Consumed by the Mafia (De Salvo Family #5)

6. Off the Rails pt II

six

Off the Rails pt II

Everything was spiraling out of control. Abigail was supposed to be rooting out the source of organized crime in New Jersey, not getting caught in one giant clusterfuck of a blood feud. She was supposed to be making the city—the state—a safer place, not contributing to the violence by shooting a man dead in the middle of the day. Granted, that man and his cohort had genuinely been trying to kill both her and the man behind the wheel of the vehicle she was in. Most people would call it self-defense and pat themselves on the back.

She’d never killed anyone, though. Knowing she could shoot and watching her target drop were two very different things.

Then there was Ryōma’s story. It didn’t take a genius to realize he’d omitted some large details, but that didn’t matter. The De Salvo family—whom he hadn’t specified by name— had been running the police in Newark, which explained a lot if her informant was even half honest. Except the chief seemed to have switched loyalties to their enemy faction, who just so happened to be the asshole she’d kicked in the groin. His own fault, and she’d do it again, but that didn’t change the outcome. The asshole also apparently played Godfather to the Ink Blots , the latest pain in the ass gang running roughshod over Newark.

Dirty cops. A wild gang. The goddamn Irish mob. And, presumably, a powerful Italian mafia. All vying for control of this one city. Somehow, she’d landed in the center of the fight, literal blood on her hands, no proof she could even attest to beyond comparably small single-incident assault charges, and a bounty on her head. And the worst of all of it?

She’d shot the wrong man. Not that she’d missed her target. Just that she should have aimed for the one pointing a gun at her , the one her boss could more easily justify, and not the one aiming at the guy they suspected was also a violent criminal. But the moment she’d seen Ryōma pointing his gun to protect her, leaving his own flank vulnerable, she’d reacted on some instinct she couldn’t explain. The thought of him taking a bullet for her—of him dying in defense of her—had been unacceptable.

She hadn’t been worried for herself or thinking of her duty when she’d pulled the trigger. She’d been focused solely on not letting her boyfriend die .

Her boyfriend.

It was supposed to be fake. She was supposed to be faking her interest in order to get him to talk. And he was talking, now, but every time she heard something new, she found herself compelled to be sympathetic. He was protecting her. He was rational. The worst thing she had personally witnessed him doing he’d only done because she’d provoked him to take action. Their opposition was the problem.

As Abigail listened to him call for backup, she was overcome with emotion. Fear, confusion, disappointment, frustration, a looming sense of helplessness, even anger. She couldn’t explain them all, but some of them were so familiar it felt as though she’d held them in her heart for her entire life.

What kind of a difference would it really make if she succeeded in her mission and the De Salvo family was taken off the board? If their proverbial empire went to ruins, would that matter beyond Essex County? Would it matter at all?

Or would it only open the door for the Irish mob to scoop up the floundering remnants the FBI was never able to apprehend, to pressure the people already used to oppression, and become the next criminal organization in charge? The Irish mob that apparently worked in league with a volatile gang. And too few good cops to do a damn thing.

Fuck. If anything, taking the De Salvos out made the situation worse for everyone. How did that make any sense? What was the point ?

She heard Ryōma’s call end, heard the growing cacophony of sirens just beyond their hiding place, and her throat constricted .

It was just like when she’d been a girl, waiting for the powers-that-be, the men who were supposed to do the right thing, to swoop in and make everything better. If all she did was follow the rules and toe the line, nothing would change. Nothing would get better. Because there were too many men who couldn’t be bothered sitting in those positions of authority, and too many who would rather take advantage. That left too few willing to take action.

What would that even look like?

“—we can’t linger here,” Ryōma said, his arm still around her.

Abigail swallowed hard, feeling her rampaging emotions pushing at her walls. She shouldn’t be thinking this way, yet she couldn’t stop herself from leaning into him.

The gunshots from their near-death experience blended into an older, never faded memory that finally pulled the first tears free. It was the reminder of that little girl’s long, drawn-out disappointment that made her decision for her. “All my life,” she whispered, “I only ever wanted to see the right thing being done. To be part of making that happen.” It had been her dream, her ambition, her single-minded drive.

