Dirty Chase: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Brooklyn Brotherhood Book 2) (15 page)

T
his isn't a fair fight
.

Sergey raises his blade in the air. The moonlight glints off of it, but only near the bottom, close to the handle. The rest of the knife is dark with blood. My blood. Sergey says something in Russian.

"What? What?" I say.

And then he lunges toward me. I'm suddenly twelve years old again, lying flat on my back, stunned and bleeding, while a huge man rushes toward me to finish the job.

Only this time, it's not my father. And the young man falling on top of me isn't holding a belt or a fresh switch cut from a tree outside.

He's got a weapon, and he wants me to bleed to death.

Still, years of training and instinct kick in. As he throws his heavy body toward mine, I twist and roll away from him. Slower than normal, because my side is burning something terrible. The heat around the wound changes as I move; it pulses like the wound is breathing on its own, like it has its own horrible heartbeat.

I'm just quick enough to roll and get on my knees, though then I look down and see the blood pooling underneath my body. For a moment I watch it become one with the alley, merging into just another deep, dark layer in this godforsaken shadowy place.

It hits me that I could die here. My body could be just another thing left in this abandoned stretch of nowhere.

He kicks me—right on the wound. An explosion of pain, and I fall to my side. I'm a panting animal, and I have trouble focusing on Sergey because the pain is raging like an out-of-control wildfire.

Don't touch it
, I tell myself.
Don't feel the blood
.

If I can just ignore the hole in my side for a moment, it won't be real. I can pretend I'm whole. I can save my life.

Sergey lands on top of me in the sludge and silt. I'm flat on my back, and he's full-body on me. I never thought about killing another man as being intimate, but I can't remember a time in my life when I've ever been this close to anyone. Even fucking—how does that compare when you're staring into each other's eyes, breathing each other's rotten, hot, and panicked air, and trying to steal each other's very soul?

"Don't do this, man," I get out.

He answers in Russian. Fuck, fuck, I don't know what he's saying.

Sergey raises the knife again. I watch it seem to hover in the air, like time slows down, like we're on the top of the first hill of a roller coaster—

And then his hand drops and the blades rushes right toward my heart.

I do the only thing I can do. I block the blade with my left hand.

I let out an inhuman shout, I'm saying words I don't even understand, I'm promising him I'll kill you, but don't make me kill you, and—

Suddenly Sergey's calling my name, but he's not speaking in Russian.

He's speaking with a woman's voice.

Elle. Elle's voice.

I jerk, my entire body convulsing, and my eyes fly open, and—

"Holy shit. Elle." I'm on my back, but not in the alley—I'm in bed. In my bed, hands fisting the sheets, breathing hard.

She's sitting up in bed, leaning over me.

"You were dreaming," she whispers. She lays her hand tentatively over my racing heart. "Are you okay?"

I nod, even though I still feel disoriented. It's too dark. Too much like my dreams, or my nightmares.

She touches my chest, then my cheek, stroking my beard. "What were you dreaming about, Chase?"

I think about telling her. I realize I
want
to tell her.

But how exactly would that go?
Well, darlin', the first time I killed a man, I was a teenager. Want to hear how it went down? A real great story, born right here in Brooklyn…lots of blood and Russian cursing.

You never forget your first kill—that's what some of the old timers say.

I sure as fuck wish I could.

And I sure as hell am not going to expose Elle to that. To
anything
related to that side of my life. She knows too much as it is. She doesn't need to know about Sergey. She doesn't need to know about the twenty-three hits since then. The mayor in Palermo. Yeah, he was on the take and running refugee kids from war zones…directly into sexual slavery. He deserved it.

But I still remember that it was his daughter who found him. Did
she
deserve
that
?

And what came after him? Was the next man to take charge any better?

Fuck. I'm getting too old for this shit.

Despite the heat of the night, a shiver runs through me.

"You, darlin'. I was dreaming about you."

Elle huffs. "You sure as hell
were not
. Unless I have a starring role in your nightmares."

The sudden juxtaposition of the memory of blood, and Elle right here in my bed, is jarring. I close my eyes, an image of Elle covered in blood ripping my heart out.

