Page 4 of His Mafia Sunshine

CHAPTER 3

LIAM

The Emerald Serpent is a fucking cliché, all dark wood and tarnished brass, the kind of place where bad decisions are born and bred. The air is thick with stale smoke and spilled whisky, the low murmur of gruff voices like white noise in my ears.

I down my third shot of Jameson, barely feeling the burn. It's been days since I walked out of Asher's diner, my body still thrumming with the aftershocks of our explosive encounter. I can't close my eyes without seeing his face, those soft pink lips parted on a gasp, his honey eyes blown black with want. It's enough to drive a man insane.

"You look like shit, brother." Finn drops onto the stool beside me, signaling for a drink. His ginger hair is cropped close to his skull, his blue eyes sharp and assessing.

"Feel like shit," I mutter, toying with my empty glass. "This job is getting to me."

Finn's brow furrows, concern etching deep grooves around his mouth. "The Davis kid still giving you trouble?"

I barked a harsh laugh. "You could say that."

"Want me to have a word with him?" Finn cracks his knuckles, the sound like gunshots in the close air. "Soften him up a bit?"

"No!" The word is out before I can stop it, too loud, too vehement. Finn's eyes widen, surprise and dawning suspicion filling his gaze.

"Liam," he says slowly, "tell me you're not getting attached to this guy."

I clench my jaw so hard my teeth ache. "I'm not a fucking idiot, Finn. I know the rules."

"Do you?" Finn leans in, his voice dropping to a tense whisper. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're about two seconds away from handing your balls over to some twink on a silver platter."

Rage flashes through me, white-hot and blinding. I'm on my feet before I realize I've moved, my fist tangled in the front of Finn's shirt, hauling him up to snarl in his face.

"You shut your fucking mouth," I hiss, my vision pulsing red at the edges. "You don't know a goddamn thing about it."

Finn's eyes are wide, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender. "Easy, brother. I'm just looking out for you."

I shove him away with a disgusted grunt, my chest heaving. Fuck. I'm losing it, letting Asher get under my skin, making me weak. I need to get my head on straight, remember who I am, what I am.

A monster. A killer. A man who doesn't deserve softness, or sunshine, or second chances.

"I need some air," I mutter, tossing a crumpled bill on the bar. Finn opens his mouth like he wants to argue, but I silence him with a glare. "Don't fucking follow me."

I burst out of the bar like a bat out of hell, the chill autumn air a slap to the face. My feet carry me down rain-slicked streets, past boarded-up storefronts and tattered flyers fluttering in the breeze. I don't have a destination in mind, just a gnawing, aching need to move, to outrun the tangle of emotions clawing at my throat.

It's not until I see the familiar neon sign glowing up ahead that I realize where I've ended up. Sunshine Diner. Of fucking course.

I hesitate for a long moment, my pulse pounding in my ears. I should turn around, walk away, put this whole twisted fascination behind me. But even as the thought forms, I know it's futile. I'm drawn to Asher like a moth to flame, helpless to resist the lure of his warmth, his light.

With a muttered curse, I push through the door, the tinkling bell overhead like a mocking laugh. The diner is nearly empty this late, just a few straggling customers hunched over cups of coffee. Asher is nowhere to be seen, but I can hear his voice drifting from the kitchen, that low, musical timbre I've come to crave like a drug.

I slide into my usual stool at the counter, my hands clenched tight on the worn Formica. Mia shoots me a suspicious glare from the other end of the counter, but I ignore her, my attention focused on the swinging door that separates me from Asher.

"I told you, I'm not interested." Asher's voice is louder now, strained and tight with discomfort. "Please leave before I call the police."

"Aw, don't be like that, sweetheart." A man's voice, slurred and wheedling. "I'm just trying to be friendly."

My blood runs cold, then hot. I'm off the stool in a heartbeat, shouldering through the kitchen door with murder in my veins.

A burly, middle-aged man in a rumpled suit has Asher backed up against the prep table, his meaty paw wrapped around Asher's slender wrist. Asher's face is pale, his eyes wide with fear and revulsion, but he's standing his ground, his chin lifted in stubborn defiance.

"I believe he told you to leave," I say, my voice a low, deadly rasp.

The man starts, his bleary eyes swinging to me. "Who the fuck are you?"

---