Dirty Chase: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Brooklyn Brotherhood Book 2) (7 page)

And I need to remember that Chase doesn't date, period.

One night, that's all.

I stand up, feeling too vulnerable just lying there, where he just gave me the best sex of my life—even though we didn't even have sex.

I wrap the sheet around me like a toga and walk Chase to the door. A short walk, since the door is five feet away. I open the door but Chase suddenly slams it shut, then leans up against me, pressing me into the hard wood.

He's still hard.

Gulp.

"Sorry about that." I look up and him and paste on a mischievous grin while pointing down at his cock. "It was sweet of you to let a lady go first, though. Or,
come
first."

Chase smiles down at me, and suddenly I don't have to pretend. I can't help but smile back.

"It was my pleasure, Elle. Believe me, I hate to eat and run—"

I roll my eyes and he laughs again.

"Believe me, darling,'" Chase cradles my cheek with one hand. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be tonight than with you. But I have to go."

"Duty calls," I say lightly, trying not to lean into his caress. "Too bad you only spend one night with a lady. You might've gotten lucky if we had a round two."

Chase leans down and rubs his scruff against my cheek as he whispers in my ear. "It's true, my rule is one night with a lady. No more."

He kisses my cheek, and I can still smell myself all over him. Jesus, is he going to work like that?

Chase opens the door, slapping my ass lightly as I move out of the way. He walks by me and into the hallway, then turns around and watches me as he walks backwards and out of my life.

Then he says something that almost makes me come apart again.

"But Princess, some rules are made to be broken."

I
'm in a shit mood
, and despite driving twenty minutes away from Elle and walking into a bar full of ugly-ass mafia lackeys, I'm still hard.

Dammit.

I walk up to the bar and order a beer. As I wait, I run my hands over my face. Fuck. I can still smell her, all over me. I love it, but it's making me even more frustrated. I can still see Elle's perfect body laid out before me, all lush curves and gentle swells. And her hot, tight heat where I
should
be fucking buried to the hilt right now.

"Forget the beer. Make it a vodka," I tell the kid behind the bar. Since Grayson Petrokov took over this place, he's made sure the old-school Irish bar is always well-stocked with good Russian vodka. I take a seat at the bar and turn to survey the room. It's an old Brooklyn bar, the building probably a hundred years old, and the hipster regulars sit next to—but definitely don't mingle with—the scary-looking Russians scattered throughout.

I could ask for worse in a workplace.

"A couple months of hanging out with Russians, and look at you." Declan appears out of the shadows, raising his own glass of vodka in a toast.

"Look at you, you Irish fuck." I smile and raise my glass.

Declan walks up to the bar and takes a seat near me.

"You smell like pussy," he says.

"You act like one," I respond jovially. "Now what's the fucking emergency? I was
busy
, if you can't tell."

Declan takes a careful sip and leans against the worn wooden bar. Declan Power is one of only two men I trust in the world—the other being Gray, our fearless leader. We've definitely been in the shit together, over the years. And now we're overthrowing a violent mob family.

Just another summer in the city, I guess.

Gray and I came up on the Brooklyn streets together, and though Gray ended up tied to the Russian mob, I got the hell out. I'm not Russian. I'm pure American mutt, raised all over the South. My dad wasn't exactly an upstanding citizen, and I never knew my mom. He says she died from a drug overdose soon after I was born, but he's a liar, so who the hell knows. My early childhood is a blur of Southern states, humidity, shitty apartments with bugs as big as a New Yorker's yapping dog, and endless beatings for doing nothing more than breathing.

If my dad gave me anything beyond his dark hair and blue eyes, it was the ability to take a punch and keep on moving.

I took off when I was fifteen, after he beat me so hard I ended up in the hospital. After that, I hitchhiked to Brooklyn. Homeless and starving, with a chip as big as Manhattan on my shoulder.

Declan's from Northern Ireland, and that's about all he has to say on the subject. From what we can all gather—and the scars I've seen on his back—he had it worse than even Gray or me, and we both had shitty dads, absent moms, and regular beatings to "man us the fuck up," as my old man used to say, right before he took his belt off.

Thank God the fucker got shot a long time ago.

Too bad he still whispers to me in my dreams.

I throw back the vodka.

Speaking of pussy, Declan's eyeing some pretty young things at a nearby table. There're a blonde, a brunette and a redhead, and with his rough Irish accent and dark good looks, he could probably take home all three at once. The ladies look like recent transplants to this rapidly gentrifying neighborhood; they're wearing tight jeans, cleavage-revealing tank tops, and come-fuck-me eyes.

