7. Edward
Edward
M urder is the opposite side of the coin from life, and in my wildest dreams, I never thought I’d give a fuck about Arden dying. In fact, I’d contemplated doing it myself not too long ago.
At least until I fingered his daughter in their garden. Plans have to change in this business when you find something you want.
Goddamn it, I shouldn’t have followed him.
I lurch out of my crouch, working the kinks out of my neck. “Fuck.”
There’s no need to check for a pulse. Not with this kind of wound. Stomach punctures are known to be a slow way to die, and an inch or two to the left might have left Arden gurgling as he choked on his own blood.
As it was, whoever stabbed him knew what to do, and they’d gotten lucky, slicing through the right blood vessels and arteries for an instant death. He was in a pisspoor way before this conversation, too.
I wouldn’t be surprised if an autopsy illuminated a cocktail of crap in his bloodstream.
I’m the wrong person to be here right now. Wrong person, wrong time, wrong fucking night.
Just when I thought things were taking a turn for the right.
I draw blood-slicked hands through my hair. A lone dog barks in the distance and a puff of foul-smelling smoke belches from the sewer grate.
Sweat pours down my spine and pools at the waistband of my pants. With a sigh, I head back inside the club to use their phone.
Wrong person, wrong time, a ton of trouble hardening like cement at my ankles.
It takes hours to get my father’s men to the scene. To search for clues and clean up, wrapping the body in a rug and duct-taping it at the edges.
It’s nothing we haven’t done before.
Usually, it’s Father giving them the orders, but they'll listen to me because of who I am.
The procedure leaves me covered in blood, staring down at the spot where Arden had died. I can’t exactly say it’s a waste that he’s gone. But fuck, Nicola is going to be heartbroken. How would I feel in her shoes? If my old man were the one with the knife in the gut instead of hers?
The scary part is that I’m not sure how I’d feel. Delighted, on one hand. I’d be a complete prick if I didn’t admit it to myself. Sad, of course, filled with grief over the loss of a stoic and hardworking leader. Relieved, I supposed, to have the reins of control firmly where they belong: with me.
Things would almost be easier if it were Gio Balestra rather than Arden wrapped in a tarp in my trunk. At least now there's no need to worry about the goddamn painting.
I finally drop like stones into the front seat of my car.
“Sir? Are you sure you want to go alone?” The man my father hired as my personal chauffeur, chaperone, and bodyguard stands to attention a few paces away.
“Yes, go home. I’ll handle this myself.”
“It won’t be safe,” he retorts.
I scoff loud enough for him to hear. “I’ll handle it myself.” The door slams, a punctuation to the conversation.
And the moment the wheels hum over the sidewalk, exhaustion presses down. Death turns the night into tortures without end.
This might not be the first time I cleaned up after a mess I did not make, but this one is going to be tough. Nicola won’t take this well.
She deserves to hear it from me, from someone who saw what happened, in a manner of speaking. Someone with the brute strength and the gunpowder to figure out what exactly happened and find the bastard responsible.
The thought is so vehement and violent that I sit up straighter.
Why do I want to make this my problem?
For Nicola? For some sweet pussy who doesn’t mean anything to me outside of her beauty? And her connection to Arden?
The smartest thing to do is stay as far away as fucking possible from this chaos before I get my own people into trouble. Yet I don’t course correct. I say nothing on the drive up to the house after the guards wave us through.
And what is there to say when the housekeeper pulls open the door, takes one look at me covered in blood, and bolts to grab her master.
Mistress, I correct silently. The master, with his iron fists, won’t return home again. It’s no great loss, but it changes the game, and I don’t like it when the circumstances shift suddenly.
I should be used to it by now.
Footsteps sound like a herd of wild horses, and Nicola rounds the corner, her hair tucked into a messy bun at the base of her neck. Her eyes narrow when she takes me in.
“Been rolling around on the floor of a slaughterhouse?” she says with a hint of a smile. “Eddie, you know how to get into trouble.”
For the first time in my life, I’ve got no clue how to start. Words feel paltry and insufficient.
“Where are your mother and brother?” I ask.
Nicola glances over her shoulder. “Well, Mom is in her room, hasn’t left it for hours, and Scott went out to a party. Why?”
“We need to talk.” My heart drops the moment I say it because those three words are always bad news. They never preface something decent and good.
No man covered in blood would show up on the doorstep of a powerful family close to midnight with good news.
I watch the color leach from her face. “Tell me.”
She cuts right to the chase, this girl. I fucking wish there was another way to do this. But there isn’t. The merry-go-round continues whether I like it or not.
“Why are you covered in blood?” she presses when I’m still for too long. “Something’s going on.”
I hold out a hand for her to take. “Come with me.”
Nicola eyes it like I’ve offered her a king cobra.
“Goddamn it, take my hand. Now.”
A single command might be ignored, but a second one? We both knew the lesson well. Maybe we both had it beaten into us at the same time to obey without question. Only in my case, I’ll graduate from the one on his knees to the one giving the orders.
