Killing Me Softly: A Romantic Suspense Anthology, page 118
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Epilogue
Harlowe
Shit.
That was the only word that seemed to fit the situation: the anger flaring in Aleksandr's eyes as he leaned into me, the heat of his breath against my cheek as my bottom lip trembled and I fought to find the words for some kind of response.
But what in the hell was I supposed to say to that?
"You should," I mumbled stupidly, gasping as his eyes narrowed and dropped to my mouth as the words formed. His glare seemed to intensify, the danger lurking in his hazel eyes like something out of the woods at night.
Like something that belonged to a predator, stalking me through the trees.
He pulled his wallet from his back pocket, tossing on the table a wad of cash that had to be far more than the meal would have cost if we’d gotten that far. "I don't," he argued, lifting his other hand away from the edge of the table and wrapping it around mine. With lightning quickness, he grasped me fully and pulled me out of the chair. I stumbled over my own legs as I went weightless for a moment, suspended in the air before he placed me back down on my feet and moved toward the entrance.
He wound his way through the aisles between tables, ignoring the hostess, who chastised him when he made his way back to the front of the restaurant. I cast a backward glance over my shoulder, noting that my legs somehow seemed to obey his non-verbal order to move rather than my baffled state of confusion.
"Don't you dare," he warned, lifting the hand from where it had somehow come to rest against my waist to tangle in the back of my hair. He used that snug grip to turn my head forward, facing the doors that Stanislav pulled open with a broad grin. "He no longer exists for you."
"Excuse me?" I asked, pulling away from the grip on my hair with a testing tug. He released me, not using the grip to hurt me, even though he had the opportunity. It soothed something inside me, even as the rest of me felt a moment of disappointment. It made no sense, because if James had touched me like that, all I would have felt was fear.
But with Aleksandr there was something else. The strangest tingling of arousal amidst the danger, layered in a tentative trust that I had no right to feel.
"There are no other men in your life now, Solnyshko," he said, repeating the word he'd used inside. I still didn't know what it meant, only that the way his accent turned over the foreign sounds seemed to hum through my blood and set me on fire.
Bastard.
"Screw you," I hissed, stepping away from his body and crossing my arms over my chest. “I left my coat inside,” I said, thinking of the light black jacket that was the only remotely warm thing I owned. I’d need it in the coming months in New York if I didn’t run away from Aleksandr’s inappropriate attention.
“I’ll buy you a fucking new one,” he said, wrapping firm fingers around my waist and tugging me to his side. He guided me toward the cars parked at the curb as Stanislav hurried into the town car he’d driven me here in.
I struggled against his grip, wiggling to worm free. All the while he held me steady, his hold on me not punishing but firm. I was overwhelmingly aware of his attempts not to hurt me and the care with which he handled me.
It infuriated me even more somehow.
“Let go of me!” I yelled, turning toward him press my hands to the sides of his chest and shove. He didn’t budge except to tilt his head down to mine and look at my hands in curiosity.
“No,” he said simply, taking the first step in my direction and prompting me to hurry and back away from him. His long legs outpaced mine, leaving me scrambling, whereas his steps were calm and measured.
Perfectly controlled, just like he always seemed to be, while I was a bumbling mess of awkwardness and limbs like a newborn fawn.
His hand rose from my waist, gliding up over my stomach that trembled in the wake of his touch. It slid through the cleavage of my breasts until his thumb stroked over the column of my throat.
I swallowed, feeling the muscles move against his touch as his hand spread wide and circled my neck, the palm pressing into me with a steady, light pressure as he guided me backwards. My back hit the wall with a dull thud, that firm pressure of his hand on me holding me still as he leaned his weight over me with one hand placed on the stone wall above my head.
“You’re impossible,” he muttered, lowering his head until the words touched my skin.
“And you’re a stubborn jackass,” I snarled back, wincing when his lips spread into a smile of disbelief.
“It’s been far too long since someone dared to insult me.” He huffed a laugh, leaning forward to sink his teeth into my bottom lip just like he had the night before. Instead of pulling back, he kept his lips touching mine so that every word brushed the plump, swollen flesh of my mouth against his. “I think I like it.”
