how I cut my hair and the ‘pretty’ cologne I wear.

I’m about to volley a slew of smack talk about his jeans that hang too low over his ass and how he needs to lay off the protein for global warming’s sake when tires screech nearby.

I flinch, on alert, while Flynn laughs at his own joke.

An engine guns.

A woman screams.

My heart fucking plummets as I lunge toward him, the staccato thwack of bullets hitting the building behind us while a piercing pain stabs through my thigh.

He falls before I can lay hands on him. Eyes wide. Expression panicked.

He crumples to the cement and I follow, scrambling on top of him, covering his body as best I can.

But it’s too late.

Blood already seeps into the chest of my button-down. His gurgled gasps for breath haunt my ears.

“Stay with me, Flynn.” I shield his head with one arm and reach for my gun with the other. “Just fucking hang on.”