Hard Up: A Military Mafia Romance (3 page)

C
allum dreamed
of his time in JAG court, back before he was discharged from the SEALs.

Specifically, he dreamed of the way he’d felt as he listened to the charges leveled against him and his two closest friends. Listening to strangers give evidence against him, baldly lying about the incident.

The incident, that was how the Navy court referred to the ambush and murder of half a dozen SEALs during a high-risk rescue operation on the outskirts of Walakan, Afghanistan.

When the dust settled and the bullets stopped flying, Callum and Dec and Cor were the only ones left standing. They’d walked out of the slaughter suspiciously unharmed, not a scratch on any of them.

A little too suspicious for the Navy’s liking.

Made sense, because it was a stone-cold setup. Someone had gotten the drop on Callum's team, then left the Black Saints standing to take the blame.

Only… it hadn’t
quite
gone down like that.

Callum's bastard of a father, notorious Irish mob boss Seamus Connor, had prevented Callum, Cormac, and Declan from seeing a day on the inside. Bribery, coercion, violence — Callum still didn’t know how Seamus had swayed the judge.

In fact, he didn’t know much during the court martial, other than the fact that he received a note from his father, through his appointed lawyer. The note simply said to sit tight, that the matter would be
resolved
.

Whatever that meant.

Callum had been forced to sit silently and listen to that shark of a prosecutor accuse him of conspiracy, treason, and murder. All the while, Callum had just glared at the prosecutor in his crisp dress whites, wondering whether the man had ever seen a single day of action.

Callum was willing to bet that he hadn’t. Hell, the attorney was only a handful of years older than Callum's twenty-seven years. Smarmy and self-important, two features that Callum never could respect in a man.

In his dream, he remembered the way the prosecutor had smirked over his shoulder every time he presented a piece of damning evidence. Callum sat in his chair, his body locked up and tense but unable to move, heart pounding as he listened to the bastard spout lie after lie.

In real life, the handing down of the verdict had been so quick, Callum had blinked and nearly missed it. The judge pronounced them guilty, sentenced them to ten years in the brig.

In the dream though, the judge sprouted horns, growing bigger and taller until his black robes threatened to blot out the sun. He snarled, banging his gavel; it sounded like the crack of thunder right before a downpour.

“GUILTY!!!” the judge howled, pointing at Callum.

“No, no—” Callum tried to say, but men in white Navy uniforms closed in around him, trying to trap him, hold him down—

“Callum!”

Callum's eyes flew open. He was nose to nose with Viola, gripping her wrists as he pinned her against the bed.

“The fuck?” he said, releasing her and rolling away. The pain of his injuries resurged, making him instantly regretful that he’d moved onto his side. “Damn.”

“Jesus,” Viola said, scrambling up from the bed.

Her long blonde hair was tousled, and she wore nothing but a pair of skimpy cotton shorts and a thin tank top. He had a split second to scope out the creamy bare skin on her thighs and chest before he realized she was staring at him like he’d grown a second head.

“What happened?” Callum asked. His throat felt unbearably dry, his eyes gritty as sandpaper.

“I tried to wake you up and you
grabbed
me,” she said, and frowned.

“Old habits die hard,” he said, slowly sitting up with a grimace. “But, sorry.”

“Well, I would leave you to sleep, but… there’s nowhere for me to go,” she said, waving a hand to indicate the size of her apartment.

“You could’ve just got in bed with me,” he said, raising a brow. “It’s not like it would be the first time.”

Viola glanced away, cheeks pink. “Yeah, well. There’s a first and last time for everything.”

He wasn’t sure if she meant fucking him, or having a one-night stand. Honestly, he didn’t much care.

“Where’s my phone?” he asked, rubbing his face. “Where are my jeans? I need to check in with…”

He trailed off, not wanting to name any names in front of her. Dumb, because she knew Cor and Dec, and probably knew the name of their crew, too.

Still, better safe than sorry. The less she knew, the less she could tell someone else… and that protected her and Callum both.

She turned around, searching the floor. She bent over, giving him a great view of her ass; he was pretty sure she wasn’t wearing panties under those tiny shorts.

When she stood and tossed his phone over to him, he caught it. Checking the screen, he saw he had about thirty missed calls and texts, mostly from Dec.

WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU???

CALL ME

He checked the time, saw that it was very early morning. He decided to text Dec rather than call, opting for a simple:
Shot. Safe. Lying low. Call tomorrow.

“Do you want some more Vicodin?” Viola asked him, leaning against the door frame.