“That’s a little messed up,” I said, a gasp escaping me when his lips touched mine more firmly. With his mouth pressed against mine, the reality of the electric charge between us felt all-consuming. There was nothing but his hand on my throat, pinning me to the wall, the scent of him in my lungs, and the touch of his tongue against the seam of my lips as he invited me to open for him.
I stood, stock still in shock and unable to remember how to breathe, let alone open and let him inside. His fingers left the side of my neck, raising to grip the sides of my jaw and press in until he forced my mouth open.
He surged inside with a deep, claiming sweep of his tongue against mine on the first stroke. His kiss was just like him, hard and unyielding as he held me in place and trapped me between his body and the wall at my back.
The heat of his chest was like a searing brand compared to the cool stone, a harsh contrast that seemed to beg me to surrender. To melt for him when I had no business doing any such thing.
But nothing could stop the gradual thaw, the slow defrost of my limbs as they lifted from my sides to wrap around his neck. In my head, I pushed him away. But the groan that rattled in his chest touched my breasts, and my brain barely registered the fact that I’d pulled him closer before his hand left my throat and he stepped fully into my body until we melded together.
Hands stroked down my sides, grasping the fabric of my dress and tugging it up my thighs until the cool air kissed my skin. When his fingers touched my bare legs, I gasped into his mouth and he used the opportunity to plunder deeper.
To take what wasn’t his, but I somehow freely offered.
He lifted me in his arms, pushing my spine into the stone more harshly as I hurried to wrap my legs around his waist. The press of him against the most intimate part of me came as a sudden shock to my system, the reality that this man, this gorgeous, breathtaking, dangerous man was hard and nestled between my thighs like something out of a dream.
His mouth left mine, trailing down the side of my neck until he sank his teeth into the hollow between my neck and shoulder. The bite of pain brought me back from the brink of what might become the biggest mistake of my life, dousing me in ice water as I realized exactly what I’d done.
Again.
Tears burned the back of my eyes, stinging as I fought to maintain composure. I unwound my arms from around his neck, separating myself from him physically until I found the words to tell him what I needed.
I needed him to let me go. I needed him to hold on forever.
I needed to move to an island where men like him could never touch me.
“Solnyshko?” he asked, his deep voice a grumble even as concern laced with it. It was the worry that nearly broke me, that threatened to strip me of all my dignity as I dropped my legs from around his waist and became dead weight.
He faltered under the sudden change, adjusting his grip to hold me tighter as he pulled back to stare down at me with a sigh as he lowered me to my feet slowly.
“I have to go,” I said, wiping the back of my hand over my mouth as I restrained the emotions surging inside me.
He nodded, giving me a moment of reprieve and allowing me to put myself back together as he seemed to chastise himself internally for the public display. As we walked to the car, I realized that the entire dining room of people inside the restaurant had seen our kiss, including Blake.
Mortified, I ducked my head into Aleksandr’s side and drew comfort from the fact that no one could see me past his broad form. He shoved me into the passenger seat of the Jaguar, closing me off from the audience that I hadn’t had the forethought to notice.
His fury spread through the car as he drove, but he stayed silent and allowed me to process. He allowed me the quiet I needed to keep my tears at bay.
Maybe I really was nothing more than a casual fling, someone who gave it up easy to the worst possible men. Maybe no one would ever see me as anything...more.
The drive was long. It felt longer than the ride into the city with Stanislav’s amused company. By the time Aleksandr pulled into the private driveway, I felt like I was ready to come out of my skin.
He pulled the car up in front of the house, barely having time to put it in park before I shoved open my door and hurried toward the safety of the house. I didn’t think the lock on my bedroom door would prove enough to stop him if he really put his mind toward pushing me for something I wasn’t ready for, but I had to trust that he wouldn’t violate that line.
He wasn’t the type. I hoped.
The sound of his door pushing open behind me sent me spiraling, hurrying toward the front door faster, waiting for the tense energy of him following at my back.