Fuck, I need to get out of here.

"No," I say, rolling onto my side and facing her. She's wearing my T-shirt, and she looks damn good in it. The streetlight filters in through the window and highlights her bare thighs, the curve of her hip. "I just don't need to talk about any other dreams. Not when I've got a living dream girl right here."

Elle laughs. "Okay, smooth talker. If you don't want to talk about it, just say so—"

My phone vibrates. Saved by the incoming text.

"Don't answer it," Elle says.

I hesitate for a moment, my hand frozen over the vibrating cell on the side table. I look back at Elle, and she's completely serious, her eyes wide in the dark. She puts her hand on my other arm.

"Don't," she says again. Quietly. Hesitantly. "Stay here. Tell me about your dream. Tell me…anything. Anything you want."

I close my eyes. The phone rattles as another text arrives, then another.

Tell me anything
.

I couldn't. Not in a million years. She'd run screaming if she knew what kind of monster hides beneath my smile.

"Duty calls, Princess," I say, picking up the phone.

Her arm falls away.

"Fuck." Gray and Declan have sent a flurry of texts, and none of them good.

I stand up, pull on jeans and a shirt. When I look back at Elle, she's still sitting right where I left her, her knees up under chin, her arms wrapped around her legs.

Curled in on herself.

"I shouldn't be here," she says.

"Elle," I say. "Come on. Don't be dramatic."

“
What?
" Her voice tells me those were the wrong fucking words to use.

"It's two in the fucking morning. I just got bad news about—"

"About what?"

About you
.

"Nothing," I say, grabbing my jacket from the closet. "Work."

"Chase, you don't have to tell me about your dreams, but it's insane that you just get up and leave in the middle of the night, all the fucking time. You can at least tell me what the bad news is! Or where you're going! You don't have to protect me from your life."

I laugh, a hollow sound, and walk to the bedroom door.

"Actually, Princess, that's
exactly
what I have to do."

* * *

I
stare
at the photos spread out across Gray's desk.

"Motherfucker," I say. "Who sent them?"

I know who took them. The paparazzo I roughed up. They're photos of Elle and me, from the night we first met. She's wearing those kitten tights and the tiara. We're leaving Il Duca, my arm wrapped around her waist, her head thrown back, laughing.

Like always, her hair trails behind her, catching the light.

"We found out where the Russian had been hiding out. A shit hotel in Bed Stuy. He had these in his things," Dec says.

I flip past the first few and my gut clenches. There are photos of Elle, alone, leaving school. So she was right. Someone
had
been following her. And it looks like the photographer wasn’t just a paparazzo, after all.

He’d been hired to watch her.

There are a few more photos of the place I'm staying. One of me running in the early morning, my hoodie pulled up over my head, but it's me. He could've got the drop on me right there by the side of the road if he'd wanted to.

“I want to find the photographer,” I say.
And kill him
.

Declan shakes his head. “We already found him.”

“And?”

“Someone else found him first.” Declan makes a slicing motion across his throat. “Whoever hired him is covering his tracks.”

"Find anything else? Like the Russian's fucking name?"

Gray shakes his head and hands me a whiskey. "No I.D. No travel info. Just clothes, guns, these photos, and cash."

"So the big question is, who hates you enough to hire a trained Russian assassin?" Declan says. “And how do we find the fucker?"

I down the whiskey and lean back on the sofa in Gray's office. "Believe me, no one wants those answers more than me. But as far as who wants to kill me? Shit, it could be—" I count off the top of my head. "Twelve guys? I mean, fuck. I haven’t exactly been traveling the world singing 'Kumbaya
.'
”

Gray and Declan stare at me, more serious than I've ever seen them.

"So make a list," Gray finally says. "Twelve men. Maybe more. We'll send out feelers. In the meantime, you stay the fuck outta sight."

"Fuck that," I say. "I'm gonna find whoever wants me dead.”

"You can find out who's behind this by using other people," Gray growls. "You don't always have to be the lone fucking wolf, Chase. You have friends. We will help you. You don't have to run off to wherever the hell you're thinking of going and chase down shadows. We have contacts. We're a team."

