Dallas: MM Mafia Romance, page 1
DALLAS
LIGHT & SHADOW
BOOK 2
N. N. BRITT
Copyright © 2024 by N. N. Britt
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction. The publication/use of these trademarks is not associated with or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Cover Design by Sarah Kil
Edited by Virginia Tesi Carey
Due to strong language and sexual situations this book is intended for mature audience only.
8/24//2024
CONTENTS
1. Isaac
2. Hawk
3. Isaac
4. Hawk
5. Isaac
6. Dallas
7. Isaac
8. Dallas
9. Dallas
10. Isaac
11. Dallas
12. Isaac
13. Dallas
14. Jeremy
15. Isaac
16. Stranger
17. Dallas
18. Isaac
19. Dallas
20. Isaac
21. Isaac
22. Dallas
23. Isaac
24. Dallas
25. Isaac
26. Dallas
Epilogue
Also by N. N. Britt
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
ISAAC
The golden flicker of the single lamp leaves a soft glow over the empty whiskey glass on my desk. I’m in my office, listening to Purgatory's pulse beating through the walls, a muffled symphony of seduction and sin. But it's all white noise to the filmstrip of images rushing in my mind—a private replay of my night with Hawk. The night I asked him to end Tucci.
"Christ," I mutter, rubbing a hand over my face, still feeling the ghost of Hawk's lips on mine, the firestorm that raged through my blood when he pressed me down, his body a promise of both damnation and deliverance.
For the first time ever, I wanted it. I didn't flinch from the touch, didn't recoil into the shadows of my past where the hands of others on me were weapons.
Hawk's hands, though... they set me free.
It's a thought that dances on the edge of lunacy—freedom found in the clasp of another's control. But with him, my usual fear crumbled like the facade of an old church, revealing sacred truths within.
And the truth is I like cock.
I lean back in the leather chair and close my eyes. Sex… That act has always been a locked door painted with the faces of Jacob and other figures from cold prison nights. A door I never imagined walking through willingly, let alone craving to open again.
But Hawk... Hawk didn't just turn the key. He dismantled the lock. He made me want things I'd buried deeper than bodies in the desert—made me revel in a surrender that should've tasted like defeat. But instead was as heady as the power I wield behind this desk.
And here I am, aching for the press of Hawk's body, for the possessive grip of his hands—the only embrace that hasn't felt like chains. There's beauty in this irony, something almost poetic about finding strength in yielding to another.
I trace the rim of the whiskey glass, contemplating refilling it but deciding against it. No amount of amber liquid can compare to the intoxication of being known—in the biblical sense and beyond—by someone like Hawk.
Shouldn't have done it, I think to myself as the weight of regret starts to return, dragging me down into the depths of what I asked Hawk to do. Tucci's life was a currency I spent too freely, paid out to calm Jeremy's suspicions. But Hawk's loyalty was never mine to buy. It was given, not taken—something I know now but couldn't see then.
A knock on the door shatters the silence, and I snap to attention as Jeremy strides in, his face carved from stone, eyes like twin bullets ready to deliver bad news. "EJ's dead," he says without preamble, and those two words hit me harder than a fist.
"Dead?" I repeat, as if saying it aloud might reverse the truth of it. EJ had been our lifeline through the rez, our silent partner in this dance of necessity for a long time.
"Found shot a few miles outside the rez."
"Shit."
"Looks like execution, boss."
"Someone’s trying to step on our toes," I state. It’s not a question. It’s a fact. I can see it already before more details pour. "Did you talk to Gabe?" I ask.
Jeremy shakes his head, the scar across his cheekbone twisting with the motion. "He won't deal with this without EJ. Says we're on our own."
"Fucking hell." The word is a hiss between my teeth. Losing EJ is like losing a limb—we can’t function properly without him.
Pulling myself together, I stand up, push back the chair. I've always known that in this world, you either adapt or you die. And I'm not ready to lie down and let fate take its course—not when I've just started embracing the chaos within me, thanks to Hawk.
"Then we find another way." My voice is cold as the steel of a gun barrel.
"I’m all ears," Jeremy says, but the look on his face tells me he doesn’t see how this can be done.
I pace for a few minutes, my mind churning.
"Here is what we need," I start, the words razor-sharp as they cut through the quiet. "We need options. The kind that don't leave us belly-up for the vultures."
He stares at me, his gaze is all hard lines and sharp edges. "And where do you suggest we start looking? Our usual channels are drying up, Blade. With the Feds sniffing around and Toro's name scaring off the small fish, we're pretty much fucked sideways. Even Vartan's guys don't want to do business with us. Said they're taking a break. Can you fucking imagine? Those assholes. When shit like this happens, you know what it means, boss."
"Great," I mutter. The weight of leadership is like a crown made of lead. There's a deep-seated restlessness inside me, clawing its way out. "So everyone's got cold feet. Just perfect."
"Nobody wants to touch this," Jeremy continues gravelly. "They think it's a one-way ticket to a cell—or a coffin."
