Spada nods, though I see an eyelid twitch. He’s still not comfortable with the idea of me and Jess together, I can tell. “I didn’t mean to imply anything,” he says. “Just call it a thank-you gift. And maybe an investment in the future.”
I shake my head. “Nope. Keep it. I don’t need it. I don’t want it.”
Looking a bit defeated, Spada lets his hand fall to the table, still holding the bills. I’m relieved; he could have defaulted to his usual anger at me and had me done away with for not being on the same page as he is. He’s in a totally different place today, though, and his next words surprise me. “Is there anything I can do for you, Cain?”
I want to ask him exactly what he means. Does he want to make up for having me beat up—twice—or for making Jess’s life hell? For controlling my life and forcing me to throw fights I could have won? Just for being a general asshole? He has so many choices, after all.
“There’s one thing you can do,” I finally tell him. I don’t shrink from it; I don’t want him to think I’m kidding around, and if I’m reading the room right, this is exactly the right time to put all my cards on the table.
“What’s that?”
“You can get the fuck out of my life. Let me run things my own way. Leave Jess alone. Leave me alone. Let us live our lives. That’s what you can do.”
Spada is silent for a long moment. I know there’s no way he’ll ever meet my terms. He’s too addicted to the control to ever change. I watch his face, looking for any indication of how he’s going to respond. I see nothing. Then, finally, he says, “Let me think on it.”
I guess, for now, it’s the best I’m going to get.
CHAPTER TEN
Jessica
It’s amazing to me how much can change in such a short time. Only a year ago, I was sitting in that bar, watching Cain come up to me, all attitude, almost daring me not to pay attention to him.
And now here we are.
Cain’s in the bathroom, and the shower’s running; he just got home from his latest bout. I don’t know what kind of deal he made with my father, but I do know he’s happier. He’s not being told when to win and when to lose—he just gets to fight, do his best, and let the outcome fall where it may. And he’s good. Very good. Truth is, as hard as it is for me to understand, he loves what he does. How you can love doing something where you get the shit beat out of you for a living is beyond me, but I guess there are worse things.
Also, if you’re going to get beaten up for a living, having a budding physician’s assistant as a wife is an excellent choice. I get to practice stitching him up, getting the swelling down on his cuts and bruises, and making sure nothing gets infected. I’ve also monitored him a few times for concussion, although he’s been lucky in that regard.
It’s the concussions that worry me more than anything else. I’ve seen way too many people drift off into mental oblivion after one too many hits to the head. Which is why I’ve been encouraging him to look at something else he might be able to do. I know he loves fighting, but there are less dangerous jobs he could have without leaving the MMA world. Training, for instance. He seems amenable to the idea, so hopefully one day he’ll stop coming home bloody.
In the meantime I’m still studying, still taking my classes. I go to school at night; during the day I take care of the baby and do some freelance work. We’re doing okay. I’m not taking money from Pop and neither is Cain. Pop comes by from time to time to visit and to see the baby, but there’s no more ugliness, no more power plays. I can live with that.
Speaking of the baby, Annabelle has fallen asleep nursing in my lap while I study for a test I have coming up this week. I hear the shower turn off in the bathroom, so I make sure to get to a stopping place before Cain saunters out, shirtless, rubbing his hair with a towel. His face has taken a beating; he’s got a black eye and a big cut on his cheekbone. With the number of scars he’s got, it’s amazing he’s still pretty.
Scars or not, he grins at Annabelle, and she grins back, her smile gummy and full of drool. He laughs at her and reaches down to take her.
“There’s Daddy’s baby girl,” he says, settling her on his lap as he sits down. Her head’s still a little wobbly, and he’s careful to be sure it stays steady. He’s so good with the baby, so good with me. “Come sit on Daddy’s lap while Mommy fixes Daddy’s face.”
I laugh at him and scoot up next to the chair he’s settled into. “I think it’d take a miracle worker to fix your face, these days.”
He leans forward to kiss me. “Which is why I ask you to do it.”
Shaking my head, I start to examine his face. While I’m assessing whether anything needs stitches, he lets Annabelle squeeze his fingers while he makes baby-talk noises at her.