She knew they shouldn’t be lingering. She knew she was being too emotional. More than that, she knew what she was doing was absurdly stupid. Still, she appreciated that Ryōma didn’t push her to move. It might prove to be the last moment of support he would offer her, and she would take it.

Abigail wrangled herself under control as best she could and lifted her eyes in search of his, unsurprised to find him frowning down at her. “Please … understand,” she said, wanting to explain herself before she’d even told him the thing that would ruin everything. She shouldn’t. She wasn’t sure what she was hoping for. Objectively, she knew he couldn’t be fond enough of her to be sure he wouldn’t turn on her. But if there was a chance….

“Abby,” he said, his brow pinching as he adjusted to rest both hands on her hips. “Talk to me, baby girl.”

She wanted to give him the whole story, to explain it perfectly so he might understand. But the sirens were almost constant now. There wasn’t time. So she said the only thing she could, the worst opening she could offer. “I’ve been lying to you.” She forced her hand to unclench from his shirt, knowing that wouldn’t satisfy him. “I’m not a graphic designer, I’m not from Oregon, and my name isn’t Dunn.” She pulled her purse around as she talked, watching his face as she moved.

Of course, his frown deepened. She already knew him well enough to read the probably natural suspicion that thinned his lips.

“I know you won’t believe me after this,” she said, her throat constricting again as she closed her fingers around the badge inside the bag. “ None of this was supposed to happen and I’m not supposed to be telling you, but—with everything—I don’t see the point anymore. I’m not asking you to trust me, Ryōma. Only to hear me. All those groups you just mentioned, they’re not the only ones you need to worry about.”

The obvious questions flashed across his eyes.

Abigail pulled the ID from her purse, leaving everything else inside to avoid misunderstandings, and flipped it up. “My name is Abigail Fitzgerald, and I work for the FBI. ”

Ryōma’s eyes blew wide and his grip went slack. He’d probably have stepped away if not for the wall behind him. “The fuck ?”

Her chest constricted, but she knew the reaction was fair. Abigail lowered the badge, letting it fall again into her purse. “I transferred to Newark last fall with the express purpose of being placed undercover in order to hopefully track down the source of suspected organized crime in the area.” She offered a shrug. “Apparently there had been rumors for a while, never substantial enough to warrant investigation. Then there was something about two missing sheriff’s deputies from West Virginia, last heard from traveling near this part of the state. That was shortly before I got here.”

For a split-second his grip tightened, almost bruising. Then Ryōma ripped his hands away and turned, facing the opening of the alley they’d come through. He swung the side of his fist into the stone wall. “So, what,” he asked through ground teeth, “you lookin’ to arrest me, then?”

His tone was a strange, painful combination of cold and tight, almost strained. It hurt to hear, stabbing through her ears and straight to her heart. Abigail slipped the entire bag off her shoulders and held it out so he could see. “Here. It’s the only gun I have on me. Which you should know.” She certainly didn’t have one in her bra. “I’m not going to arrest you for protecting me, or defending yourself. Yes, I could technically take you in on assault or something, but none of that would stick. More importantly, I don’t want to.”

“Then why the fuck even—” Movement near the alley opening drew their attention and he cut himself off briefly. Then he bit out a curse, twisted, and took her by the arm. He didn’t touch her purse as he hauled her with him toward the opposite end of the alley. “We don’t fucking have time for this.”

Abigail stumbled for the first couple steps, startled that he was still taking her with him. “Wait, you—you don’t have to take me with you,” she said as she finally got her feet under her. “That’s part of my point!” She fumbled with switching her purse around and slinging it again over her shoulders so as to avoid dropping the thing. “I’ll go out and let them see me. You can get away. If my identity’s compromised, the mission will be scrapped for a while. That should give you time to spread the word and tighten any loose ends your group has. Ryōma!”