But it never came.
“Harlowe,” he said, his voice quiet and deadly. It only reached me because of the stillness of the night, because of the pure lack of sound that came with being on a private estate in a rural area where there was only us, his daughter, and the staff who would do anything for him.
I paused, trying to calm my breathing as I swallowed back my nerves and turned to look at him. I didn’t speak, letting the power of his eyes holding mine sink into me. Words didn’t seem necessary in the face of all that raw force.
“We are inevitable. There is nowhere you can hide from me. Do you understand, Solnyshko?” he asked, leaning so that his forearms rested on the top of the Jaguar and he leaned his weight in.
I swallowed again before I turned without another word and did the only thing I could do in response to those ominous words.
I ran.
* * *
The End for now.
Continue the Colliding Hearts Duet in book two, Take Me.
* * *
www.adelaideforrest.com
Newsletter
https://www.subscribepage.com/k7v4k1
About the Author
Adelaide always had a love for reading and writing that she cultivated with years of passion and growth before finally publishing in 2020. You can count on intoxicating alpha males with a twist of darkness who are captivated by the light of their women. Her romance typically involves dark romance themes, colorful language, plenty of steam, and graphic violence.
Read More from Author Name
www.adelaideforrest.com
Protecting His Finch
Adora Crooks
Adora Crooks
Protecting His Finch
He’s sworn to protect the family, but he’ll risk it all for her.
* * *
When I first met Archer, he was covered in my father's blood.
* * *
Now, I'm the ward of the biggest mafia family in New York. And he's made it his duty to protect me.
* * *
He's their bodyguard, a loyal soldier. But when I'm forced into marrying the Don's vicious son...will Archer remain dutiful to them?
* * *
Or will he risk everything for me?
* * *
I’m Finley “Finch” Larkin. This is my story.
Protecting His Finch © 2021 Adora Crooks
* * *
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.
Created with Vellum
1
Archer
They always beg.
“Please, amico.” Spittle flies from his lips as he cries out. “I didn’t do this thing. You must believe me.”
I hunch over a pool of blood, cleaning off a pair of pliers with a dirty rag.
The truth is, it doesn’t matter what I believe. I’m not here to be convinced.
I’m here to do a job.
We’re in an empty boat basin by the river. I can hear seagulls cawing outside. The low horn of a freighter blares.
We’re alone. The area has been cleared out. It’s just me, my partner Jacobi, and this unlucky bastard. He’s tied to a chair, arms and legs wound up with rope.
We’ve been at this for hours, and now, his time is up.
Yet still, he keeps at it.
“I have people to take care of, you understand?” he pleads. “Don’t you have a family? Friends? Someone you love? Please.”
Jacobi pats my shoulder. Twice. It’s my signal. “Let’s finish this,” he says.
I set the pliers aside. Now, I pull my sidearm from the holster under my gunmetal-gray blazer.
I unlock the safety and look him in the eyes. He deserves that, at least.
“Stop begging,” I tell him. “You don’t want to go out begging.”
His eyes go wide as the realization hits. “Padre Nostro,” he murmurs, his voice shaking, “che sei nei cieli.”
Then I put my finger on the trigger.
2
Archer
“I’m out,” I announce.
Jacobi’s cue clicks against the white ball, and number seven kisses the pocket but doesn’t go in. The edge of his mouth twitches.
“You say that every week,” he grunts.
“I mean it this week.” I bend over the pool table and line up my shot. “I’m done.”
Aim, click. I get two stripes in the pocket.
The Rusty Nail is a dive bar in Astoria, Queens. It’s always a ruckus; heavy rock music pumps through the crappy speakers while tattooed and leather-adorned men and women curse each other out across the bar. But when Jacobi and I are in the zone, man-to-man with a game of pool, all the other noises die out.
That’s just the way two former army guys work. We’re used to finding calm in the middle of the storm.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” Jacobi says. “You know that?”
“Yeah, well. This idiot is kicking your ass, old man.”
But I’ve spoken too soon, and my next play lands a solid in the pocket.