"Then we'll do it ourselves." The words come out more reckless than I intend.
"Are you out of your goddamn mind?" Jeremy's eyes widen. "We've got no routes, Isaac. No safe passages left."
"Wrong." My mind is racing down dark alleys of memory. "There's Santino."
"Santino? Your prison buddy?" Jeremy's frown deepens into disapproval. "That crazy bastard who used to run coke across the border?"
"He knows a mountain road."
"Shit, Isaac. People vanish in those mountains. How are we going to travel with fucking trucks?"
"We're smarter than most trying to cross there. Besides, I'm going too."
"Fuck, you can't be serious." Jeremy stares at me like I've just sprouted a second head.
"I am serious. Find out where Santino is hiding out these days and tell him I want to meet."
"Okay, boss. Whatever you say. But I don’t like it."
A nervous laugh escapes me, a sound like shattered glass on concrete, as I pound my fist against the door of Hawk's suite. Anticipation tightens in my gut while I listen to the muted sound of his footfalls on the other side.
The door swings open, and there he is. Those blue eyes communicate surprise.
"What are you doing here?"
Without a word, I shove him back into the safe space of the room, before someone sees us. My lips crash against his with the desperation of a man starved for oxygen. The kiss is a spark in dry tinder, igniting a fire that rages through my veins. His hands tangle in my hair, pulling me closer, as if he could crawl inside my skin and set up residence in the hollows of my bones.
"Needed to see you," I say between the kisses.
"Missed me?" he asks with a smirk.
"Yes."
"Missed you too," Hawk rasps, his voice stones and honey and everything that drives me mad with want.
"Show me," I growl, fingers fumbling with the buttons on his jeans, urgency threading through my movements. My hand slips inside, finding him hard and waiting, and a surge of victory punches through me. He moans, a sound so raw it could separate flesh from bone and blood.
"Fuck, Isaac..." His breath hitches as he mirrors my actions, palming me through the fabric of my slacks before slicking his hand with his saliva and diving in for a more direct touch.
Our movements are frenzied, hungry. We are two people seeking salvation through sex in the wreckage of our lives.
"Like this," I pant, guiding his hand, showing him exactly how I need it. "Squeeze it harder, Hawk."
"God, yes," he chokes out, thumb circling the head of my cock, sending spikes of pleasure ricocheting through my spine. I mimic him, stroking with purpose, determined to drag us both over the edge into the netherworld.
"Isaac—" Hawk's voice breaks on the ascent, and I can feel the shudder that racks his body a split second before mine follows suit. We come together, a mess of limbs and labored breathing, cum painting our hands like the first brushstrokes on a blank canva
"Shower," I gasp out, not a suggestion but a command.
He nods, still reeling from the aftershocks, and we stumble toward the bathroom, peeling off soiled clothes along the way.
Steam rises around us as hot water cascades down our bodies, washing away the traces of our deeds. I press my forehead to the cool tiles, allowing the scalding stream to burn away the doubts and fears. Hawk's hands roam my back, soothing the scars that no one else has ever touched.
"Better?" he murmurs, tracing the line of my spine with a tenderness that feels like a punch to the gut.
"Yes," I whisper back, turning to face him.
I lean in, kissing him softly, such contrast to the chase for release from the moments before.
We stay like that for an eternity, or maybe just minutes. Time blurs around me when I’m with him.
CHAPTER 2
HAWK
I stroll down the familiar, cracked sidewalk, the one that's etched into the back of my skull, a roadmap of a childhood I can no longer claim. The air is filled with the scent of pine and dirt, a Northern California perfume that's as much a part of me as the mixed blood in my veins.
Why am I here?
Why am I back if I’m on assignment?
My feet carry me to the weathered front door of the house I once called home. It hangs ajar, creaking softly in the morning breeze, inviting yet foreboding.
I push the door open with a hesitant touch, stepping into the dimness.
"Ma?" My voice is a ghost in the stillness.
She appears like an apparition from the hallway, her smile just as tired as I remember it. "Dallas," she breathes, and for a moment, I'm that lost boy again, searching for solace in her embrace.
"Hey, Ma," I say, my heart reaching for her across the expanse of time and secrets. I haven’t seen her in almost two years—since before my previous assignment. It was a brief weekend in San Francisco. The kind she soon won’t enjoy anymore because of all the things age does to her body.
"Hey, Ma," I repeat, unsure of what else to say. I can’t talk about my work. She knows it.
But her smile falters, crumbling like dry earth. She studies me, really looks, and her next words are a dagger. "What have you done with my son?"
The walls close in, and I feel her question wrapping like chains around my neck. Me, Dallas Bradley, the prodigal son, lost and found and lost again.
"What do you mean, Ma?" I ask as panic claws at my insides. And when I look at her, my mother's gaze slips down to my hands.
I follow her line of sight, pulse wild.
There’s blood.
It's on my hands, a crimson stain that won't wash off.