It’s all I can do to keep the tears from welling up. It’s so perfect, the three of us. I never dreamed it could be like this. Even when I was working so hard to get away from my father, I never dreamed it would really, actually happen.
But here we are. And here we’ll stay.
###
Interested in previews for new releases and free books? Join my newsletter by clicking here! Thank you so much to my readers, and to keep you excited for the next book in the series I’ve included a preview here! I hope you enjoy the first two chapters of WRONG by Katherine Lace.
CHAPTER ONE
Nick
“Hit me.”
The dealer drops a card. I glance at it, do quick math, realize I broke 21. Oh, well. Can’t win them all. She gives me a small smile.
She’s a pretty thing—dark hair and eyes. I wonder what my chances are of taking her home. Probably pretty good. The Spada family’s paying her, after all. If she knows what’s good for her, she’ll say yes to anything anybody asks her.
We finish up the hand, and I accept my losses like a man. Blackjack’s not my game, anyway. I should find some other way to enjoy this party. There are plenty of other nice pieces of tail to check out, and I can have any one of them. Don’t even have to play my cards right. Which is a good thing, since that’s exactly what I just didn’t do.
Phil Spada likes having parties at casinos. It’s a moneymaker for him, and it puts him in good with local businessmen. He needs to be in good with somebody right now, since he sure as hell isn’t hanging on too well in his own business.
You want to run a mob organization, you need to be respected. But in the Spada family, things are up in the air. Everybody’s edgy. Nobody’s confident. People are jockeying for power.
I’m one of them.
The party was a good idea, I have to admit, but it’s too little too late. If Spada wanted this get-together to convince us he’s still got his fingers on the pulse of the organization, he’s fallen short by about a mile. Mile-and-a-half, maybe.
Still, no point in not enjoying it, or at least trying to. Nothing’s really sparking me. I try to tell myself it’s just the party—the tension, the emptiness of it, the way everybody’s trying to have fun just like nothing’s changed. Truth is, I’ve been like this for a while. Just…kind of dull. Dreary. Going through the motions, mostly. Ever since Dad died.
Fuck that shit. Time for a drink, maybe, while I try to get my thoughts in order. I glance toward the bar.
Well, what do you know? It’s Salvatore de Luca. He’s got a girl next to him, but her back’s to me and I can’t tell who it is right off. It’s probably his latest arm candy, though. Susan? Sheri? No, Sarah. I don’t understand how any woman can spend more than about fifteen seconds in his company, though. Just the sight of him makes me want to go spit in his drink. Or, better yet, in his face.
I’d better get used to looking at him, though. Right now, it looks like he’s next in line to the Spada family empire. Spada’s been grooming Sal since Carmine bit it. Nobody likes that. Sal’s an asshole—more so even than most of the rest of us. If we don’t trust Spada right now, double that for Sal. It’s pretty well agreed upon that, if he takes over Spada’s place, things are going to get ugly.
Well, uglier than they are now. I shake my head a little. Sal’s got to go, and I’m probably going to have to be the one to get that job done. That’s fine. I’m up to the task. Thing is, how do I manage it?
The girl next to him turns her head just enough that I can see her profile. Just like I figured, it’s Sarah. They’ve been together a while—several months, I’m pretty sure. I can’t figure it. Sarah’s always seemed quiet, but solid, and Sal? He’s like a box of C4. You wiggle him the wrong way, he’s going to explode. He’s not known for his humanitarian leanings, if you get my drift. How he ended up with a treat like Sarah is beyond me.
Women. What can you do?
She’s talking to him calmly, her gaze steady on his, and I can tell by the way Sal’s back goes stiff in his tuxedo jacket that he doesn’t like what she has to say. She touches his arm, her fingers grasping a bit of the fabric of his sleeve. Sal jerks his arm back, way harder than necessary, and gets right up in her face. She leans back, but she can’t get away from him. I can’t make out what Sal is saying, but his mouth twists, and it’s ugly when he spits the words at her. Then he slams his empty glass down on the bar and stalks away.