Chapter 12 Kingston
KINGSTON
My eyes trace over Livvie’s curves as she bends to slide onto the leather couch in a darkened corner of Clydz, the jazz bar I like to frequent.
The music helps to clear my head of the mass amounts of bullshit I have to deal with on a daily basis as my father’s second-in-command. And since our sham wedding, there’s been a hell of a lot more noise reverberating between my ears than normal.
I can think of plenty of other, more preferable ways to relieve the stress of my current reality. But my new bride has sharp fucking fangs, and I’ll get a hell of a lot more satisfaction out of fucking her senseless when she begs for it.
I resist the urge to lick my lips as she settles into the semicircle booth.
I said to wear a sexy little dress and for once, she fucking listened.
The deep red color pops against her creamy skin, the deep neckline plunging between her lush tits.
It’s short and tight, leaving barely anything to my twisted and torrid imagination.
She slants me a glare. “Looks like you’ve got something to say. I’d think twice about letting any comment hit air.”
My lips lift into a half smirk. “I was just gonna say I like the outfit. You did good.”
Her eyes widen and she clutches her hand to her chest in mock glee. “Oh, I’m so happy to have pleased you, Master,” she gushes, her words laced with sarcasm.
Snarky. Christ, now I really wanna bend her over the side of the table.
I shrug. “I was just giving you a compliment. Figured a lady would accept it graciously.”
“I’m not going to melt just because you decide to not be an uber dick for once.” Livvie flips her hair over her shoulder. “But… thanks.”
A tall, lanky guy walks over and stares at Livvie for a second too long. I knock on the table to get his attention. “You wanna leave here tonight blind? I can make that happen, friend. Take your eyes off my wife and bring us two glasses of Macallan 25.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Livvie bite back a smile. “Asshole,” she murmurs.
“You don’t drool over another man’s date. It’s fucking rude and disrespectful.” I pause. “Even if she is fucking stunning.”
Livvie’s lips part, her eyebrows flying up. “You really…” She pauses and shakes her head.
“I really what?”
A pink tint colors her cheeks. “You surprise me. I mean, most of the time, I’m surprised by how insufferable you are, but every once in a while… I see that there’s a shred of decency in there. Way down deep.”
I chuckle. “Just a shred.”
The server walks back to our table and without a single glance at either me or Livvie, he sets down the glasses and hightails it away from the table.
We pick up our glasses and clink them before each taking a sip of the amber-colored liquid.
Livvie downs the drink without making a face.
“You’re a whiskey girl,” I say.
She shrugs and taps her nails against the side of the crystal glass. “I’m Irish. Kind of have to be.”
“You know, you surprise me too,” I say, placing my glass on the table and moving toward her.
I catch a whiff of her perfume. It teases my senses, so sultry and seductive. Her green eyes darken as I close the space between us, the floating candle in the center of the table casting a glow over her face.
She doesn’t pull away. She just watches me, her stony expression melting into one of curiosity. The soulful notes of the song being performed curl in the air, the melody winding around us like invisible chains, beckoning us toward something borderline intimate.
“How?” she finally asks in a low voice.
“You could have run,” I say. “A few times. Gotten the hell out of the city and away from this shitstorm. But you didn’t.”
Her eyes drop for half a second, and then she raises them toward mine. “I hate being out of control of my life. But I’d always sacrifice my happiness to protect my family. Me leaving would destroy them in so many ways. I couldn’t live with myself if I caused harm to any of them.”
“That’s honorable.” I down the rest of my drink.
“You’re doing the same thing,” she says. “In a little more of a control freaky kind of way.”
“Can’t argue with the freaky part,” I say.
A small laugh escapes her lips.
I’ve heard plenty of fake ones, just not the real thing.
“You have a nice laugh.”
Her smile widens. “See? There you go again. Surprising me.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
She twists slightly toward me. “I’m not some stupid na?ve girl who believes in fairy tales and white knights, Kingston. We all have layers, and beneath all of yours is a black fucking soul.”
“The blackest,” I say, moving closer still.
Our gazes tangle and tussle, the air between us crackling with the kind of electrical current that could easily fizzle out all of the reasons why I should keep away from Livvie, the reasons why it would be too dangerous to give in to every sensation coursing through me right now.
Heavy footsteps jolt me from my thoughts and I pull my gaze away from Livvie, meeting the angry one of Roman whatever the fuck. My lips pull into a tight line and I slide out of the booth to face him.
“You just can’t seem to keep the fuck away from what’s mine, can you,” I say, a statement, not a question. “Stop showing up where you don’t belong.”
Roman’s about a head shorter than me but he glares like we’re eye to eye.
“That attack at the gala? It wasn’t just a random hit. It was a message. For you, asshole,” he growls.
I slam him against the paneled wall, locking him into position with my forearm against his throat. The music stops. People stare, holding their breath for what comes next. Livvie gasps and jumps out of her seat. “You need to get the hell out of here now.”
“Maybe you need to ask yourself why I’m needed,” Roman sputters. “There are reasons, Kingston.”
Rage bubbles in my veins, scorching every cell.
“I don’t give a shit what your reasons are. Go back to your boss and tell him I’m in charge. Not him. Not you. Whatever you think you know is bullshit. And if you think about coming near my wife again, it won’t be my arm pressed against your throat. It’ll be a blade slicing through it.”