Jacobi’s shoulder knocks mine as he takes my spot. “Age before beauty, princess.”
We’ve known each other long enough that this is how we show affection—healthy, combative ribbing. I first met Jacobi nearly a decade ago—but back then, he was General Jacobi to me. I was on my second tour in Iraq, and we’d bonded in a way that men bond when they’ve both seen shit they should’ve never had to see.
The two of us were recruited into a Special Ops team, code-named Wolfpack. Since then, we’ve been brothers for life.
Jacobi is forty-three, with leathery, tanned skin and a completely shaved head. But he’s worn many hats with me. Mentor. Boss. Friend. And now, coworker. He’s been Catherine Rossi’s soldier and bodyguard for years. And when a spot opened up on the payroll, he thought of me.
It pays to know people in dangerous places.
So, really, I have only him to blame for my situation.
“Alright,” he humors me, “Where are you going this time?”
“Somewhere warm,” I tell him. “With a beach.”
“We have a beach. Rockaway.”
“Try someplace where I don’t have to move aside used needles and condoms to lay down a towel. I’m talking clean water. Coral reefs and rainbow fish and mai tais.”
Jacobi sinks one ball. Then another. Then he gets in a rhythm, and I feel my victory slip further and further from my fingers.
“Send me a postcard, will you?” he says.
“Yeah.” But the thought has dried up like autumn leaves. Or maybe I’m just a sore loser. I give my whiskey sour a stir and a sip and feel my vision disconnect.
Jacobi must sense the change in temperature, because he rises then, putting his pool cue to the side. “In all seriousness,” he says, and his voice is low now, intense, so I make a point to listen, “you don’t want to die here. You’ve served the family well. Eight years. I’d put in a good word with Madam if you want to retire. Just say the word.”
“I know you would.” I drain my glass until it’s empty and suck the cherries from their stems. Dinner of champions. Then I recite the Wolfpack credo: “A lone wolf has bite—”
“But the pack has might,” Jacobi finishes solemnly and tips his whiskey out of respect. Then he asks the million-dollar question:
Epilogue
Harlowe
Shit.
That was the only word that seemed to fit the situation: the anger flaring in Aleksandr's eyes as he leaned into me, the heat of his breath against my cheek as my bottom lip trembled and I fought to find the words for some kind of response.
But what in the hell was I supposed to say to that?
"You should," I mumbled stupidly, gasping as his eyes narrowed and dropped to my mouth as the words formed. His glare seemed to intensify, the danger lurking in his hazel eyes like something out of the woods at night.
Like something that belonged to a predator, stalking me through the trees.
He pulled his wallet from his back pocket, tossing on the table a wad of cash that had to be far more than the meal would have cost if we’d gotten that far. "I don't," he argued, lifting his other hand away from the edge of the table and wrapping it around mine. With lightning quickness, he grasped me fully and pulled me out of the chair. I stumbled over my own legs as I went weightless for a moment, suspended in the air before he placed me back down on my feet and moved toward the entrance.
He wound his way through the aisles between tables, ignoring the hostess, who chastised him when he made his way back to the front of the restaurant. I cast a backward glance over my shoulder, noting that my legs somehow seemed to obey his non-verbal order to move rather than my baffled state of confusion.
"Don't you dare," he warned, lifting the hand from where it had somehow come to rest against my waist to tangle in the back of my hair. He used that snug grip to turn my head forward, facing the doors that Stanislav pulled open with a broad grin. "He no longer exists for you."
"Excuse me?" I asked, pulling away from the grip on my hair with a testing tug. He released me, not using the grip to hurt me, even though he had the opportunity. It soothed something inside me, even as the rest of me felt a moment of disappointment. It made no sense, because if James had touched me like that, all I would have felt was fear.
But with Aleksandr there was something else. The strangest tingling of arousal amidst the danger, layered in a tentative trust that I had no right to feel.
"There are no other men in your life now, Solnyshko," he said, repeating the word he'd used inside. I still didn't know what it meant, only that the way his accent turned over the foreign sounds seemed to hum through my blood and set me on fire.
