Page 27 of The Mob and his Messenger

I can just hear her in the garden, and join her outside, Poppet running laps up and down the flowerbeds. The sun blazes down and I see she’s changed into some sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt, none of which can hide the deliciousness of her body beneath.

I stand beside her in the shadow of the house, both of us watching as Poppet leaps and frolics, lost in her own excitable world.

“The fourteenth of August, nineteen ninety,” Dallas murmurs, reading the plaque on the bench nearby.

My blood turns cold for a moment and suddenly the sun doesn’t seem warm, but icy, as cold as a frozen-over hell. Memories stab at me and I remember the blood under my fingernails. I remember the mayhem in my mind and the animal calm that came over me as I stood there, listening to the sounds of the sirens and the city and the rush of violence in my own ears.

“It’s the date my parents were murdered in front of me,” I say softly.

The passcode for my phone. A silly bit of sentimentality.

I feel a weight dropping from my body, as though I’ve been wearing a metal vest all these years and now it’s finally dropping to the ground.

Dallas turns to me, her eyes going wide for a moment.

Then she drifts over and stands closer, as though unsure of what to do.

But I’ll never be unsure with her.

I grab her and hug her to my body, feeling the heat of her through the T-shirt, her skin blazing, her emotions fanning her.

“I didn’t know that,” she says quietly.

“I never talk about it.” I shrug. “It was the Italian mob. The Italian mob before I took over, that is. It was different back then. They ran the Family like fucking animals. My dad owed some gambling money and so two heavies came to try and shake it out of him. My old man wouldn’t be intimidated. He thought he was tough. The problem people have, Dallas, when they think they’re tough but they’re not …”

“You saw it?” she whispers, dread in her voice.

“I was watching through my bedroom door,” I murmur, conscious that a wolfish savagery has entered my voice, as though a piece of the wild is howling within me. “My dad lifted his gun to try and shoot. The heavies got their first. My poor mom threw herself at them and the heavies killed her too. And then I …”

I pause, bring my face closer to hers, and kiss her softly. I taste her, all of her. I taste her nerves, her budding confidence, and her talent. I taste her desire to succeed and her body’s will to give me a family. I taste her support, the emotional connection flaming between us. I taste it all on her soft lips and then I break off the kiss, letting out a shaky sigh.

It’s like I’m back there. It’s like I’m living it again.

“And then I ran out there and I grabbed Dad’s gun and I shot them both. One of them lived and recovered, only to be killed a few months later in another altercation. The other one died. I later learned he was a rapist and all manner of other vile fucking things. But it doesn’t change the fact that I killed a man when I was twelve.”

I expect her to recoil from me, here at this unlikeliest of scenes, confessing murder as the sun blazes down and Poppet splashes around in the fountain.

But instead, she looks firmly at me. I see the confident glint of motherhood in her eyes, the lioness waiting to be released.

People would be mistaken to think that my Dallas is all nerves and timidity.

She’s anything but.

And the best part is, she’s all fucking mine.

“He killed your parents,” she whispers, taking my face in her hands, her fingers brushing through my hair as she holds my gaze. “And you turned the Mafia into something different, something more civilized if that makes sense. I … Once, when I was like fifteen, I got into a phase of researching mafia-related crime statistics. And the jump was obvious, Dom. When you took over, things became more peaceful.”

I smirk a little, brushing my hand up her neck, tracking the way it makes her shiver and smile for me. “Why were you doing that?” I ask.

“Because I wanted to see what Dad was involved with, I guess,” she murmurs.

When he finds out …

It’s selfish of me, but I shove that thought away.

Even if we’re relatively out in the open right now, no member of staff and none of the men would ever say a word about seeing me and Dallas together. But that presents its own problems, like the idea that we’re hiding in plain sight.

Mocking him.

But we aren’t. I never would.

But then, what the fuck are we doing?

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