My panic grows, ripping through the veil of sleep. I'm up, drenched in a cold sweat, gasping for air that won't fill my lungs fast enough. My heartbeat is a drumbeat of fear.
The nightmare—way too vivid—lingers while I sit up, pressing my palms to my eyes, trying to erase the images now seared into my mind.
Guilt.
Need for repentance.
They gnaw at my conscience, pulling me under, drowning me in what-ifs and should-haves. Each inhale is a battle.
I turn, my breath still ragged, and face the man who’s responsible for this change. Responsible for Hawk’s actions.
Isaac lies next to me, a pale, naked form on the tangled sheets. I expect him to be asleep but he is not. His brown eyes, usually smoldering with unreadable emotions, now hold a flicker of concern that he tries to mask but to no avail.
"Hey," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep or worry—maybe both. "What's wrong?" He touches my back, rubs it gently with his palm.
"Nothing," I lie smoothly, too smoothly for a man who just crawled back from the edge of his own nervous breakdown.
He doesn't believe me. I can tell by the way his gaze sharpens but he lets it go. I guess it’s another secret added to the vault of secrets between us.
I reach for my phone, its screen a cold glow in the dark. The numbers glare back at me. 5:59 AM. The dawn is as unwelcome as the truth I’m trying to come to terms with. Time doesn't heal; it just ticks forward, indifferent to the mess it leaves behind.
"You're sure you’re good?" Isaac checks again after a long moment of uncomfortable silence.
I nod.
"You want anything?"
I look at him. "Like what? Coffee?"
"Well, that," he supplies, then adds, "I was thinking of something in lines of another car…"
At that, I laugh. "I like my car. It’s brand-new."
"Or a casino."
"You’re offering to buy me a casino?"
"An island?" he asks with an absolute poker face.
"Sounds interesting. What am I gonna do with it?"
He doesn’t respond for a heartbeat, his eyes glance up to the ceiling. "Hide away from the world."
"Would you come along?"
"I would if I could."
Then, a knock shatters the bubble of us—loud, insistent, demanding. It's the sound of reality pounding at the door, reminding us that these moments are nothing but a house of cards, ready to collapse.
"Hey, Hawk! Wake up!" Jeremy's voice is a bullet through the quiet.
"Shit." Isaac's body tenses beside me. Our relationship—or whatever it is that we have going on—is not meant for daylight scrutiny.
I throw off the sheets and the room spins for a moment, a carousel of panic and half-formed plans. Isaac’s expression is unreadable as he bolts from the bed.
"Hide," I hiss at him. Fear, sharp and metallic, coats my tongue as Isaac rushes to the bathroom.
"Coming." My feet pad across the carpet. My fingers twitch before gripping the knob, twisting the present back into place—one where Isaac doesn't exist within these walls. Where he’s the employer and I’m the employee.
"What the fuck took you this long?" Jeremy growls as I swing the door open. "You're jerking off or something?" He’s an imposing silhouette against the semi-dark hallway, his eyes narrow slits of impatience.
"It’s six in the morning, man."
"Well, if you want to work nine to five, go to the fucking bank," he grits out. "Need you downstairs. Boss wants us moving. Thirty minutes and we're out to pack the shit." His words are clipped, efficient. A conveyor belt delivering orders without room for questions.
"I’ll be there," I reply curtly.
Jeremy's gaze lingers on the space behind me, as if searching, dusting over the surface for anything amiss. It's a look that knows too much—has seen too much—and trusts nothing at face value.
Then he silently turns on his heel and stalks away, leaving me standing in the doorway in my boxers and nothing else.
A second later, I hear Isaac’s footsteps behind me. I close the door and shift my attention to the naked man in my room, my eyes catching the tail end of shadows fleeing from his form as he steps into the scattered morning light now slowly filling the room.
"You should have told me you had something planned this early," I say. "You know how he'll be if he finds out."
"Sorry. I didn't think J would care to come and get you personally," Isaac replies. "Or even care to include you to pack the merch."
I draw a deep breath. This is becoming dangerous. Jeremy is a drama queen when it comes to Hawk.
"What are we doing here, Isaac?" The question slips out like a coin tossed into a well without a wish attached.
Isaac pauses, his brows furrowing like he's translating my words from a foreign language. "What do you mean?"
I rake a hand through my hair, remembering how it felt when it was shorter, when I looked like Dallas, not Hawk. "This." I gesture between us, the air suddenly tough with things unsaid. "Us. What is this?"
"Stop overthinking it," he replies, the edge of his mouth quirks but it’s not a smirk, more of a scowl. "That's what you're doing."
And immediately, the room becomes a pressure chamber, every square inch of it. Isaac moves to his scattered clothes, his muscles shifting like plates of armor beneath his skin—a defense against the world, or maybe against me, against the questions I shouldn’t be asking. The lion on his upper back glares at me as if it’s ready to materialize and devour me.
My gaze continues to follow Isaac, drawn to the way he slips into his boxers and slacks—a magic trick where danger dresses itself in expensive fabric. Dark, messy hair falls like a curtain over his brow.