Nicola will not. As a female with an older brother, her duty is to keep her head bowed and obey. Yet there she stands, balking and red-faced, her eyes going dark and narrow as she pierces them through me
Without waiting for her to give me an answer I’ll no doubt hate, I reach out and grab her wrist, tugging her over the threshold.
“You’re going to get blood on my dress.”
“Then you’ll have it dry cleaned.”
I pull her toward the car and keep hold of her wrist as I fumble for the trunk. A press of a button has the lid popping open, and inside, god, inside?—
“Look, I’m sorry.” I maintain eye contact with the woman trembling in the moonlight, staring at the body wrapped in plastic. “I’m sorrier than I can begin to express.”
Only the top of his head is visible above the blue tarp. If you zoomed in on Salvatore’s face, he might only be sleeping. Might be taking a quick nap in the trunk while his body cooled and rigor mortis set in.
Nicola’s mouth opens to scream, but no sound comes out. Nothing happens.
Her gaze fixates on her father’s head. I’ve seen horror before. I’ve seen fucked-up shit that haunts me when I close my eyes, but the emotions on her face are too fast for me to follow and even harder to feel myself.
Those kinds of things disappear when you’re in this line of work. Any shred of compassion or humanity has to die in order to be successful. Maybe I have too much of the stuff left because the sight of her breaking tears at my heart with iron fists.
Her silence makes it all the more surprising when she launches herself at me. Her fingernails make contact with my cheeks before I push her hands away.
“How could you? Why? Why, Eddie!”
She’s going for the eyes, and those claws of hers are sharp enough to cause serious damage. Pain flashes, and heat trails along my skin. She’s scratching the shit out of me, and I’ve got to push it all aside.
I force ice into my veins. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t me. I had nothing to do with this.”
“Then why is he in your trunk? Why do you have him?” Nicola screams. “Why is he dead?”
I fumble with her, and she lands another powerful scratch across my right eye. Growling, I somehow manage to spin her around and lock my arms around her torso to quiet her. But Nicola is uncontained motion and grief.
She bucks against me and slams her head backward. She’d have broken my nose if I hadn’t ducked at the last minute. Instead, her skull cracks against my shoulder.
“Let me go!”
I pull her back with such force her legs leave the ground, and she’s kicking at the air. The end of her heel slams against the car hard enough to leave a dent in the paint. The next time she kicks, she’s going straight for the inside of my knees.
“I can figure out who did this. Okay? I’m the only one who saw it happen, and that’s how I have your father. I can help you.”
She’s screeching like a banshee and hard enough to wake the damn dead. I’d be less surprised if her father pried his eyes open and took another breath than I would have if Nicola believed me without objection.
“The same person who tried to frame your dad for the theft is more than likely behind this.” I squeeze her tight enough to shove the breath right out of her lungs, but Nicola won’t cease. “Now fucking stop! I can’t help you if you kick the shit out of me.”
She won’t stop screaming, and she refuses to go quiet. I’m seconds away from knocking her out for her own good when she falls limp in my arms, sinking forward like someone flipped a switch inside of her.
This is worse. This is so much worse when the fight is gone.
“Are you ready to actually listen to me?”
She’s got no answer for me, and when I set her on her feet, I keep my hands on her waist to steady her. She stares at the ground and refuses to look at the car any longer.
I swipe a hand over my face, and the scratches sting. Blood stains my cheeks, trailing down to my chin and dripping over my collar.
Not like I don’t have a ton of suits to replace it, but man, I never thought she’d do so much damage.
“Look, I’ll help you,” I say, proud when my voice remains steady. “I’ll figure out what happened to him. I’m not going to leave you alone.”
Nicola slowly straightens, like a flower finally getting the water it needs to flourish. She lifts her face to the sky, and when she turns to me, there isn’t a hint of a tear anywhere. Only grim determination. “I’m not alone.”
I won’t state the obvious: her mother is useless, a shell of a woman, and her brother is too concerned with his parties and his friends to take the necessary steps. Their organization is ripe for a takeover, and once news of this death gets out, there won’t be anyone around to stop their competitors from moving.
She’ll be auctioned off to whoever is first to get her, and from there, I can’t help her.
Will she trust the evil she knows, the one she’s kissed? Or will she take her chances with whoever comes in to steal her?
“Why were you there?”
Her question takes me off guard. “Does it matter?”
“Yes. To me, it matters.”
“This is a small town. I saw something I shouldn’t have. Unfortunately, I wasn’t fast enough to stop the inevitable.”
Because this was bound to happen to Arden. He was too drunk, too rich, too much of a liability for anyone to leave him alive for long.
“What’s your connection, Edward?” Nicola presses. “You must have been there if you have his body.”
If I tell her the whole truth, she’ll never forgive me. “It’s you. You’re the connection. I want you to be happy.”
“Bullshit.”
She’s compliant when I draw her against my chest. And despite the blood, she lets me kiss her, pressing my lips first to one cheek and then to the other. I paint her as red as I am, and with her father cooling between us, I capture her mouth, sliding my tongue against hers.