“Nah, I don’t like that shit.”

“Bad dreams, huh?”

She had no idea. He watched her for a moment, but didn’t respond. She fidgeted.

“What do we do next?” she asked.

The dreaded question, and him with no answer to give her.

“I need to sleep a few more hours, then we gotta split.” He leaned back on the bed, noticing that the bed smelled like her, a hint of vanilla and spice.

“Split up?” she asked, her brow furrowing.

“No, like… leave here,” he said, closing his eyes. “Let’s talk about it when I wake up, okay?”

He heard her footsteps recede, though he had no idea where she would go. He could cross the entire apartment at twenty paces.

He lied on his back, more than ready to return to sleep.

Instead, her question hung in his mind.

What do we do next?

There was no simple answer. Viola, in the heroic act of saving his life, had put herself in danger. He wasn’t exactly sure who’d sent the hitter to take out the Black Saints, but he had a few guesses.

Valetti. O’Roarke. Ivanov.

All of the names that came to mind were mob bosses, and none of them were guys you wanted hunting you down.

All guys a lot like the Black Saints. In the span of a year, Callum had gone from dedicated spec ops soldier to mob soldier. From saving lives and fighting for freedom, to a life of violent crime as a mercenary
owned
by the Cúram — the Boston faction of the Irish mafia.

He’d done worse in the service of the mob than he ever had in the military. Worse than the clown who’d shot him yesterday, even.

He did his best to keep a kind of moral code, rising above the guys slinging heroin and coke. The guys who beat up their stripper girlfriends, cheated on their pretty trophy wives, laid the smackdown on broke guys in debt up to their eyeballs…

Callum wasn’t like those guys. Or least, he tried not to be. He only hurt people when he had no other choice, and he never went after their families. Lucky for Callum, being a 6’5” ex-SEAL and showing up with two other big motherfuckers at his back…

That was usually enough to make anyone bow down and submit.

Usually.

Now that the Black Saints had been promoted from foot soldiers to run their own territory…

Maybe
promoted
wasn’t the right word. They’d been sent from Boston to Savannah, given the sleepy Southern city as their post. As a vital artery in the flow of cocaine and guns from Miami to New York, Savannah was important to the Cúram.

And when the drop houses they used to store and smuggle contraband started getting robbed — the first thing the head of the Cúram did was send his three best mercenaries to handle things. If they succeeded, they’d prove their worth. If they failed…

Well, then at least none of the Cúram’s made men died in the effort.

How far I’ve fallen
, Callum thought to himself.
In just a year’s time… SEAL to ruthless killer. Following in my father’s footsteps, the very thing I joined the military to avoid…

He forced the thought from his mind, focusing instead on his breathing. In… out… slow and steady…

A little trick from his time in the service. Worked like a charm, every
time. Before he knew it, the darkness was pulling him down again…

V
i woke from a light doze
, startling enough to almost tip over the hard wooden chair she’d leaned up between the counter and the front door.

“Morning,” Callum said, standing a handful of feet away in all his shirtless glory.

And damn, was he ever glorious. A shiver slid down her spine as she examined him, six and a half feet of taut, tanned muscle.

Then there was the smirk on his face. Like he knew just what she was thinking.

Jerk
.

“Um, hey,” she said, dragging a hand through her unruly hair as she struggled to her feet, still half-asleep.

Callum turned toward the bedroom, giving her his back. Vi had the unique experience of watching a drop of water roll from his tousled dark hair down his neck, then snake its way down the valleys of his shoulder.

How did a guy even get shoulders that well-defined? Not to mention his abs…

Quit being a perv, she told herself.

She followed him to the bedroom, watched him pull on his jeans. He didn’t seem the least bit self-conscious, not even with her silently watching him.

“Are you leaving?” she asked.

He shot her a glance, wincing as he pulled his bloody t-shirt over his head.

“I appreciate what you did yesterday,” he said. “It was stupid, but… I appreciate it.”

Not quite the level of gratitude she’d hoped for, but… okay.

“I did what needed to be done,” she said, noncommittal.

“You shot a high-level enforcer in the Italian mafia. You killed an officer. You’re lucky you aren’t dead, honestly.”

“Italian?” she asked, her voice rising to a squeak.

Inside she was thinking,
no no no!

“Yeah. And if anyone figures out that you were the shooter, you’re dead as a fucking doornail.”

Vi bit her lip, thinking about the moment before they stepped back into the bar from the parking lot. The guy in the dark track jacket, a few hundred yards away.