For once, I'm not even tempted. I take a deep breath and rub my hands across my beard.
Elle
. I don't ever fuck a woman more than once. I shouldn't be thinking about going back to her place as soon as I'm done with whatever emergency compelled Declan to send out his own fucking bat-signal and pull me in here.

Of course, I didn't technically
fuck her
yet. It wouldn't really be breaking the rules if I saw her again.

Still. I should move on, grab the redhead in the middle, and bang her in the backroom. But I have a feeling nothing's going to make the monster between my legs calm down except my Princess.

"I couldn't get Gray on the phone," Declan says. Then he pulls out a slip of paper, passes it to me. "But it concerns you, not Gray."

"Gray's with his woman," I mutter absently.

"
Feck
," Declan mutters. "All this shite for a woman."

Declan doesn't care that we're doing the impossible. That a rag-tag gang of mafia misfits—an independent Brooklyn brotherhood—is aiming to take down one of the biggest, most violent Russian syndicates in New York. He's just annoyed Gray's doing it partly to rescue a woman. I don't know who fucked with Declan's head long ago, but he would never do anything for a woman. Or so he says.

"Aw, some day you'll fall in love and take down your own mafia family," I say, patting him on the back.

The Irishman rolls his eyes and gives me the finger. "There's no place for love in our world. Just makes a man sloppy."

I gesture at the women who are eye-fucking him. "No?"

Declan turns and grins, the moon-shaped scar that connects his left eye to the left edge of his mouth not moving, although the rest of his face does. I can see the three at the table almost fucking swoon. Bad-boy image
and
a scar? Girls eat that shit up.

"Naw, mate. That's not love. That's fucking."

"I bet that'll be sloppy, too." I hold up my hand and act pained. "No, wait, I don't want that visual in my mind."

"We don't have time for it anyway," Dec says. "The problem I called you about—it's in the basement."

T
he man tied
to the chair has been beaten, but not too badly. Yet.

"What the hell did he do?" I ask as Declan and I walk into the dark, spare room. There's a bare light bulb hanging from a cord in the ceiling. A few folding chairs rest against the wall, and somebody really loved wood paneling when this place was built.

Three young guys stand around their prisoner. I recognize their faces, but not their names—oh, wait, except Dacko. Poor kid's got an ugly mug, but no one says shit to him, because he's damn near seven feet tall, and I've seen him lift semi-truck tires with one fucking hand.

Dacko looks back at Declan, who nods. The kid takes a deep breath, turns around, and punches the ever-living shit out of the tied-up guy. Right on the cheek. The poor bastard's head whips to the right, and he moans slightly.

"That's enough," I say. "What happened?"

"He broke into your apartment," Declan says.

I live in "company housing," so to speak. It's a four-story renovated brownstone that any Wall Street billionaire would shit himself to own. The first floor's a quick crash pad and security station; each floor above is housing for, I guess you could say, visiting dignitaries.

I currently live on the top floor.

"Well, he
attempted
to break in," Dec continues. "Of course, security tagged him on the street. We let him get up to your place just to see what he wanted. Obviously, we'd turned off the alarms, but he's got skills. He picked your lock, and when we entered he was in your bathroom."

Declan walks over to a table in the shadowy corner and comes back with a knife out of a horror movie. It looks like it's made of bone, with an intricately carved handle. It's ancient, and badass, and deadly.

"And he was waiting, with this."

I grab the knife and inspect the symbols on the carved handle. "Do these mean anything, or did he rob the Museum of Natural History before coming to pay me a visit?"

The prisoner slowly straightens his head, his eyes bloodshot but settling firmly on me. I can't tell how tall he is, since he's tied to an office chair, but he's built. Bald. He's wearing ripped jeans, tennis shoes, and a white T-shirt with streaks of blood on it. He's got tattoos on his neck, arms, and probably eighteen other places I don't want to think about. I eye the dagger emblazoned on his neck, and the five blue dots tattooed on his knuckles, one dot apiece . Five.

Five years in prison
.

And the dagger means he killed someone—
at least
one person—while he was incarcerated.

I stare down at him. He doesn't blink.

"I've never seen this fucker before in my life," I say.

The stranger smiles at me, like he knows me. Like he's happy to see me. The blood on his teeth makes his wide grin a freaky fucking sight.

And then he speaks. Low, gruff, and Russian. Fuck. I recognize maybe ten curse words, but that's about the extent of my knowledge. But his tone carries his intent: he wishes me harm.

Deadly harm.

I’m about to ask Dacko—the only actual Russian in the room—what the guy said, when Dacko takes it upon himself to punch the prisoner again. Hard.