“He came into the club tonight. He looked unwell, so I followed him outside. I didn’t catch a good look at the man who did it, but enough to be able to piece things together. I’m going to take care of you. And this,” I murmur.
“There’s no way you can.” She sounds like she’d rather be anywhere else, with anyone else, then she’s kissing me, and I taste her disgust and sadness.
I taste the emotions I no longer feel with every rough inhalation she makes, with every moan I’m powerless to keep silent. Her nipples are hard, and awareness skitters straight down to my cock. It brings me to life.
If I don’t draw the line, then I'll take her right here against the car. I’ll thrust inside her tight little cunt and take her virginity with the corpse of her father watching us. No blessing, only a curse.
I like Nicola too much to do that to her.
Drawing every ounce of self-possession at my disposal, I rear back before the kisses go brutal with need.
“We’ll figure it out together,” I assure her.
“What are we going to do with him?”
I blow out a breath and take a step back. The night air is chilly but not nearly cool enough to calm the raging lust. And those fucking nipples of hers, so high and perky against the fabric of her sweater?—
“Where is it? The place where your dad stores the bodies?”
Nicola jolts back. “He doesn't have a place like that.”
“I assure you, he does.” My gaze hardens. “Would your brother know about it?”
“My brother barely knows how to tie his shoes properly without a joint in his hand.”
“Then maybe your mother. They have to know more than you.”
Telling her she’s been sheltered isn’t the right way to get what I want, and what I want right now is another cigarette and some sleep.
I want to fuck Nicola Salvatore until she’s screaming my name hard enough to shake the ceiling rafters. My gut tells me none of those things are going to happen.
“Do you trust me?”
She scoffs. “Not a damn bit.”
“You’re going to have to. I’ll store your father, and in the morning, we’ll arrange for a discreet funeral. That’s what he wanted, right?”
She blows out a breath, shaking her head, her eyes going glassy. Her lips are red and plump, and her chin raw from our kisses. “I have no clue.”
My chest puffs out. The daughter of my enemy, my dead enemy, and she’s delicate and pretty and breakable. It doesn’t matter what complications brought us together, and it doesn’t fucking matter what sins we’ve committed against each other. I want to do this for her.
“I’ll handle it. Let me take him someplace, and I’ll be back.”
Before I take a step, her arm whips out, and she grabs my jacket. “Don’t leave me.”
Ah, fuck. It’s exactly what I want her to say and the opposite of what I need her to say.
“I’ll be back. Which one is your bedroom?”
Wordlessly, Nicola points to a room on the second floor at the corner of the house. A light burns inside, muffled by some kind of sheer curtain.
“When I’m back, I’ll find you.”
It takes hours to arrange the body with the funeral home my family bought off. Hours to get the details hammered out with them—they ask no questions—before I’m in the shower and pulling on a clean change of clothes. The cigarette never happens, neither does the booze, and my head is clear enough to make me wish I had both.
Why did I agree to go back?
Why did I agree to do anything for her?
Because I’m a fucking sadist. Because I want to torture myself with the person I can’t have, and I want to be the one who holds her through her sorrow. Not that Nicola will cry. I’ve got a feeling I'll find her with her eyes dry and her nipples still perky.
By the time I drag my ass back to her place, it’s nearing three in the morning. Being in the house before helps, and Nicola left the back door open for me. I climb the stairs, finding her room with the door ajar and the light still burning for me.
She sits up in bed, and her dark hair falls over her shoulders, richer for the paleness of her skin.
She’s changed into her nightdress and the material cuts low.
Any other time, I would have done it. Gone straight for what I want and damned the consequences.
But she’s reaching for me, and I’m falling into her arms, cradling her head against my chest.
“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, little fox.”
There’s no sex that night.
Nothing except a few stolen kisses. Nothing except her suffering and my lies. Nothing until the paper in the morning, delivered with my morning coffee after I sneak out of her house with the first rays of light.
Three days later, I’ve drained half a cup of coffee with my first three gulps when Gio strides into the room. He knocks me down two feet with his biting glare of distaste.
“Where were you all night?”
I shrug, setting the cup on the counter. “Out. Does it matter?”
I expect him to launch into a tirade about the gambling. The past two nights, I’ve gone back to the den, pressing the others for information about Arden and his contacts. As I thought, most of the guys are tongue-tied.
Instead, the sides of Father’s lips twitch upward before completing their insidious curl.
“What’s wrong with you?” I ask.
Despite the early hour, he’s already dressed in a three-piece suit with his grandfather’s pocket watch tucked neatly into his breast pocket. “Wonderful news,” he says evenly. “Arden Salvatore has been murdered.”
I stiffen. Did Father take a trip to the mortuary? “You don’t say?”
“It takes care of a number of our problems, Ed,” Father continues. “Especially considering the police are on the way to question his family. The daughter specifically, so my contacts tell me.”
My spine frosts over in dread at his words. Somehow, the murder has been leaked, and I’m willing to bet it’s a purposeful move by the man in the fedora. Now Nicola is under the butcher’s knife.