Page 28 of Mine to Tease

“Anastasia Cross, I will spend the rest of my life making sure you never regret those words or this night. I don’t feel worthy of your love, but I want it. I…I need it. And I’m honored to receive it.”

His words bring a smile to my face, a perfect ending to a night I will never regret. I move my hand to his cheek, desperate for one more kiss before I ask him to find the snack bag he brought me earlier. Though, as I do, the glass on the front door to his parlor shatters and Damon has me off him in a matter of seconds.

“Get to my office,” he says as he quickly puts his boxers on. “Get to my office and lock the door. Now, Anastasia!” he yells. I’m in shock, so much so I can hardly maintain my balance nor put one foot in front of the other. Damon moves with quickness and purpose as he reaches around the sofa and retrieves two guns. He cocks them and points them in the direction of the door. It’s then that I see a hand reach through the broken pane of glass and unlock it from the inside. “Anastasia!” Damon yells once more. As the intruder pushes the door open, I finally snap into action. Naked, I run to Damon’s office and lock the door behind me.

29

With Anastasia safe in my office, the door to which is bulletproof and impossible to unlock from the exterior, I put all of my attention on the man or men dumb enough to break in to my establishment. After Angelo showed up unexpectedly and I found myself without a gun, I decided to plant a few around the parlor, and I even hid one upstairs in Ana’s shop. Though I was hoping to never need them.

In all the years I’ve owned this place, I’ve never had any trouble aside from the occasional drunk asshole. Probably because word travels among criminals. They may not know who I am or what I do, but they know I’m not to be messed with. Though, as the two figures wearing the mark of the Irish mob on their hands come into view, I see they haven’t gotten the message. What’s more? They’ve made a tragic mistake. When Aidan Cross learns his own men nearly put Anastasia in danger, he’ll kill them himself. That is, unless I have reason to do it first.

“Wrong place, wrong time, gentlemen,” I say. I keep my guns trained on them, unwilling to lower them until they explain their presence. One of them carries a cardboard box while the other moves his hand to his hip. “Uh-uh,” I say. “You pull that gun and I blow you and your partner’s faces off.” What a dumb fuck? He should’ve had that gun drawn before he entered, especially when his partner has his hands full. Though the sight of the box makes me wonder if their intrusion isn’t an accident at all. The two men exchange a look and the one holding the box gives his partner a nod. In response, the man withdraws his hand from his gun. Still, I do not lower mine. Something about this isn’t right. “Start talking,” I tell them.

“We’re here to deliver a message. My guess is you know from who.” The one not holding the box flashes his tattoo. A wicked smile spreads across his face and his eyes narrow into a dark glare. I know that look and I know that whatever is in that box can’t be good.

“Well, I don’t know what’s in that box or what message Aidan Cross could possibly have for me that he couldn’t pick up the phone and tell me. So that suggests that you either have the wrong address or you’ve gone outside the bounds of your orders. Because I know damn well he did not tell you to break in and he certainly didn’t tell you to pull a gun.”

“Who the fuck are you to tell us what our orders are, you Italian scum? Yeah, we see your ring. And we may not know what business you have with Cross, but we do know what’s in this box, and my guess is whatever arrangement you once had is over.” The man closest to me places the cardboard box on the floor in front of me. Quickly, he pulls a knife from his pocket and cuts the tape to open it. “Take a look for yourself,” he says, backing away.

I press my lips into a flat line as a sick feeling dances in my stomach. It would take an actual buffoon to get an address wrong. And men like Aidan don’t trust just anyone to handle things like this for them. My guess is, if these two had a habit of showing up at the wrong places they wouldn’t still be breathing. So, let’s say Aidan did send them here to send me a message. Well, that makes him the biggest idiot of all. From my brief interactions with him I can tell he’s bullheaded, and if it weren’t for Anastasia, I wouldn’t put this kind of behavior past him. But Anastasia is a factor. She works here. And even though Aidan probably assumed the shop would be empty at this time of night, who is to say Ana wouldn’t have seen this package Monday morning, thought it hers, and opened it herself? This is a reckless move, even for him. Not to mention, sending his men here puts this place on their radar, which puts Ana at risk. God, what the fuck was he thinking? Unless…Anastasia is the reason for this unexpected visit.

What if Aidan saw us outside of Brennan’s? It was the first time we kissed in public. If Aidan knows about us, about the line I crossed, then our arrangement truly is over and he couldn’t care less about keeping the parlor a secret because he won’t allow Ana to step foot in here again. If Aidan knows the truth, then these two fucks are the least of my worries and I need to get Anastasia somewhere safe, somewhere Aidan wouldn’t know to look, so I can explain everything to her before he has a chance to take her away from me.