He yanked her around the corner of the building, just barely out of sight of the alley, and pinned her against the wall. “Listen. We got two, maybe three, groups of assholes lookin’ to kill us right now. Those bastards won’t back down if you go out and flash your fancy badge, they’ll just fill you full of holes. One more body means jack shit to them. If you’re feeling suicidal, you won’t be doing it in front of me. I’m not inclined to play along.”

Her heart leaped at his confusing but not horrible words.

He moved one hand from the wall to take hold of her chin in a firm, not bruising, grip. “That means you’re sticking with me, and we’re gonna keep up the story that you’re mine until you and I have had a nice, long conversation about this fucking bomb you just dropped on me, got it? Because if I go to my boss and tell him my woman turned out to be FBI, we might both end up dead. And I’m not dying for a fed. But five minutes ago? Five minutes ago I’d have taken a bullet for you. So right now I’m feeling very fucking conflicted, baby girl. I need you to cooperate while I get my head on straight, okay?”

She felt somehow both horrendously guilty and stupidly relieved at his words. There was an undertone of something that stung like anger buried beneath those feelings, but deep enough that she was able to ignore it. “Please don’t … take a bullet for me.”

Ryōma grunted, grabbed her hand, and pulled her from the wall. “Walk with me. And for fuck’s sake, don’t show anyone else that goddamn badge.”

She couldn’t stop herself from holding onto his hand as they started moving again. There was urgency in their steps, and she knew it wasn’t entirely due to their agitated mood. “Won’t you get in more trouble for hiding me?”

“I might. You might be ruining everything for me, I don’t fucking know.”

The tears she’d struggled against earlier sprang forward again at his rough, honest words. “What? Why … would you let me do that?”

He turned them down another side street that cut sharply in a different direction. “I haven’t decided to.”

Abigail opened her mouth to ask more questions, but caught the words before they could fall. He’d already admitted to being conflicted, and in the larger situation they were dealing with it wasn’t as if he could focus only on how to respond to her revelation. It was still highly likely that he’d opt to toss her aside as soon as he had a moment to think .

For as much as the idea hurt, she supposed she couldn’t blame him.

They crossed three more blocks in silence before a beat-up Chevy swerved onto the sidewalk in front of them. The driver swung a gun out his window as the passenger jumped out and stood to aim another over the roof, also in their direction. Neither of these men were cops. They looked every bit the cliché gangster in their oversized clothing with the shiny, chunky jewelry and visible tattoos.

“Cezar sends his regards,” the driver said, his voice cold and his glare leveled on Ryōma.

Shit! Abigail moved to reach for her purse, but she knew she’d never get her gun out in time.

Ryōma threw them both to the ground in a rough, but effective, tackle roll that spared them from the first volley of gunfire. He came up on his knees, gun in hand, but it wouldn’t be enough.

Abigail shoved her hand into her purse in a desperate attempt to improve their odds. She didn’t register the sound of squealing tires behind the rapid bursts of gunfire until everything came to an abrupt stop. She was flat on her stomach with her gun half drawn, all of a sudden blinking up at multiple pairs of black-clad legs rushing into view. Behind them, she glimpsed the beginnings of a blood pool on the cement.

“You all right, brother?” a deep voice asked. Something about the voice was distantly familiar.

“Been fucking better,” Ryōma replied from just beyond her periphery. He heaved a breath. “These two were Ink Blots. Driver went out of his way to let me know Barros sent them. ”

“Sounds personal,” Deep Voice said.

“Maybe he’s pissed about Ramires.” Ryōma’s feet came into Abigail’s line of sight as she slowly pushed herself up to sitting. He looked over at her, seeming to hesitate before holding out a hand. “Can you stand?”

A new kind of anxiety twisted inside her. He could out her right here and any one of the men now surrounding them could—probably would—put a hole in her head and walk away. If they were smart they’d lift one of the gangsters’ guns to do it, leaving the dead gangsters to take the blame. The problem she had dropped on him would be solved and he’d have one less burden to deal with.

