Cosa Nostra: A Steamy Mafia Romance (Kids of The District Book 3), Nicci Harris [read a book txt] 📗

I slap my forehead. "I need a new best friend."

He lets out a soft, serious sort of exhale. The kind that means he's understanding me. Understanding what I need to hear. "Alright, Golden Girl. No, Max isn't controlling you with your vag. You are not weak. Women control men, Cassidy. With class and heels."

I sigh. It's not control we offer. . . It's comfort.

Frick, my Max.

That's what he needed yesterday. He gave me what I needed - space - and in doing so I denied him what he needed. Comfort. I'm a place he can be himself - honest, raw, guard-less. I'm his gentleness in this dangerous world and that doesn't make me his weakness - it doesn't make me weak.

Maybe. . . I'm his strength.

Toni continues, "And as for the baby topic, Jacinda Ardern had a baby while the prime minister of New Zealand. If she can do that, then you can work it around ballet. My queen is way ahead of the competition. It's only fair to give them a chance to catch up. You were getting a bit too fabulous anyway."

I smile softly. "I can't dance Sugar Plum." Remembering the sponsorship I was offered, I groan. "And Jimmy's sponsorship is out of the question. He was going to pay my way through Europe but now. . . I can't go."

He nods slowly. "Maybe not this year. But you will. One day."

Breathing smoothly for the first time in what feels like days, I begin to silence the irrational thoughts. I won't let trauma consume me. Let it blanket darkness over the good things in my life. The good people in my life. People I trust. Love.

I take a big breath in and steadily breathe out Erik.

Max

She was scared of me last night. For the first time, perhaps ever, there was a glimpse of true fear in her golden-hazel eyes. That rips at my guts. I fucking force that down, the way I begged her, the way she rejected me, the way I left, the way it made me feel. . . fucking helpless. Fuck. Yep, I ram it all fucking down.

I glance out the window of my Chrysler 300 and take a sip of my whiskey neat. All my attention should be on the mob at Stormy River. The fucking wop trash that won't last the night. Won't be going home to their families.

Cassidy.

I can't stop seeing her wide, confused eyes. Can't stop recalling how she lied to me about why she wanted to stay at home. Home. That place isn't her fucking home anymore.

I take another sip of my whiskey. My fingers tighten around the glass. Tighten with the urge to shatter it in my fist. To feel the shards pierce my skin. Open me up. Like she does. Fucking Cassidy Slater and her gentle, sweet nature. Hopeful. She pressed her little palm to my cheek and bared me down with that simple, mundane action. She opened me up. It's a dangerous thing she is doing to me. She is making me want her too much. With that, my skins crawls with the need to get back to her. To order my driver to turn around so I can fix whatever is wrong between us. I don't.

I can't.

I am being escorted to this perceived casual meeting, my car following the convoy of black, bullet-proof, high-end vehicles - Cadillacs and Chrysler 300s. I know that a few cars ahead, Jimmy is drinking red wine and being sucked into a good mood.

As is his style before an execution.

Butch will be stoic - I still don't understand that man.

Clay will be all business, to him this is nothing personal.

Bronson is probably bouncing with anticipation.

Xander will most certainly be nervous.

I couldn't care less how Salvatore feels.

As we roll through the fencing towards the abattoir, I see Marco and his mob jump out from within a black van. All nine men were crammed in, shoulder to shoulder, and I can't think of anything worse. Except. . . maybe polio.

I exhale through a growl.

My car pulls up behind Clay's, but before we step out, we sit for a while. The sight of nine tinted boss cars looming in front of the heads of them is like a warning. The Stormy River mob straighten. Puff up.

Once again, our differences are bleedingly obvious. While I watch my family step out wearing suits and ties, the Stormy River wops shuffle around dressed like they are hitting the clubs - shirts open, gold chains, fucking sneakers. It's an embarrassment.

Before leaving the car, I pull my jacket off and lay it over the leather seat beside me. It's a fucking hot night for October. Usually in the back of my mind, I am calmed by the peaceful thought of Cassidy in my bed. My little piece of purity in this world. Of goodness.

Tonight though, as I walk into the abattoir, flanking Clay, Bronson, Butch, and Jimmy, I'm reminded that she isn't in my bed, and my angry mood is stoked by that thought.

When I stop within a few metres of our 'associates', Xander appears beside me, his demeanour measured. Salvatore quickly moves to stand beside Clay - the little fucker's way of trying to claim a spot on the hierarchy. Even though not a single soul in the Family would promote that piece of shit.

This is a soldier-free interaction.

And we've kept our end of the deal.

Jimmy and Butch take the few steps needed to embrace and kiss our guests like well-mannered Sicilians. Although I find it distasteful, I move forward to do it too, and I do it with confidence. It's an insecure man who doesn’t plant those kisses firm and hard. There is often aggression in that greeting. A silent show of power; we can just as easily kiss their ugly faces as we can slice them the length of their smiles.

It's all the same to us.

"Marco," Jimmy coos, his tone welcoming and