Declan grins. "Damn, Coach Gray. Look at you. Rah-fucking-rah."

"You're a shithead," Gray says to Declan, pouring us more whiskey before settling himself on the couch next to me. Then he points at me. "And
you
need to listen to your friends, for once. Let's make a list."

And then Declan hands me a pen and paper.

“I don’t know what you’re gettin’ so worked up for," Declan shrugs. "Only
twelve
men
might
want to kill you? I've had at least fifteen men definitely want to kill me. At the same time. Twelve. Feck that small-time shit."

Despite myself, I laugh, as does Gray.

"Aye, come to think of it," Declan continues. "I've had at least fifteen men
and
a fair number of women want me dead. So I don't know what you're fecking complaining about."

My hand freezes around the pen I'm holding.
Women
. One woman is what's really concerning me.

"I don't know why that fucker had pictures of Elle," I mutter. "Elle
alone
. It's not like she's even my girl. We barely even know each other. Why would they target her?"

"If she's not your girl, why are you so worried?" Declan says. Gray glares at him.

"We're on it," Gray says. "We've got your back. And Elle's."

I nod slowly, resisting the urge to rush out of here and find Elle, make sure she's safe. Of course she is. The building's security is top-notch. There are at least three armed men on the first floor. Cameras watching every angle.

I pick up the pen and ask Declan for a laptop. It's time to delve into my bloody past. I need to finish whatever is starting here. I need to make sure all my ghosts are truly dead and gone.

I think of Elle as I work on the list of names. She was upset when I left. I should call her, or text her—but why? This entire thing between us is just temporary. I'm going to find the fucker who wants me dead, who's putting her in danger. And then I'll move on. I'll make sure she's safe, and she'll move on.

She may hate me. But I'd rather have her hate me—and still be alive.

I'd rather have her curse my name to the end of her days, than put her in danger for one more second.

I close my eyes and think of her in bed, alone. I want to go to her.

But I've got work to do. And she's safe.

As long as she's home, she's safe.

T
he crazy thing
about Brooklyn and Manhattan—something I still can’t get used to—is that you can leave your house at three in the morning and there will still be people all over the city.

Maybe not as many as at one a.m. or the middle of the day. But still, it’s not like Texas or Illinois or California or any of the places where I grew up, back when my dad was alive and we were an Army family always on the move. Back then, if I’d gone running in the middle of the night, I’d have been alone in various suburbs. Just me and the raccoons or groundhogs or lost dogs.

And later, after cancer took Dad and Mom got remarried, I’d sneak out at night. Not because I wanted to go anywhere. But because I didn’t want to be in the house if he started beating on my mother. And I didn’t want to be in my room if she passed out and he came looking for me.

I push myself harder, run faster. Try to outrun the memories.

It feels good to push myself past my limits, to feel the burn in my legs and belly and chest.

It also feels good to be outside, alone.

I couldn’t sleep after Chase left. I’d tossed and turned until the bedroom—the entire apartment—turned into a claustrophobic fishbowl. I just needed to get away, to breathe, without guards or fear always following me.

So I snuck down to the first floor. There was only one guy. A new guy. And he was asleep.

I couldn’t believe it was that easy. And then once I was outside, and the world didn’t end, I realized that Chase had me so worked up over—what? Nothing. He just keeps saying he’s in danger. But what the hell does that have to do with me?

I just need a good night's sleep, and in the morning I'll call a broker, find an apartment, and get back to real life.

I tell myself with every step: This isn’t a relationship. This is a summer fling.

Fling, fling, fling
, to the beat of my feet hitting the pavement.

He told me this. He doesn't do relationships. And it’s only been two weeks. Oh, and
he works for the frickin' mob
.

Mob, mob, mob
.

I stop running and bend over, gasping for breath.

Even if it feels like more than a fling, when he touches me. When he’s pushing inside me.

When he simply holds me and makes me laugh.

When I look in his eyes, I see a good man. A kind man.