Bastard.
"Screw you," I hissed, stepping away from his body and crossing my arms over my chest. “I left my coat inside,” I said, thinking of the light black jacket that was the only remotely warm thing I owned. I’d need it in the coming months in New York if I didn’t run away from Aleksandr’s inappropriate attention.
“I’ll buy you a fucking new one,” he said, wrapping firm fingers around my waist and tugging me to his side. He guided me toward the cars parked at the curb as Stanislav hurried into the town car he’d driven me here in.
I struggled against his grip, wiggling to worm free. All the while he held me steady, his hold on me not punishing but firm. I was overwhelmingly aware of his attempts not to hurt me and the care with which he handled me.
It infuriated me even more somehow.
“Let go of me!” I yelled, turning toward him press my hands to the sides of his chest and shove. He didn’t budge except to tilt his head down to mine and look at my hands in curiosity.
“No,” he said simply, taking the first step in my direction and prompting me to hurry and back away from him. His long legs outpaced mine, leaving me scrambling, whereas his steps were calm and measured.
Perfectly controlled, just like he always seemed to be, while I was a bumbling mess of awkwardness and limbs like a newborn fawn.
His hand rose from my waist, gliding up over my stomach that trembled in the wake of his touch. It slid through the cleavage of my breasts until his thumb stroked over the column of my throat.
I swallowed, feeling the muscles move against his touch as his hand spread wide and circled my neck, the palm pressing into me with a steady, light pressure as he guided me backwards. My back hit the wall with a dull thud, that firm pressure of his hand on me holding me still as he leaned his weight over me with one hand placed on the stone wall above my head.
“You’re impossible,” he muttered, lowering his head until the words touched my skin.
“And you’re a stubborn jackass,” I snarled back, wincing when his lips spread into a smile of disbelief.
“It’s been far too long since someone dared to insult me.” He huffed a laugh, leaning forward to sink his teeth into my bottom lip just like he had the night before. Instead of pulling back, he kept his lips touching mine so that every word brushed the plump, swollen flesh of my mouth against his. “I think I like it.”
“That’s a little messed up,” I said, a gasp escaping me when his lips touched mine more firmly. With his mouth pressed against mine, the reality of the electric charge between us felt all-consuming. There was nothing but his hand on my throat, pinning me to the wall, the scent of him in my lungs, and the touch of his tongue against the seam of my lips as he invited me to open for him.
I stood, stock still in shock and unable to remember how to breathe, let alone open and let him inside. His fingers left the side of my neck, raising to grip the sides of my jaw and press in until he forced my mouth open.
He surged inside with a deep, claiming sweep of his tongue against mine on the first stroke. His kiss was just like him, hard and unyielding as he held me in place and trapped me between his body and the wall at my back.
The heat of his chest was like a searing brand compared to the cool stone, a harsh contrast that seemed to beg me to surrender. To melt for him when I had no business doing any such thing.
But nothing could stop the gradual thaw, the slow defrost of my limbs as they lifted from my sides to wrap around his neck. In my head, I pushed him away. But the groan that rattled in his chest touched my breasts, and my brain barely registered the fact that I’d pulled him closer before his hand left my throat and he stepped fully into my body until we melded together.
Hands stroked down my sides, grasping the fabric of my dress and tugging it up my thighs until the cool air kissed my skin. When his fingers touched my bare legs, I gasped into his mouth and he used the opportunity to plunder deeper.
To take what wasn’t his, but I somehow freely offered.
He lifted me in his arms, pushing my spine into the stone more harshly as I hurried to wrap my legs around his waist. The press of him against the most intimate part of me came as a sudden shock to my system, the reality that this man, this gorgeous, breathtaking, dangerous man was hard and nestled between my thighs like something out of a dream.
His mouth left mine, trailing down the side of my neck until he sank his teeth into the hollow between my neck and shoulder. The bite of pain brought me back from the brink of what might become the biggest mistake of my life, dousing me in ice water as I realized exactly what I’d done.
Again.