We leave the jazz club, my vision a blur of red the whole ride back home because of that asshole.
Livvie doesn’t even try to speak to me while we’re in the back of the truck.
Just before the driver pulls into the private garage, my cell phone pings with a message.
Dropping my eyes to the screen, my entire body tenses.
I clutch the phone tight in my hand.
It’s a summons. From the Red Tribunal. An address and a time, exactly an hour and a half from now. I text Bronx and tell him to get his ass over to my place immediately, if not sooner.
I stalk out of the elevator once we’re back in the penthouse, shrug off my jacket, and head directly to the bar. I pour myself a glass of bourbon, down it, then hurl the glass against a wall.
“What is it?” Livvie finally asks. “Who texted you?”
I gulp down another shot and just as I’m about to answer, the elevator doors open and Bronx barrels into the foyer.
“What the fuck is going on?” he says.
“I need to go out to Long Island,” I say, clenching the highball glass in my hand. “The Red Tribunal wants me to appear before them. Tonight.”
“Okay, so lemme get the guys together—” Bronx starts.
“No. I’m not bringing an entourage with me. That’ll make me look weak as fuck and that’s not how I play. If they want me, they’ll get me.” I turn to Livvie and capture her chin in my hand. “Don’t trust anybody,” I growl. “And don’t fucking leave this penthouse. No matter what happens.”
I slant Bronx a look. “Stay with her. Don’t let anyone in here.”
“This is stupid,” Bronx grumbles. “You should at least take me with you. We can fuck ’em up together. United front and all that shit.”
“It’s more important for you to stay here.” I shoot a pointed look at Livvie.
“I can protect myself,” Livvie says. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
I lift an eyebrow. “You really wanna go there, princess? It’s because of me you’re alive right now. I wanna keep you that way. So don’t fucking leave.”
She rolls her eyes. “Uh-huh, totally not surprising at all.”
I grab a .22mm and stick it into the waistband of my pants. Then I hold out my hand to Bronx. “Give me your keys.”
Bronx grits his teeth and drops the keys to his Audi R8 into my outstretched hand. “Watch the fucking paint job.”
Forty-five minutes later, I pull off the Seaford-Oyster Bay Expressway. I weave through darkened neighborhoods of huge estate homes until I come to a gated mansion set so far back from the road, I can't even make it out. I lower my window and stab the button next to the intercom.
Nobody answers but the black wrought iron gates creak open. With my pulse hammering a hole into the side of my neck, I shift and press my foot on the gas, following the driveway all the way to the house beyond a thick wall of trees. The place is dark, save for a few lights on the ground floor.
The front door opens before I have a chance to knock and a man in a dark suit wordlessly leads me toward a large drawing room where three other men sit. Watching. Waiting.
He makes a quick introduction, pointing at the men from left to right. “Conor Gallivan, Carlo Rossi, Giovanni Fiorentino.”
I nod at them, a disturbing chill slipping down my back.
“Do you know why we called you out here?” one of them, Conor, asks me.
“Poker night?” I ask, deadpan.
“Careful, boy. Humor can get you killed.” Carlo stands up and smooths the front of his white shirt. He steps toward me. “You know what else can get you killed?”
“I don’t think you wanna hear another bad joke, so why don’t you just save the drama and tell me?” I say, squaring my shoulders. Fuck them if they think this shit is gonna rattle me.
“The gala attack wasn’t random. It was orchestrated to test your reaction,” Giovanni speaks, his hands folded over his knee.
“Well, I’m still alive, so I gotta believe I passed, yeah?”
“You’re alive, yes. But for how long depends on you, since your loyalty has been called into question,” Carlo says.
“Called into question how?” I demand. “I haven’t gone against the Tribunal. I married O’Callaghan’s daughter, just like you wanted. What the hell makes you think I’m acting against you?”
“We’ve seen evidence of your behavior that leads us to think we can’t trust you, that you’re not of the right caliber to be initiated into the Red Tribunal. And that will be devastating to your family, as you already know the consequences of acting out of line.”
“Why don’t you just tell me something that I can understand?” I say through gritted teeth. “Instead of feeding me a bunch of coded horseshit that doesn’t make any sense.”
“If you want to rule New York City, you need the Tribunal’s backing. You can’t take over your family’s organization without it… without being a member.” Conor steps toward me, his dark eyes beady as black marbles. “And in order to become a member, you’ll need to prove your loyalty to us, Kingston.”
The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. “I did what you wanted. I married Livvie O’Callaghan. That was the deal.”
Conor shakes his head, a quiet chuckle shocking the tense air. “That was only the first step in your initiation.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I ask through gritted teeth. Why the fuck didn’t Dad tell me about any of this? It feels like fucking sabotage, and right now, I’m in the lion’s den with voracious predators who are looking at me like I’m their next meal.
“There are tasks you need to complete in order to become a full member. We need to know that you are worthy of carrying on our legacy. Loyalty is key. Trust is critical. Your father knows the rules.”
My head spins, trying to make sense of the words being hurled at me. I stare at Conor, the malice glittering in his dark eyes, his stoic, lined face, his tight jaw.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask, my heart damn near screeching to a stop when he speaks again.
“You’re going to make a choice, Kingston. Right here, right now. If you want the life we can promise,” Conor says, a chill slicing through me at his sinister tone. “You will bring us a sacrifice. Or die.”