I’m so messed up. How can a mobster—freelancer, whatever—be a good man? What’s wrong with me that I think, underneath all the scars and tattoos, that he's maybe the best man I’ve ever met?

And what don't I know about him?

I run past my old apartment. The front door’s been fixed. It looks the same, but feels different. I don’t stop. I run and run until I reach the Brooklyn Heights Promenade, a beautiful walkway that overlooks the East River with Manhattan rising on the other side. The city's endless buildings sparkle and shine, stealing light from the stars above.

I watch the buildings and listen to the traffic on the BQE below me.

I should go home. “Home.” But where is that?

* * *

I
wave
at the guys in the security office, who wave back. Now there are two of them, and the one who’d fallen asleep is gone. The new ones probably think someone dropped me off, since Chase has made it clear I’m never to be alone.

I feel a sliver of guilt. If Chase finds out I snuck out, he’ll give that poor kid hell. But it’s only four a.m. Chase is always off “working” right about now. I walk up three flights of stairs to Chase’s apartment. I’m sweaty and exhausted, and all I want to do is take a shower and fall into bed.

I unlock the door, kick my tennis shoes off, turn on the lights—and scream.

Chase is sitting on the couch, in jeans, no shirt, drinking what appears to be whiskey or bourbon.

He’s not smiling.

In fact, he looks fucking
livid
.

“Good…morning?” I say, uncertain. I’ve never seen him look like this before.

“Where
the fuck
have you been?” Chase's face is hard, like granite. He's furious.

“Excuse me? You don’t get to talk to me like that.”

He stands up and stalks toward me, and I tamp down the thrill of excitement that I get from a six-foot-plus, hulking wall of muscle and man bearing down on me. His jeans hang low on his hips, and even his bare feet look sexy as hell as he gets nose-to-nose and towers over me.

God, I must be fucked in the head. Because as mad as he is, he’s turning me on.

“How should I talk to you?” Chase growls. He’s right up in my face, his body and words heated. He’s got his hands on his hips, and he’s not touching me—just staring me down. “How should I talk to you when you fucking leave, without telling me or any of the guys downstairs where you went?”

“Oh my God.” I throw up my hands. “Did you seriously just say that? Do you hear the words coming out of your mouth? What do you think
you
do every night? What did you just do like
three hours
ago!”

“You could’ve been in danger," Chase growls. “You didn’t even take your phone. You leave, in the middle of the night, with no guard, no phone—what the fuck were you doing?”

"You leave almost every damn night!" I hiss. "You think that I don't worry that
you're
in danger?"

Chase looks momentarily shocked. But he can't really be amazed that I might care for him, can he? There's one second of a surprised vulnerability, then it's gone, and I'm facing down a half-naked, furious, gorgeous beast.

"I can take care of myself," he growls. He's inching closer, and I catch him staring down the top of my low-cut tank top and sports bra. He jerks his eyes back to mine. So he likes what he sees in spite of his anger.

Which is exactly the same state I'm in. I want to run my hands up his naked abs, that broad chest, that gorgeous face—while also kicking him in the shins.

Okay, the balls.

"So can I," I growl right back. "I've been doing it for years."

Chase laughs, a short desperate sound, and runs his hands through his hair, pulling hard at the ends. "Elle, you have no idea—no fucking clue—what you're facing! There are men, out there, who have—"

"Who have what?" The look in his eyes just now—
that
scared me. I feel a cold tendril of fear uncurl in my belly.

He doesn't answer, just advances on me again. Our chests touch when we each take a ragged, angry breath. I shouldn't want to grab his hair and pull on it like he just did.

"You're not leaving this apartment without me or a bodyguard, from now on." Chase stands over me, and it's taking everything I have not to kiss him or hit him.

"Actually, I'll leave whenever the hell I like. And you know where I'm going this morning, as soon as the sun rises?
To find an apartment
.
Of my own
."

Chase's face goes pale. He steps back, shakes his head as if he's talking to himself. Then he looks up at me, and I know he's decided something.

"Fuck this. If you won't listen to reason—"

"
Listen to reason
!" I shout. "
You haven't told me anything!
You need to communicate whatever's going on in that big head of yours if you actually want me to
listen
!"