I step forward then. Keeping my guns pointed at the two men, I take my eyes off them for only two seconds to look inside the box. In those two seconds I find my worst fear alleviated. Though we certainly have a problem—Aidan and me and me and Anastasia. Sitting in a plastic bag—beaten, bruised, and bloody, wearing a look of pure anguish—is the head of Angelo Piazzo. I back away from the box and think back on the last conversation I had with him.

The night Angelo showed up here drunk he was pissed at Aidan because he’d recently learned that he suspected a mole in his organization. He was having all the Italians in his ranks followed, including Angelo. With tensions already high, that most recent act of distrust was a slap in the face to Angelo and the others who’d decided to join Aidan’s regime. I got Angelo out of here as quickly as possible, because the last thing I needed was Aidan’s men snooping around my shop, even though Aidan should know I’m the last person he needs to worry about working against him. I may hate the guy, but I acknowledge his role in Anastasia’s life. He provides for her, sees to her protection, and, is her brother. He’s a necessary evil, at least, for now. But, it’s obvious he is worried about me or, at a minimum, wants to make it clear that I have no friends in his organization. More importantly, no one in his ranks is allowed to spill details to anyone on the outside without the consequence of death the way Angelo alerted me to the big mob event happening later this summer, the one I confronted Aidan about. Fuck. That’s what tipped him off. He had all the Italians in his ranks watched just waiting to see who would reach out to me. And now Angelo is dead.

My temple throbs and I clench my jaw as anger and guilt bubbles inside me. I’m angry because of what Aidan has done. There was no need for him to go after Angelo. There was no need for him to deem either one of us a threat. He did this because he’s a sick bastard who just wanted to make an example out of someone. And yet I feel guilty, because I am responsible. I could’ve been more patient and given Aidan a chance to inform me of the mob event on his own. Or found a way to get the information out of him without letting him know that I already knew. Of course, he’d know that that information came from one of his men. And, to an extent, I understand why he’d want to find out who leaked it. But this? This is an extreme power move that is only going to anger the remaining Italians in his ranks and, potentially, start a rebellion. Someone is going to want revenge for this, and if that someone learns about Anastasia, she will be their number-one target.

“I’m sure the Mafia has their own way of doing things, or used to,” one of the men says then. “Our way is one week of torture and death by a thousand cuts. Needless to say, he screamed like a baby. Pissed and shit himself. And we made the rest of your kind watch every second of it so that they think twice about speaking out of turn.”

I nod, doing my best to remain calm. All the while, silent fury grows inside me. It leaves my trigger fingers twitching. “You have no idea what you’ve just done. Or, rather, your boss doesn’t,” I say, already seeing the consequences unfold.

“And you seem to have forgotten why we’re all here. The Mafia is no more. There’s a new power in town, and anyone who moves against us will be dealt with in similar fashion.”

“No, we haven’t forgotten. We Italians feel the loss of our way of life every single day. Your boss, on the other hand, is the one acting carelessly. Because you’re right, we do have our own way of doing things, and we are just as skilled, just as vindictive, just as deadly as you. The only difference is, you’re on our turf. You may claim New Orleans, but the rainwater running down these streets fills our veins like blood and our blood fills these streets like rainwater. I may not partake in the war brewing against you, but you can rest assured, this—” I point my gun in the direction of the box. “This is an act of war, and it’s one you better pray you win. Because if you don’t, one week of torture and death by a thousand cuts will be the end you wish you could meet.”

“You know what?” The one on the left reaches for his gun once more. At the same time the jingle of Brinkley’s collar as he runs down the stairs from Ana’s shop draws their attention. As if I needed another reason to kill them, I take this as my excuse and opportunity to do just that. If they recognize Brinkley, they’ll know Ana isn’t far away and her safety will be even more jeopardized than it already is. Without hesitation, I pull both triggers at the same time. One to the head and one to the heart. They hit the ground just as Brinkley reaches the foyer.

Brinkley tiptoes around their bodies, skittish as blood begins to pool around them. I lower my gaze to the cardboard box once more. I wasn’t lying when I said Aidan has no idea what he’s done. Killing Angelo for revealing information he shouldn’t have, even if it was just to me, is one thing. But torturing him and forcing the Italians, who’ve already pledged their loyalty to him, to watch is another. They’re going to seek revenge against Aidan and rightfully so. All I can do is pray they don’t learn about Anastasia. Because if they do and they come for her, I’ll have no choice but to put them down—my own people. I always knew that this would be a possibility, and it was one of the main reasons why I didn’t want this assignment. But Aidan was right. There is no conflict of interest. Though not because I’m being paid to protect Anastasia, but because I love her and there truly are no limits to what I’d do for her, to keep her happy and to keep her safe. Though, with this new threat on the rise, it’s time we get on the same page so that I can do just that.

