Page 24 of Corrupted Heir (Mafia Kings: Corrupted 1)

Marco connected a swing with Bradley’s right knee, resulting in a satisfying crack. He howled in pain but my men held him in place, stopping him from dropping to the ground.

“You owe us a lot of money, but that’s the least of your problems. It’s about what’s right. And wrong.”

His eyes narrowed and his face turned red. I could see the veins throbbing in his temples. And there it was. Stage two, anger. “Who the hell are you to be my judge and jury? You’ve never done any wrong in your life?”

“I’ve done many, many bad things, but I’ve never exploited the innocent.”

I walked up to him and looked down at the pathetic rolls of useless flesh. His brow was coated in a layer of sweat. I balled my fist, cocked back, and rammed it into his face. The force shot his head backward into the window behind him, shattering the glass.

He roared in pain, but with his arms held firmly, he was powerless to escape it. “The Novas will hear about this!” he seethed, resorting to threats.

“I don’t think they will. Did they blackmail you into being your protection?” Fucking coward. I punched him again, this time, in the stomach.

He groaned while his body tried to double over, but he was trapped.

“Let me guess. You had several attacks, robberies, and assaults at your club. And then, magically, one day, the Novas came to your rescue, offering protection in exchange for money?”

“How the fuck… did you know that?” he croaked out between gasps.

“Because that’s what us scumbags do.” I shook my head. The reminder of the Novas exhausted me to the bone. They weren’t much of a problem just yet, but they could be.

I stepped away and left Marco and his boys to it. Bats, the back of guns, fists, and boots. My job here was done.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Marco. Leave him alive, leave him dead, I don’t care,” I said over my shoulder, “You be the judge, jury, and executioner.”

“Hmm,” his deep voice came from behind me.

I left, went home, and wearily fell into bed half-dressed.

Chapter Eight

Dominic

The gentle evening breeze was too warm. The lap of the waves against the shore was too loud. The vague briny scent of the seaweed and water had somehow managed to infuse itself into every bite of the risotto in front of me. And the woman sitting across from me had spent the past ten minutes pushing food around her plate with her fork. What the hell had I been thinking?

I’d seen the way Fallon had stared out at the bay from inside the restaurant on our last date. This was supposed to be perfect. A private dinner on the outdoor patio of a five-star restaurant, overlooking Jamaica Bay. It had started out all right. The way she’d smiled, the way the light of the moon had shone in her wide, excited eyes. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen anything more beautiful.

Now, we were quiet, uncomfortable. This would have been so much easier if the end goal was simply to get her into my bed. As much as she seemed to dislike me, her body didn’t. I could see it in the liquid heat in her eyes when she looked at me, and I could feel it in the air that was practically combusting between us. But this wasn’t supposed to be about sex. It was supposed to be about something more. The problem was I didn’t fucking want more. I wanted Fallon naked in my bed, and tomorrow, I wanted to move on. That’s what I did. That’s what I was good at. Trying to converse with a woman who was as sweet as sugar one minute and as sour as lemon the next drained the energy I didn’t have to spare.

“So, um, what’s your favorite color?” Fallon asked, still pushing food around on her plate.

“My favorite color?” Just great. Now we were resorting to small talk? And even if I wanted to jump on board this pathetic train, I didn’t have a favorite color, probably because I wasn’t in the sixth grade anymore.

“Red.” The word slipped out unbidden. Red like all the blood I’d cleaned off my hands. Red like the bloodshot eyes that stared back at me in the mirror some mornings. Red like the rage that clouded my vision sometimes. That was apparently my favorite color. Then again, it was also the color of Fallon’s dress that was hugging her curves and offering a tantalizing peek at the upper swells of her breasts. It was the color of the lipstick she wore that shined like the juiciest thing I’d ever seen when she swept her tongue across her lips.

“What’s yours?” I asked because now I was curious, not really about her favorite color, but why she’d chosen it.

“Blue, like the sky and the ocean,” she said, nodding toward the water. “They’re both so big, but I could stare at them endlessly and never tire of it. It’s calming, I guess.” She shrugged then smiled a little awkwardly, like she’d said more than she’d been expecting.

The sky and the ocean? This woman was too innocent for her own good. Next, she was going to tell me she spent her free time picking daisies and chasing rainbows.

“Don’t you think so? That it’s calming, I mean,” she asked, looking up at me with a hopeful glint in her eyes. I wondered if she had any idea that everything from her eyes to her expression to the way she sat gave her away. She wasn’t very good at hiding her emotions.

“No, I don’t find a vast endless sky calming. I find it boring,” I said and then wished I hadn’t when the strange hopeful look in her eyes fizzled out.

But someone needed to burst her bubble. She was never going to fit into my lifestyle the way she was now, and she would never make a good wife to a Don. My mother was sweet and kind, but she was also practical and ruthless when she had to be. She was wise enough to see the world for what it was and not dress it up with rainbows and daisies. Maybe Fallon needed to be shaken up.

“The sky isn’t comforting because everyone looks up at that same blue sky, and that doesn’t put me at ease. Murderers, rapists, corrupt politicians, pedophiles; they all look up at your blue sky, and I find no comfort in that.”

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