Tears burned the back of my eyes, stinging as I fought to maintain composure. I unwound my arms from around his neck, separating myself from him physically until I found the words to tell him what I needed.
I needed him to let me go. I needed him to hold on forever.
I needed to move to an island where men like him could never touch me.
“Solnyshko?” he asked, his deep voice a grumble even as concern laced with it. It was the worry that nearly broke me, that threatened to strip me of all my dignity as I dropped my legs from around his waist and became dead weight.
He faltered under the sudden change, adjusting his grip to hold me tighter as he pulled back to stare down at me with a sigh as he lowered me to my feet slowly.
“I have to go,” I said, wiping the back of my hand over my mouth as I restrained the emotions surging inside me.
He nodded, giving me a moment of reprieve and allowing me to put myself back together as he seemed to chastise himself internally for the public display. As we walked to the car, I realized that the entire dining room of people inside the restaurant had seen our kiss, including Blake.
Mortified, I ducked my head into Aleksandr’s side and drew comfort from the fact that no one could see me past his broad form. He shoved me into the passenger seat of the Jaguar, closing me off from the audience that I hadn’t had the forethought to notice.
His fury spread through the car as he drove, but he stayed silent and allowed me to process. He allowed me the quiet I needed to keep my tears at bay.
Maybe I really was nothing more than a casual fling, someone who gave it up easy to the worst possible men. Maybe no one would ever see me as anything...more.
The drive was long. It felt longer than the ride into the city with Stanislav’s amused company. By the time Aleksandr pulled into the private driveway, I felt like I was ready to come out of my skin.
He pulled the car up in front of the house, barely having time to put it in park before I shoved open my door and hurried toward the safety of the house. I didn’t think the lock on my bedroom door would prove enough to stop him if he really put his mind toward pushing me for something I wasn’t ready for, but I had to trust that he wouldn’t violate that line.
He wasn’t the type. I hoped.
The sound of his door pushing open behind me sent me spiraling, hurrying toward the front door faster, waiting for the tense energy of him following at my back.
But it never came.
“Harlowe,” he said, his voice quiet and deadly. It only reached me because of the stillness of the night, because of the pure lack of sound that came with being on a private estate in a rural area where there was only us, his daughter, and the staff who would do anything for him.
I paused, trying to calm my breathing as I swallowed back my nerves and turned to look at him. I didn’t speak, letting the power of his eyes holding mine sink into me. Words didn’t seem necessary in the face of all that raw force.
“We are inevitable. There is nowhere you can hide from me. Do you understand, Solnyshko?” he asked, leaning so that his forearms rested on the top of the Jaguar and he leaned his weight in.
I swallowed again before I turned without another word and did the only thing I could do in response to those ominous words.
I ran.
* * *
The End for now.
Continue the Colliding Hearts Duet in book two, Take Me.
* * *
www.adelaideforrest.com
Newsletter
https://www.subscribepage.com/k7v4k1
About the Author
Adelaide always had a love for reading and writing that she cultivated with years of passion and growth before finally publishing in 2020. You can count on intoxicating alpha males with a twist of darkness who are captivated by the light of their women. Her romance typically involves dark romance themes, colorful language, plenty of steam, and graphic violence.
Read More from Author Name
www.adelaideforrest.com
Protecting His Finch
Adora Crooks
Adora Crooks
Protecting His Finch
He’s sworn to protect the family, but he’ll risk it all for her.
* * *
When I first met Archer, he was covered in my father's blood.
* * *
Now, I'm the ward of the biggest mafia family in New York. And he's made it his duty to protect me.
* * *
He's their bodyguard, a loyal soldier. But when I'm forced into marrying the Don's vicious son...will Archer remain dutiful to them?
* * *
Or will he risk everything for me?
* * *
I’m Finley “Finch” Larkin. This is my story.
Protecting His Finch © 2021 Adora Crooks
* * *
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.
Created with Vellum
1
Archer
They always beg.
“Please, amico.” Spittle flies from his lips as he cries out. “I didn’t do this thing. You must believe me.”