"What did he say?"

Dacko shrugs, massaging his hands. "Nothing good. He knows your name. He was sent to find you, and kill you."

"Took three of our guys to subdue him. He was…determined," Declan says.

"Who sent him?" I ask.

Dacko turns around and barks a few more guttural Russian words at the man. The prisoner doesn't answer, but he does start to laugh. And laugh and laugh and—

Turn blue.

The hitman's lips are turning blue, and while his mouth is still frozen in a rigor-mortis parody of a smile, he's gasping and starting to fall to the side. His eyes on me the entire time.

"Aww, feckin' hell," Declan shouts. "What did he take?
What did he fecking take?
"

The young guys start frantically uncuffing him, slapping him on the face, and one runs out shouting for a medic.

"Feck," Dec says again.
"Feck!
You idiots always need to check pockets, mouths, everything. He had a
fecking
suicide pill—"

"Dec, it's fine," I say. I put my hand on his shoulder, squeeze it hard.

"It's not fine. He was sent to
kill
you."

I shrug, then grin. "Wouldn’t be the first time."

"This isn't a joke, Chase. And now we won't know feck-all about who's behind it." He glares at the body. "Because those idiots let him die an hour before he was supposed to die."

I walk over to the body, even as the old man they call Doc rushes in. I think he's technically a veterinarian, and a drunk—which is why he's always at the bar upstairs. He takes one look at the poor bastard cuffed to the chair and just shakes his head.

On a hunch, I pull at the collar of the hitman's T-shirt and examine his tattoos. "Fuck. It's a bull."

Declan comes to stand next to me, and Doc cuts off the T-shirt so we can get a better look. Like many Russian mobsters, he's covered in tattoos, and I'm sure they each have their own secret meaning. The one across his chest is roughly sketched, and I can only imagine what prison tools they scraped together to create it. It shows a bull, horns lowered, eyes crazed. Ready to charge.

"Gray can tell us more about this shit," Declan says.

"Yeah," I agree. Then I point to the bull. "But that—I can tell you three things about this tattoo: he's Russian, he's a hitman, and he won't be the last one coming for me."

"
H
e did
what
?!" Kat squeals on the other end of the line.

I blush. I've just detailed my night with Chase—my
interrupted
night with Chase—during my lunch break, and I need to get my head on straight before I walk back into the teachers' lounge flushed and turned on.

And that's the last thing I need, since half the other teachers look at me like I'm a gold-digger just waiting to steal their boyfriends or a student's recently divorced, rich dad. Just because I'm young and blonde does
not
mean I will trip and fall into bed with whatever man crosses my path.

Except, I guess, if his name is Chase Masters.

The other half like me just fine, and I adore them—but then there are the male teachers. If the gym teacher Mr. Piles asks me if I want to "work out" after school
one more time
, I think I'll take a kickboxing class just so I can kick his ass.

And Principal Barnes. Don't even get me started on him. He's nice—he never
says
or
does
anything inappropriate. But I'm sure I'm not the only girl in the New York—or the world—who's had an older, successful man offer to "mentor" her over after-work dinner and drinks. If
he
invites me to one more teaching conference, just the two of us there to represent the prestigious Holton Preparatory School…

I lean against the red-brick wall outside the school's back entrance, tucking myself into a corner so I can talk to my best friend for a couple more minutes before I get back to work.

It's been two days since I met Chase, since I let him strip me bare—and my heart still feels naked and vulnerable.

This is why I suck at one-night stands. At any relationships in general. I hate this feeling.

As much as I told myself I could let go, be free, just have sex and never think about Chase again, I obviously was lying to myself. I can't get him out of my head, and my heart hurts just thinking about never seeing him again. I have a literal pain in my chest. It's ridiculous.

"So he did all that
in the restaurant
?!" Kat asks.

"Well, we were in a private dining room, but still." I pause and make sure no one else is around. "And then he took me home, stripped me bare, and holy shit you should see
his
body
."

Kat hums in agreement. I keep forgetting she's now married to a giant hulking blonde sex god. I prefer mine brunette and bearded…

Jesus, Elle, get a grip.

"Honestly? I would have done anything he asked by then.
Anything
."

"That's not like you," Kat says. "Of course, it's not like me to go crazy for a guy, either."

I don’t mention the fact that before Kat was forced to marry Gray—in order to save her asshole dad's life—she was a virgin who never really dated. Now she's head-over-heels in love. But she
grew up
with Gray. Even though they were separated for years, they still know each other incredibly well. They share a history, a connection.