Chase's eyes go wide. He grits his teeth.

Then he says, "Fuck it," and he grabs me—and kisses me.

It's rough. He's squeezing my face, hard, pressing me to him. His lips clash into mine, and he pulls at my bottom lip and nips me.

"I'm so mad at you," I hiss before kissing him back.

Chase growls and lifts me into his arms, throwing my legs around his waist. "Stop talking. You're reminding me why I'm so fucking pissed."

"Make me," I say as I take a quick breath before his tongue invades my mouth again.

"Don't tempt me." Chase carries me back toward the bedroom. I can feel his heart pounding. His body is warm, and he tastes like whiskey, and his hands are all over my ass and tits as he rushes me to his bed.

In the bedroom, he drops me on the edge of the bed, and before I can get my balance, he's smoothly pulling my T-shirt up and over my head.

"I can do that myself," I say. I don't know why—I'm so mad I want to fight over
anything
. At the same time, I love how he's manhandling me. I've never really found a man who could stand up to me, who could take my shit. I love that Chase pushes at me.

I love to push back.

"You can't order me around," I say. I know I'm playing with fire. I don't know why…

Chase growls, a low, angry sound deep in his throat, and then he pushes me back, and his naked torso is on me, pressing me down into the mattress, his cock trying to burst out of his jeans.

Oh, this is why
…

"Really," Chase says slowly. He rolls his hips, his erection, into my stomach.

He doesn't kiss me like I expect. He doesn't do
anything
except press me down with his hard, hot body. He looks me in my eyes. He knows what I'm doing. Shit.

Then he snakes a hand down between us, right into my running shorts, right between my slit. I close my eyes as his fingers play with me.

"You're fucking soaked, Princess. You like fighting with me?"

"No," I lie.

Chase's fingers move faster, find my clit and rub steadily. I bite my lip so I don't cry out. I feel him lean closer, his beard teasing my cheek.

He whispers in my ear, "I'm gonna order you around, Elle. And you're gonna fucking love it."

"Never," I whisper, even as his finger slips inside me and I arch my back.

And then he's gone.

I open my eyes in shock. Chase is standing at the foot of the bed, slowing unzipping his jeans. Holy shit, he looks hot. He lets them hang on his hips, pulls his cock out. It's hard, long, dripping precum. He slowly works his own shaft.

"There are gonna be some new rules, Elle. First of all—and I don't want to go into details right now, because it'll fucking ruin my hard-on—but you're in danger."

I open my mouth to argue.

"You fight me on this and I'll fill your mouth with my dick right now, Princess."

I snap my mouth shut more in shock than anything, though a warm wet gush between my legs shows me I'd like his dick in my mouth. I'd like it very much, please.

I can't help that the idea of Chase holding my cheeks and fucking my face turns on me
so damn much
.

I get up on my knees, on the bed, and face him. "I'll need more details than that before I follow your rules."

Chase grins. It's a slow, wicked grin, like he sees right through me. Right to what I really want.

"Fine, sweetheart. Someone broke into your apartment—because you were seen with me. Now someone has photos of you—because you were seen with me.”

Then he takes a breath, considering something. His eyes go dark. “And someone killed the photographer who took your pictures.”

I gasp.

Chase takes a step forward, tilts my chin up gently so I meet his eyes. "I’m going to take care of this, Elle. I'm going to find these fuckers and…take care of this. You don't have to worry, but you need to listen to me. You're gonna be with me or a guard. You're not fucking moving out. You're staying here. Because you'll be safe here."

He pauses, hesitates, like he's dragging something out of his soul. "And because…
you're with me
. You got that?"

But I'm not with him. This is just a summer fling.

Still, I nod slowly, my chin pressing against his finger. I don't know why I'm nodding. I can't actually mean this. He can't actually mean this.

Chase leans down and kisses me roughly. "Don't worry, darlin'," he whispers. "I'm gonna protect you."

Then he stands back up, his eyes cold. "But right now I'm gonna teach you a lesson. Even a Princess needs to learn to obey."