Brutal Power: An Arranged Marriage Mafia Romance (Bianco Crime Family)

My mind’s on Elena at three in the morning outside of an old abandoned liquor store deep in the south side. It’s warm and muggy outside, and Seamus has been complaining all night about boredom.

I’m only half listening to my brother. I keep thinking about Elena on her knees in that bathroom and the way she took charge of me, sucking my cock like she lived for it, and how she didn’t stop when that old guy basically caught us. There’s mischief in that girl and I like it.

There’s also beauty, and poise, and intelligence, and fuck, I feel myself spiraling every day. This obsession keeps on growing, and every time I think I’m about to get over it and let go of this dumb little crush I have for my pretty new wife, my feelings deepen instead.

Until here I am, smitten, like an absolute fucking idiot.

“There’s movement,” Seamus says. He hunkers down slightly and nods toward the dimly lit building. There’s a tall fence around the squat beige structure. The stucco’s breaking off in spots and ancient advertisements for liquor brands that don’t exist anymore are peeling from what’s left of the windows. Two figures come out a side door and look like they’re arguing as they approach the perimeter fence.

Neither of us moves. The first guy is tall and dark-skinned with a head full of curly black hair. The other is smaller and slimmer with baggy jeans he keeps on hiking over his hips. The big guy holds back an opening in the fence and lets the smaller guy through before following, and the pair of them keeps up their argument as they walk on down the sidewalk together, gesturing in the air.

I nod at Seamus. He checks his pistol before getting out of the car. I follow him, touching my trusty revolver. We cut down a side alley onto the adjoining block and run together to the corner, going fast. I’m winded when we reach it and we stop together in the shadow of a pet food store, the metal grates down over the door and the windows, the awning rolled back.

Voices drift up as they come closer. “…told you it was gonna be a slow fucking night,” one man says.

“And I told you, we were assigned to this shithole, and that’s what we had to do.”

“Come on, Kramer,” the first one whines. “We’ve been good soldiers, right? Doing all we gotta do? You’d think Santoro would throw us a fucking bone.”

“Don’t use his name,” the other voice snaps. Then a little softer, he says, “But you’re right. He’ll do good by us soon. I know it.”

I nod at Seamus. He’s behind me, and he nods back, his gun drawn and cocked. We don’t find out what the other voice thinks about that confidence because I come around the corner, drop to one knee, and aim my gun at the tall guy’s chest.

He comes to a scrambling halt, eyes going wide, and his hand twitches toward his waistband before Seamus comes up behind me, standing, gun aimed at the shorter gentleman.

“I’d stay very still if I were you two,” I say as smoothly as I can.

The Santoro soldiers don’t move. They exchange a look, and I know what they’re thinking. They don’t have any money on them. The drugs are all back in that old liquor store. Maybe if they’re smart and play this right, it won’t be so bad.

“Take my wallet,” the big guy says. He almost reaches for it.

“If you move again, I’ll kill you and tell your friend to deliver my message while your corpse rots,” I tell him.

That makes him stop. “Message? The fuck you talking about, message?”

I realize from the voice that it was the big guy complaining. Which means Kramer is the shorter one.

“I know you two work for Santoro.” I slowly rise to my feet. The bigger of the two has to look up at me, and I bet he’s not used to that. “I need you to tell him that Brody Quinn wants to talk. No violence, no tricks. Just a conversation.”

The big guy laughs like he doesn’t believe it. “You’re fucking with me. Brody Quinn? The Irish guy?”

“You should be careful what you say about my wonderful home country,” I say and smile at the way his face turns pale. “Tell Santoro I want to talk. He’ll know how to find me.”

“What if Santoro don’t want to?” Kramer speaks up for the first time. He’s looking around like he’s waiting for something.

“Tell him I want a deal. He’ll listen.” I step forward before the big guy can react and whack him across the face with the butt of my gun. He grunts and drops, and he’s cursing up a storm as a van comes screaming around the corner.

But we’re already running. Seamus is in the lead, weaving through the streets. Whoever’s in the van doesn’t bother following—they’re too busy making sure the big guy’s not dead back there. But he should be fine, minus a few teeth. We reach the car and get behind the wheel, and Seamus is quiet as I drive him back to his house.

“Alright, what’s your problem?” I say and park outside of a well-kept two-story, single-family home with a good front hedge and a big old oak tree in the front yard. It’s four minutes from Mom’s place, and Seamus has lived there all alone, minus his rotating cast of girlfriends.

“I don’t have a problem.” He goes to open the door.

“Just spit it the fuck out. It’s late and I don’t feel like dragging this into tomorrow.”

He pauses, not moving. Then he looks at me. “You shouldn’t be living with your wife.”

My eyebrows raise. “Pretty sure it’s normal for a married couple to shack up.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it. You’re the boss of our family, Brody, and you’re staying in that Bianco stronghold. What’s it called?”

“The oasis.” I stare out the front window, gripping the steering wheel. This isn’t the conversation I expected, but it’s an argument I’ve been having inside of my own head ever since I went to stay at Elena’s house.

I know all sides and the fucked-up part is I agree with them. I agree I should be back home running the family from the neighborhood. But I also agree that it’s safer for everyone if I’m not there to draw Santoro’s hitmen and shooters.

“It’s not my choice,” I say and can’t meet his gaze.

“Mom needs you back home.”

“I’m there every day, bright and fucking early.” Which is true: I’m at Mom’s place by five, I work from there until eight, and I’m in the law offices by eight-thirty. It’s grueling, but it works.

“You know what I’m saying. People are starting to talk. They think you’re hiding.”

“I am fucking hiding.” I punch the wheel and glare at him. “It’s better this way. You remember what happened.”

“Yeah, Santoro shot up a car and old Mrs. Grady broke a hip. So fucking what? You lead us, Brody. Do the right thing and go back to your place.”

He kicks open the door and leaves. I watch him walk in through the front door, and as I start to drive away, I can’t help but wonder.

Why am I really staying with Elena? At first it was because of the shooting. I felt like I was the target, and if I wasn’t living in the neighborhood, everyone would be safer.

But I’m there all the time anyway. I have to know that’s bullshit.

Which leaves something worse: I’m staying at Elena’s place because I like it there.

I like being with her, in her beautiful house, on her family’s comfortable block, sleeping in sheets soaked through with sex-induced sweat every night. Fucking my wife, drinking champagne, acting like life is good.

When inside, when I stop for a second and let my head catch up with my heart, I’m a ball of fucking stress.

Seamus is right. I should go home. Only I know Elena wants to stay in the oasis, and I want to stay with Elena, and I need to make her happy.

Which puts me in a fucked position.