I don't know Chase at all, and I need to remind myself of this. Like, paint it on my walls and tattoo it on my forehead.

I don't know this man. And I shouldn't—I
don't
—care about him.

"But then he left?" Kat's voice is incredulous. "He left
you
? And you were
naked
?!"

"For 'work,'" I say. "Whatever that means. He got an emergency call. He wasn't happy about it, but he left."

I don't want to ask if Chase has asked about me. I won't ask if he's asked about me…

"Have you—have you seen him?" I say, hating myself even more.

"Honey, I'm so sorry, I haven't." Kat sounds as forlorn as I do, and I love her even more. "I can ask Gray about if you want—"

"No." My voice comes out harsher than I intended. "No, seriously, don't ask about Chase. Please."

Kat sighs. "So you haven't heard from him at all? What an asshole. I don't care what you say; I'm going to have Gray rip him a new—"

"Kat, please." I have to laugh at how livid she sounds. "He did text me, the next day."

"What did he say again?" Kat still sounds put-out, and I have no doubt she'll hold a grudge against Chase for the next five years, just for hurting my feelings.

"I can't really remember the exact words, but it's cool," I fib.

I've totally memorized his text.

You're the sweetest thing I've ever tasted, Princess. I'm damn glad I got the chance to fall to my knees in front of you…

"Hmm," Kat says. "Whatever you say."

She obviously doesn't believe me. I glance at the time.

"Shit, I'm late," I say. "Love you, girl, but I gotta get to work."

"Whip those rugrats into shape!" Kat blows kisses through the phone, and I kiss back.

I have fifteen minutes till I have to be in my classroom, which is just enough time to inhale my lunch and use the restroom. I climb the back steps and enter Holton's hallowed halls through the rear entrance near the kitchens.

I make my way quickly through the grand building. When I first interviewed here three years ago, I was fresh out of college and completely awestruck by the immense, red-brick mansion that houses the school. It's on a tree-lined, cobblestone street in one of the nicest neighborhoods in the city. The entire place looks more like a college campus than a school for kids from kindergarten through eighth grade. It's a far cry from the public schools I went to as a kid.

When I was hired, it was bittersweet. On one hand, I'd wanted to work in Brooklyn public schools, where the kids
really
need help. Not that kids with trust funds don't need help—a lot of them desperately do—but if I don't provide it,
someone
will.

But sometimes, in less-affluent public schools, a teacher can make all the difference. I should know. I was lost and broken in high school. My father had died. I slipped through the cracks in my mother's life, and just as easily could have slipped through the cracks in all of life if a few key teachers hadn't told me that I was worthy, that I was smart, that I was a worthwhile person.

I want to pay it forward, as cheesy as that sounds. I wanted—I still want—to help kids, to help make the world a better place. I don't know if I'm exactly doing that at Holton.

But, it's only my third year teaching. And I'm still deeply in debt from my college years, which I got through on scholarships, loans, and Ramen noodles for dinner every night.

Fancy trust-fund parents pay a lot of money for their kids to go to school. Which means I get a better salary, which means I can live frugally and pour all my extra money—even if it's just pennies at a time—into paying off my loans.

I sigh again. I'm all alone in this world now, except for Kat. I need the money. I need this job.

I need to get my mind off of tall, dark and handsome men with abs of steel.

I push open the door to the teacher's lounge. Mrs. Metcalf sees me, waves, then gives the coffeemaker the finger.

"You'd think with how much the yearly tuition is, we could at least get a coffeemaker that works," I say by way of greeting.

"Fuckin' A," Mrs. Metcalf agrees. "By the way, what's in the fridge?"

I shrug as I walk over to the faculty refrigerator. "What do you mean? Besides my crappy lunch and that mystery ball of mold that's been there since Christmas?"

"No, the big box with your name on it. Is it your birthday?"

Seventy-five-year-old Ms. Plumber perks up from her corner chair, where she naps every day before her Latin class. "Is there cake?"

I open the refrigerator. "I don't know what you guys are talking about—"

I gasp and shut up.

There's a box. A white box, taking up the entire top shelf. A red bow has been professionally tied on top. And written in elaborate, perfect penmanship—with a black Sharpie—is my name.

Ms. Elle Sinclair.

"I said, IS THERE CAKE?" Ms. Plumber calls from her perch.

"I don't know," I whisper.

I carefully remove the box from the fridge and set it on one of the tables. I untie the silky, oversized ribbon and lift the box's lid.

"What the hell kind of cake is that?" Ms. Plumber grumbles, appearing next to me.

I bite my lip and try not to smile. "It's not cake. It's the world's best tiramisu."