I hunch over a pool of blood, cleaning off a pair of pliers with a dirty rag.
The truth is, it doesn’t matter what I believe. I’m not here to be convinced.
I’m here to do a job.
We’re in an empty boat basin by the river. I can hear seagulls cawing outside. The low horn of a freighter blares.
We’re alone. The area has been cleared out. It’s just me, my partner Jacobi, and this unlucky bastard. He’s tied to a chair, arms and legs wound up with rope.
We’ve been at this for hours, and now, his time is up.
Yet still, he keeps at it.
“I have people to take care of, you understand?” he pleads. “Don’t you have a family? Friends? Someone you love? Please.”
Jacobi pats my shoulder. Twice. It’s my signal. “Let’s finish this,” he says.
I set the pliers aside. Now, I pull my sidearm from the holster under my gunmetal-gray blazer.
I unlock the safety and look him in the eyes. He deserves that, at least.
“Stop begging,” I tell him. “You don’t want to go out begging.”
His eyes go wide as the realization hits. “Padre Nostro,” he murmurs, his voice shaking, “che sei nei cieli.”
Then I put my finger on the trigger.
2
Archer
“I’m out,” I announce.
Jacobi’s cue clicks against the white ball, and number seven kisses the pocket but doesn’t go in. The edge of his mouth twitches.
“You say that every week,” he grunts.
“I mean it this week.” I bend over the pool table and line up my shot. “I’m done.”
Aim, click. I get two stripes in the pocket.
The Rusty Nail is a dive bar in Astoria, Queens. It’s always a ruckus; heavy rock music pumps through the crappy speakers while tattooed and leather-adorned men and women curse each other out across the bar. But when Jacobi and I are in the zone, man-to-man with a game of pool, all the other noises die out.
That’s just the way two former army guys work. We’re used to finding calm in the middle of the storm.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” Jacobi says. “You know that?”
“Yeah, well. This idiot is kicking your ass, old man.”
But I’ve spoken too soon, and my next play lands a solid in the pocket.
Jacobi’s shoulder knocks mine as he takes my spot. “Age before beauty, princess.”
We’ve known each other long enough that this is how we show affection—healthy, combative ribbing. I first met Jacobi nearly a decade ago—but back then, he was General Jacobi to me. I was on my second tour in Iraq, and we’d bonded in a way that men bond when they’ve both seen shit they should’ve never had to see.
The two of us were recruited into a Special Ops team, code-named Wolfpack. Since then, we’ve been brothers for life.
Jacobi is forty-three, with leathery, tanned skin and a completely shaved head. But he’s worn many hats with me. Mentor. Boss. Friend. And now, coworker. He’s been Catherine Rossi’s soldier and bodyguard for years. And when a spot opened up on the payroll, he thought of me.
It pays to know people in dangerous places.
So, really, I have only him to blame for my situation.
“Alright,” he humors me, “Where are you going this time?”
“Somewhere warm,” I tell him. “With a beach.”
“We have a beach. Rockaway.”
“Try someplace where I don’t have to move aside used needles and condoms to lay down a towel. I’m talking clean water. Coral reefs and rainbow fish and mai tais.”
Jacobi sinks one ball. Then another. Then he gets in a rhythm, and I feel my victory slip further and further from my fingers.
“Send me a postcard, will you?” he says.
“Yeah.” But the thought has dried up like autumn leaves. Or maybe I’m just a sore loser. I give my whiskey sour a stir and a sip and feel my vision disconnect.
Jacobi must sense the change in temperature, because he rises then, putting his pool cue to the side. “In all seriousness,” he says, and his voice is low now, intense, so I make a point to listen, “you don’t want to die here. You’ve served the family well. Eight years. I’d put in a good word with Madam if you want to retire. Just say the word.”
“I know you would.” I drain my glass until it’s empty and suck the cherries from their stems. Dinner of champions. Then I recite the Wolfpack credo: “A lone wolf has bite—”
“But the pack has might,” Jacobi finishes solemnly and tips his whiskey out of respect. Then he asks the million-dollar question:
