Kiss of Death: A Mafia Romance (Hush), page 25
Kiss Of Death
Mary Elizabeth
Kiss of Death
A Hush Novella
MARY ELIZABETH
Copyright © Mary Elizabeth Literature
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews and pages where the publisher or author specifically grants permission.
Although every precaution has been taken to verify the accuracy of the information contained herein, the author and publisher assume no responsibility for any errors or omissions. No liability is assumed for damages that may result from the use of the information contained within.
Cover Design: Comar Covers
Photographer: Andrew M. Gleason
Model: Trey Baxter
Editor: Ellie @ My Brother’s Editor
First Edition
Contents
Also by Mary Elizabeth
1. Rip
2. Rip
3. Rip
4. Rip
5. Rip
6. Rip
7. Vera
Hush Series
About the Author
Also by Mary Elizabeth
Innocents (Dusty, Volume 1)
Delinquents (Dusty, Volume 2)
True Love Way
Low
Poesy (A Low Novella)
Closer (Closer, Volume 1)
Sever (Closer, Volume 2)
Extra Credit
Tramp (Hush, Volume 1)
Harlot (Hush, Volume 2)
Kiss of Death (Hush, Volume 2.5)
Criminal (Hush, Volume 3) Coming Soon
For Janett.
Thank you.
1
Rip
Karma is a bitch.
No, really. Karma is a bitch.
And a dick tease.
“No touching, RIP.” Karma wags her finger like she’s a teacher reprimanding a naughty student and not a topless dancer in nothing but a pair of underwear scarcely covering her cunt. “You know the rules better than anyone.”
“Which set of rules are we talking about?” I ask over the music. Sinking into my seat, I cross my arms over my chest to say, happy now? “Your rules? The clubs? Or—”
Her pretty mouth spreads into a condescending smirk as she straddles my lap, circling her hips. Needy hands slide up my biceps before she grips the tops of my shoulders and throws her head back, and I’m not complaining about the view. Neon lights dress the club in purples and blues, painting Karma’s naked chest in sharp color as she moves over me in all the right motions. My cock hardens, turning Karma’s condensation into conceit, and she grinds harder and faster.
A year ago, I would’ve bagged Karma and turned her out in a back room without all the extra chitchat about rules and regulations before the song even ended.
Ironic, because a year ago, I didn’t have a fraction of the power and influence in this city that was recently bestowed upon me after a quick vote and a drop of blood. My word went from a suggestion to law as soon as Nicolai Coppola placed this crown on my head. Instead of following orders, I’m the man dishing them out now. And everyone better do what the fuck I say or pay deadly consequences.
Unless you’re a stripper with a knack for following protocol.
“Do I make you hard?” she asks, leaning forward to press her chest against my folded arms. “Do you want to fuck me?”
“Does it matter?” I ask in a bored tone.
This is supposed to be a celebration.
It’s turned out to be nothing more than a reminder that my chosen family is going in the same direction as my cock.
Soft.
Karma flicks my earlobe with the tip of her tongue, grazing her fingernails across the back of my neck. Glitter dots her skin like diamonds, rubbing off on my shirt as she moves against me in what’s turning out to be a run-of-the-mill private dance. She smells like strawberry candy, and I know from experience that she tastes like it, too.
“It’s nothing personal.” She works my arms apart to open me up by my wrists.
I roll my head to the side and say, “You’re not acting like you don’t want to be touched.”
In a booth across the club, the DJ introduces the next dancer to take the stage. And as her music goes up, the lights turn down, blanketing us in shadows and a loose perception of privacy. Karma bends the rules in the dark, guiding her hands to her tits.
She’s more than a handful, natural, round, with perfect fucking nipples that bead under my trace. With permission, I squeeze until my fingers overflow with her flesh, and she moans, thrusting faster to keep up with the beat of the music. The small cut on the tip of my finger stings, threatening to break open again. If blood spills, there won’t be any vows of lifelong commitment this time. The only thing I’m after is a quick fuck with no strings attached.
I slide my hands around the small of her back, trapping her in my arms. “The risk is worth it.”
Karma’s long hair falls down her back to sweep across my knees as she bucks against me. She stops dancing for money to chase sensation, shuddering in my grasp—ignoring the fact that she’s wrapped up with a killer. Sucking in a shaky breath like she’s sucked my cock so many times before, a look of defiance darkens her eyes before she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth to taste rebellion.
Scanning the room for prying eyes, Karma’s attention sweeps from one side of the club to the other. “Oh, god,” she whimpers as I dip my head to capture her nipple in my mouth. “RIP…”
I smile with her nipple between my teeth, biting only hard enough to leave her gasping for more. Releasing her, I say, “Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop.”
“Don’t stop.” She clutches the lapels of my jacket, pressing our bodies together. “Fuck it. Fuck me.”
Karma goes for my belt, releasing the leather strap from the brass buckle with a swift flick of her wrist. Before power changed hands in our city, Grand Haven, and the touchable turned untouchable, we’d take this to a private room reserved for these kinds of arrangements between consenting adults. But there’s a new queen in charge, and Lydia Montgomery has a monopoly on pussy from the Canadian border to Sacramento. Enemy territory is beyond that, smaller and weaker than us. And when the time comes, I have no doubt that with the help of the Coppolas, Lydia will stake her claim in the entire state.
Not only does Lydia run Hush, the largest high-end escort service in California, but she made a deal with the devil. What she says goes, and she says no one fucks for money without her permission. That includes me.
But she isn’t the only one making deals with the dark side. The devil himself made me a made man, and that comes with a license to fuck who I want, when I want.
At least, it should. It used to mean absolute power.
A drink server walks past us, clearing their throat. “Karma, watch it,” they say in passing, holding a tray of empty glasses.
The quick reminder of our debauchery is all it takes to break the spell, and Karma falls heavy in my arms with a sigh. We linger in a moment of dead space, stunned by the sudden jolt of disappointment before returning to our senses. My heartbeat doesn’t slow with my breath but quickens with the urge to kill every motherfucker in the building before heading downtown to find Lydia. There’s nothing I’d enjoy more than strangling the life out of that cockblocking bitch, even if a small part of me respects her reign.
“You know,” Karma says in a sweet tone. She throws her arms over my shoulders lazily, swaying offbeat to the music. The tops of her cheeks burn, and her eyes glaze in the semidarkness. “How long have we shared this arrangement? We could be good together. It would be easy.”
“Yeah?” I ask, only half invested. The plan tonight was to ride something, and if pussy is out of the question, then there’s a black Harley Davidson waiting for me in the parking lot. I’ve wasted enough time here.
“Sure, why not? We’re not so different.”
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “I don’t even know your real name.”
“I’m Amy.”
Karma has a better ring to it.
“Do I need to sell myself?” she asks. “What else do you want to know?”
“Selling yourself is against the rules, remember?” I pat her thigh to signal the end of the dance, needing to get on the road before I combust.
Talk about a future together disappears with Amy’s blush. People like us—the outliers—we’re realists. We exist under the radar in dark corners, on whispers and secrets, where dreaming about a future could be the distraction that gets us killed. At the rate I’m going, the chances of living long enough to grow old, let alone with another person, are pointless.
Gangsters have a short life expectancy. The last don was killed at fifty years old, and the one before him wasn’t much older. Same goes for the men who stood by their sides.
“It’s nothing personal, Amy.” I wink, repeating her words.
Using her real name is a mistake. It lifts the veil between fantasy and reality, transforming her from a product to a person. Amy isn’t my wildest dream; she’s a twentysomething girl wearing too much makeup to cover up the blanket of freckles laid across her nose and cheeks. The straps of her bra cut into her skin, and she winces as she stands. Amy’s shoes are killing her feet.
Complacency could be the last thing I do. With as many enemies as I have, I notice everything. When I step into a space, the first thing I do is look for a way out and check for suspicious behavior. Nothing gets past me, and I noted the liquor bottles were situated on the countertop and the normal liquor display was gone when I arrived. It’s in the process of being rebuilt, so I wrote it off as the result of a bar fight, looks like I was wrong.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Chasity gave a customer a hand job in the bathroom, and it got back to Hush.”
Standing to my feet, I pull my shirt straight and shake my head. Lydia has the entire mob at her disposal, but I’ve heard stories about how she deals with those who break the rules. It involves a nightstick and quality swing.
“She walked right through the doors last week like she owned the place. Tommy tried to explain. He tried to calm her down, but it went in one ear and out the other.” Amy chuckles softly, with an edge of admiration in the tone. “No woman in history has ever calmed down when a man has asked her to. Not that Lydia needed to calm down at all. She was as cold as ice, stopping him in his tracks with a single look. Nothing was left untouched. The liquor bottles, the mirrors, the shelves, and every glass in sight was gone in a matter of seconds.”
That’s why I work with guns.
When I wave a weapon around, people usually shut the fuck up and do as they’re told without the mess of breaking shit.
When I fire my pistol, it’s clean shots only.
It’s easier to cover up a crime scene that way. And quicker.
“Before she left,” Amy continues. She pinches her cheeks and runs a finger under her bottom lip for smeared lipstick. “Lydia pointed the stick at Chasity and said, you’re better than a cheap fuck in the bathroom stall, and the poor girl burst into tears. Tommy fired her, of course. That fifty-dollar hand job cost him a hundred grand. So, as much as I’d like to fuck you, RIP, I don’t want to lose my job. I’m going places.”
“Let me guess,” I say, opening my jacket to adjust my gun holster. Twin Glocks hug my left and right sides, fully loaded. Always ready to play. “You’re paying your way through college.”
A smile breaks her face in half, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Amy dips her toe in this life, dancing for gangsters and selling her body when allowed. But she knows when she’s out of her league.
“Now why would I do something like that?” She takes an unconscious step back. “I stand to make more money with Hush than I ever could with a college degree. And in a shorter amount of time.”
“What do you mean with Hush?”
The music changes again, and the stage goes dark as the lights in the club transition from purple and blue to neon pink and yellow. Amy doesn’t know me outside of our arrangements, but she’s heard stories. Stories she’s likely visualizing now. Unease chips away at her the longer we stand under the warmer lights, harsh tones cutting shadows across my face. Her eyes wander, but no one turns their back on the most dangerous man in the building.
Fuck me for a few hundred dollars? Yes.
But have a conversation with me? That’s pushing it.
“Isn’t it obvious?” She only manages to make eye contact for fleeting moments. Self-preservation is an uneasy pull in the pit of her stomach. Danger, it warns her. Danger. Amy hides it well, motioning around the club like I’m a normal patron—like most of the men in attendance tonight don’t work for me. “A gentlemen’s club is the perfect place to find quality girls. If we do well enough here, we’re promoted. And the pay raise is worth axing bathroom hand jobs.”
Now it makes sense. This isn’t only a strip joint; it’s a fucking pussy farm. And Lydia doesn’t want anyone sampling the goods before she gets her hands on them first.
Pulling my wallet from my back pocket, I thumb through the bills and pay Amy the going rate before Lydia interfered with our arrangement.
“RIP,” she says hesitantly. “This is too much money. It was only a dance.”
I don’t miss the way Amy inhales a sharp breath as I lean in to press a small kiss to her forehead. This woman was ready to let me inside her body, but without the illusion of a business transaction between us, she senses what everyone does when I’m around: fear.
“It was a great dance,” I say. “Take care of yourself, Amy.”
“Wait,” she calls out over the music, making no attempt to follow me out. “If you change your mind and decide you’re ready for a girlfriend, you know where to find me.”
“You got it, babe.” I wink and head to the bar, where my guys are gathered.
Not a chance. What the fuck would I do with a girlfriend?
The Coppola crime family took me under their wing at a young age. I was a gutter kid, running the streets so I didn’t have to face my alcoholic mother and abusive father at home more than necessary. Gino Coppola, who was the underboss, caught me stealing a pack of gum from a liquor store protected by the organization. He beat my ass, but then he gave me a job. Gino was dead in a year, but my association with the Coppolas didn’t die with him.
The work started off small. I delivered messages, eavesdropped, cleaned up around various hangouts, and kept the boss’s grandson, Nicolai, company. But as I grew, so did my responsibilities. It turned out that I was light on my feet and really fucking good with a gun.
During my association, I’ve survived the death of two bosses, two underbosses, and countless soldiers, but I didn’t bat a fucking eye when Nico voted me in. La Costa Nostra is what I know. I live by the gun, and one day, I’ll likely die by that motherfucker. Where does that leave room for a girlfriend? Where does something as trivial as a relationship fit? It doesn’t.
On my way to the top, I’ve run through my fair share of women. Sex isn’t a problem. My face, my build, my bike and even my reputation brings them in. Girls outside the life think they want a bad boy until things get bad. Then they get scared and run. On the rare occasion when someone sticks around, determined to “fix me”, I lose interest and send them on their way.
A Mafia princess has grown up in the lifestyle, so I don’t have to live a double life like I do with a normal woman. But there’s nothing casual about hooking up with a made man’s little girl, even if she’s a twenty-three-year-old cookie who likes her mouth fucked. Their only concern is marrying her off to an honorable man to become his problem, even if that man is a killer.
I’m not looking that far ahead.
I don’t connect with people.
I tolerate them, or I kill them.
The general disconnection I have for others may be a result of growing up in a loveless home. Doctors have labeled me as “detached” and “compulsive” while scribbling prescriptions, promising a cure. But my loyalties lie only with those who’ve proven to have my back, and there’re only a few individuals I trust. Everyone in my life has a role and serves a purpose, and when that role or purpose expires, so do they. Be it I send them away or put them in the grave.
And I don’t feel guilty about it.
Except once.
My first kill was the only time I hesitated before pulling the trigger, and it’s my only experience with regret. The memory still keeps me up at night.
But ghosting a woman? Good riddance.
I can’t be fixed. There’s no point in letting anyone try.
The day will come when I’m expected to marry, likely to a principessa, who’ll want my status but not my heart. Which works because I don’t have one. Until then, I don’t mind I’ll pay for what I need, when I need it.
Anyone who says they’re too good to pay for sex is lying.
There’s only one thing I hate more than Lydia Montgomery’s new rules, and that’s a liar.