He’d run as soon as she spotted him, but… a witness was a witness.

“Someone saw me,” she admitted.

Callum glanced up at her, startled. “Who?”

“I don’t know. Some white guy, dark jacket. Never seen him before.”

“And you’re just thinking to mention this now?” he demanded to know.

“Well, I was kind of busy locking doors and getting you patched up,” Vi snapped.

Callum's expression was stony. “Fuck.”

“You think it’s a problem?” she asked.

“On the slight,
slight
chance that he’s not mobbed up, someone will get to him and ask him questions.”

Her heart dropped. “Well… fuck.”

“I need to make a phone call,” he said. “Stay here, okay?”

Vi nodded as he brushed past her, limping toward the front door. He went out, closing it behind him, but she could still hear the rough timbre of his voice from the stairwell.

She was dying of curiosity, wondering what his super secret phone call might be. He raised his voice several times, but the stairwell echoed and masked his words all too well.

After a moment, he came stomping back up the stairs, looking angry.

“Get some things together,” he ordered. “Anything you can’t live without for a couple weeks.”

“A couple
weeks
?” she echoed, put off.

His glare discouraged her from further disagreement.

She changed first, hiding in her closet while she pulled on jeans and a tank top, her comfy blue Converse shoes. Then she went to the closet and pulled out a Chanel suitcase and a Longchamp bag, and hurriedly packed everything that would fit in them.

She took special care to pack her medical books, things leftover from college. Then she looked around, looking to see what was missing.

“Crap, I need toiletries,” she muttered, pulling a couple things out in order to wedge her makeup bag and bathroom necessities inside.

Last but not least, she pulled a fat stack of cash out from under her mattress, careful not to let Callum see it. She wedged that and a couple of fake IDs into the bottom of her bag, then zipped it up.

“Jesus, what the hell did you pack?” he said, coming in from the kitchen to cast a disparaging eye over her bulging bags.

“You said two weeks!” she said, feeling heat rise to her cheeks.

“Chanel, huh?” he said, fingering the tag on his suitcase. “This real?”

“Uh… no,” she lied. She wasn’t even sure why she lied about the suitcase, only that obscuring her past was second nature to her now.

He glanced around her room. “You don’t have much, but what you got is pretty nice. Where are you from?”

“New York,” she said.

“City?”

“No, Montauk,” she lied.

“Fancy phone, fancy watch, fancy dresses in your closet…”

Vi’s jaw dropped. “You looked through my things?”

“Just trying to figure out who you are, before I risk my neck to save you. Have to tell you, though. Your panties are not up to par. Seriously, you’re lucky you’re so hot that guys can overlook those cotton granny panties.”

“They are not granny panties!!” she protested, then growled. “And fuck you for looking through my underwear drawer, you pervert!”

He smiled. “In your dreams, sweetheart.”

She was speechless for the second time in as many minutes. She wanted to yell at him, tell him she already knew he was interested, or rant some more about the invasion of her privacy. All the words twisted around in her head though, and she ended up just muttering under her breath.

“Why don’t you have more stuff?” he asked, looking around.

Vi shrugged. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I don’t stay in one place for long.”

His gaze narrowed on her face, as though he were trying to decide if she was being truthful or not. After a moment, he shrugged, and she felt some of the tension in her chest ease.

Only to ratchet right back up when Callum stepped closer to her. One step, then two, then… he was right in her face, only inches away. She stepped away from him instinctively, only to feel her back hit the wall.

Damn her tiny apartment. She was trapped by him, this hulking gangster who very well might decide that she was too much trouble. Callum could do
anything
to her right now, wipe down the room for his prints, and vanish forever.

His bright green gaze seared her, pinned her in place as he spoke, low and harsh.

“The other guys in my crew, Cor and Dec and whoever you meet in the next few days,” he said, his gaze dropping to her lips. “You can’t fuck any of them.”

Vi’s jaw dropped. “
What
?”

Callum seemed unperturbed by her shock.

“And you can’t tell any of them that we fucked, either.”

“
Why
would I tell anyone?” Vi asked, growing angry. “And you can’t tell me who I can or can’t sleep with, thank you very much.”

Callum glared at her. “Consider it a condition of me saving your ass. Or would you rather I leave you here, let the Valetti family hunt you down in the street like a dog?”

Valetti
. Vi’s heart dropped to her feet.

“That’s who… the guy I shot, he was a Valetti soldier?” she asked.

“Underboss. And what the fuck do you know about mafia soldiers?” Callum demanded to know.

The Valettis were a prominent New York crime family, one of the infamous five mafia families. She did
not
want to be caught by the Valettis.

Vi sucked in a breath, summoning the lie she desperately needed.

“Nothing. Just… The Sopranos, you know?”

He stared her down for a few hard seconds. She just stood there, feeling trapped.

Callum seemed to lose interest after that. He dragged the suitcase off the bed, rolling it toward the door. “Come on.”

“Where?”

He stopped, turning to give her a frustrated look. “You can’t stay here. And unless you’re going to blow town today and never come back, you’ll need somewhere to stay. Somewhere with no paper trail.”

“I… I don’t want to go,” she blurted out. The name Valetti was still ringing in her ears. She wanted nothing more than to pack her car and drive off into the sunset.

San Diego was supposed to be nice this time of year…

“Do you want to die?” Callum asked.

“N-no…” she stuttered. “But I can leave on my own. I can be out of town by nightfall.”

“You stay here, you’ll be dead by nightfall,” he said, his matter-of-fact tone giving her chills. He had that quality that all made men had, that level of comfort with brutality and death.

It was completely unnerving.

“Besides,” Callum continued. “If they find you, they’ll make you talk. Ask you about me. I can’t have that.”

“So, what? I just slum in some roadside motel until you eventually settle your beef with the Valettis?” she growled.

The rise of his brows told her that she’d said too much. A layperson wouldn’t know how witnesses were usually hidden. She needed to play it cool, pretend she was totally unwitting.

And somehow not get killed in the process…

“Not a motel. You’re coming to my place to lie low. I don’t know what the fuck else to do with you.”

She snorted. “Nice. Great way to talk to the person who saved your life.”

He scowled. “No more resisting. Get a move on.”

“Wait. I can’t go anywhere with you unless I know your last name.”

He raised an eyebrow, probably because they’d already had sex and she hadn’t known his last name. Hell, she’d shot someone without it.

“Connor. Callum Seamus Connor.”

She stuck out her hand. “Viola Rose Walker.”

He gave her an odd look but shook it, then motioned that they should continue.

They made it to the darkened downstairs bar, where Callum parked her suitcase by the door. He unbolted it with a grunt, making her wonder just how bad the pain in his shoulder was.

Any normal person would be bedbound for a few days at least, right?

He twisted the keys in the lock and opened the door a few inches, light pouring in across his face. He squinted outside.

“Is that your Audi outside?” he asked, going a little tense.

“Yeah,” she said, twisting her fingers together.

He relaxed a little, but shot her a speculative glance. “Don’t suppose that’s a knockoff, huh?”

“It’s a few years old,” she said. A truth, before the lie. “I got a deal on it.”

He looked away, rolling his eyes. She could see the calculation on his face. Let him think some rich boyfriend bought it for her.
So what?

“Ah, here we go,” he said, opening the door wider.

A huge black SUV pulled up, sat idling. Grabbing her bag and the keys out of the door, she paused to lock the door.

Then, not knowing what to do with the keys, she stuck them in the pocket of her jeans and followed Callum to the car.

He’d already tossed her suitcase inside, and now stood with the door to the back seat open, waiting impatiently.

Staring at the open door, she froze up for a second.

If I get in this car, my whole life is going to change
, she thought.

A note of certainty sounded in her heart as she thought the words, along with a shiver of fear.

Callum might protect her from the Valettis, but if he found out who she really was…

She opened her mouth, preparing to back away, to apologize and run to her car.

Callum gave her an impatient look, reaching out and grabbing her arm. He yanked her toward the car, shoved her inside.

“Callum, no!” she cried. “I don’t—”

Callum's rough hand closed over her mouth, muffling her protests. He slid his other arm around her waist and picked her up, forcing her inside the SUV.

His lips found her ear. “Shut the fuck up, Viola. Not a fucking word. Don’t make me do something I’ll regret.”

Icy fingers of fear squeezed at Vi’s heart as Callum released her. He pushed her across the SUV’s back seat, up against her suitcase, before he slammed the car door behind them.

The SUV took off with a squeal of tires. In the front seat, she saw Dec and Cor exchange glances, though neither said anything.

Dead silence fell in the car as it sped away from Snake’s Bar, a simmering and angry tension seemingly shared by all the passengers.

Vi glanced out the window as Savannah’s waterfront whipped by, wondering just what the hell she’d got herself into.