I step back then and search for my phone among our clothes. Quickly, I give Gio a call and let him know what’s happened and that I need a cleanup crew down here ASAP.

30

My heart is racing and my legs feel heavy as I back away from the locked door. Everything is happening so fast and none of it makes sense. Who would break into the parlor? There’s nothing valuable here, and as far as I know, there isn’t a high demand for ink and needles on the black market. And it’s late but it’s not that late. Surely, there are still plenty of people walking the streets who would’ve seen the intruder break in or, at a minimum, heard the sound of breaking glass. But the intruders didn’t care and neither did anyone else. They were determined. It makes me wonder if they aren’t here to steal something, but rather for another reason. For Damon? For me?

Before I pass out, I move to Damon’s chair, sit, and slip on his leather jacket. I bring my hand to my chest and try to control my breathing. Could someone have found me? I’ve been so careful, but it’s not impossible. I’ve been in New Orleans for months now, and with my new social media account for my store, someone could have recognized me and know exactly where to find me. God, Ana, how could you be so stupid? And now Damon is out there with them. And if it is someone from the mob or with ties to the criminal underworld, he is woefully unprepared. What if something happens to him?

My eyes dart across Damon’s desk. Finding a landline, I grab the phone with plans to call my brother. I hesitate, knowing that if I tell Aidan I’m in trouble, he’ll come down here with his men, guns blazing, and Damon will be brought into this world whether he wants to be or not. Perhaps, more than that, I’ll be pulled back in. Because even if the intruders aren’t related to the mob or another competing organization but my brother is seen coming to my rescue, my identity will be exposed anyway.

An unexpected sound draws my attention and sends an eerie chill crawling up my body. My eyes flit to the locked door, though only for a second before the monitor on Damon’s computer awakens and I see several camera screens split across the monitor and a warning flashing in bright red states Gunshots Detected. The noise seemed too soft to be a gunshot, but as Damon comes into view, standing over two dead bodies, I know it was. The phone slips from my fingers as a cold sweat follows the eerie chill. What do I do? What can I do? Do I call the police? No. No, Damon will get in trouble. Once again, I consider calling my brother. Though as I take in the scene displayed on the cameras, I fear he already knows.

The men who now lie facedown in pools of their own blood wear suits—tan suits. It could be a coincidence, but as I look closer, I suspect it isn’t. Tan is the color suit my brother’s top soldiers wear, and these men just so happen to also have the mark of the Irish mob on their hands. Oh no! What has Damon done? My brother will kill him if— It’s then that I notice the men are not what has Damon’s attention. There’s an open cardboard box sitting on the floor at Damon’s feet. He stares down at it, his pistols still gripped tightly in each hand. He’s angry. I can tell by the way the muscles in his back contract. What’s in the box, Damon? Damon looks forward then as if reconciling whatever he’s seen. The muscles in his hands and arms twitch in response.

I feel myself go pale as numbness works its way through my legs. This wasn’t an accident or coincidence or random break in, was it? A lump forms in my throat as I consider the possibilities. Those men could’ve come here to deliver me a package from my brother since he wouldn’t have wanted them to know where I live and couldn’t be seen delivering it himself. But if they were on a friendly mission, they wouldn’t have broken in. No. My brother has always kept me out of mob matters, but it doesn’t take a genius to put the pieces of this scene together. Those men work for my brother, and they were here to deliver a not-so-friendly message. What and why, I don’t know. What I do know is that Damon was ready for it. He…he moved so quickly, so purposefully—the hidden guns, the way he positioned himself between me and the door, the authority in his voice as he told me to get to his office—he wasn’t afraid in the slightest. He was prepared. So prepared that he didn’t even tell me to call 911. It’s like he knew there wouldn’t be time or a need for it, because anyone breaking into his shop must be here for a reason that the cops can’t know about.

Damon sets his guns on the coffee table then and finds his cell phone among our discarded clothes. Brinkley sticks to his side and I let out a sigh of relief. How could I have forgotten him? Though my relief is short-lived as Damon makes a call. It’s quick, too quick. And he’s calm. Too calm for someone who just killed two people. Then again, those aren’t his first kills, are they? I think back on the drawings in his sketchbook, and no, I don’t mean the ones of his mother and abusive father. I mean the other ones. As Damon places his phone back on the coffee table and quickly dresses, I sink back into the chair, speechless.

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