Abigail dragged in a breath. She couldn’t dwell on that risk. All she could do was hope he still wasn’t inclined to go that route. “Yes,” she said, re-zipping her purse and taking his hand.

As soon as she was on her feet, she found herself staring up, up , into the faintly narrowed, dark blue eyes of a man-shaped mountain named Cristiano De Salvo. A cold chill went through her. Her informant had mentioned him, too. She had been incredibly grateful not to have heard those stories before the one time she’d encountered him previously. But she was sure now his had been the familiar voice, because they had met, however briefly.

Ryōma gestured to her. “This is—”

Cristiano’s lips twitched. “Turns out we’ve met.”

Ryōma froze.

Abigail dug up a smile, doing her best not to think about the violence she’d been told this man was capable of. She wasn’t really sure she liked that he remembered her so easily, but she wasn’t all that surprised. “Cris, right? Are you and Felicity married yet?”

“You have a good memory. We are, yes. She’ll be happy to hear from you again,” Cristiano said. He glanced to the side and made a gesture to one of the other men. “Let’s get out of here.”

The man darted off toward an idling SUV and Ryōma spoke again, just loud enough for Cristiano and Abigail to hear. “Can we swing by south side? I want to get Abigail off the streets, maybe clean up some of these scrapes.”

She struggled to keep her expression steady. That was the first time Ryōma had used her proper name. So he’s decided. Of course he had. And she’d always known what choice he’d make.

Cristiano nodded slowly. “We can do that.”

She debated just coming clean right then and sparing all of them whatever farce was in play with Ryōma’s obviously coded request. It would be suicide, but it would be over quick—most likely. If she could be completely sure she was the only one who would be punished for it, she doubted she would have hesitated. But she’d endangered and manipulated Ryōma enough as it was. The least she could do was allow him the chance to separate from her.

I never should have gone to that bar.

None of this mess would be happening if she’d stayed home that night. She never would have come face-to-face with Rodrigo Silva. She never would have been labeled as an association of Ryōma’s. The man she’d shot dead would most likely still be alive. The man Ryōma had saved her from earlier, in front of the bookstore, would still be walking free. Ryōma himself wouldn’t be facing the prospect of guilt-by-association at her hands.

They never would have met.

They never would have touched.

He never would have called her his, or shown her pleasure so searingly delicious it made her forget herself.

Abigail had justified her actions on Friday night out of a need to fulfill a duty. She’d known she would be engaging with him under false pretenses, known she would be lying, and known it would take some coercion to get him to talk. She had also believed that when it came time to reveal herself, they would be in a protected space with no immediate threat to their persons. That she would have control of the scene.

She’d been so, so wrong. As she watched the world pass by through the window of the SUV, Abigail understood that she had no control. She’d made the wrong move at every opportunity. And if she kept doing that, she wasn’t the only one who would die.

Ryōma hadn’t felt so angry at himself in years. He’d never wanted to know this level of internalized anger again. But it was what he got for letting his guard down and trying to trust someone on the outside. Trying to trust anyone who hadn’t fucking bled for him for no goddamn reason.

He still felt a flicker of that sense of confliction as the SUV sped toward the holding house on the south side of town. The house in particular did double-duty as a safehouse or an extra building for long-term victim storage when necessary. He knew it was one of Cris’s favorites, and as such it was generally well-equipped. They’d need all of that.

Even if part of him hated the idea.

He ground his teeth and turned his glare out the window at his side. He had thought he would try to compose himself, try to sit and talk with her before he tossed her to the fucking wolves. But all that would do was get them both dead. Why should he dive onto the sword for a woman who’d made the choice to lie and use him to destroy the only kind of family he had left?

Every time that question raced through his mind, it was followed immediately by the image of her teary eyes looking up at him. Pleading. Her fingers pressed into his chest as faint tremors wracked through her with each breath. The memory wasn’t even an hour old and it was ingrained into his fucking soul. Even now, part of him wanted to protect her. The same part that felt like it had broken when she’d flipped open that goddamn badge.

Abigail Fitzgerald. FBI.

Ryōma reached over and dug his fingers into one of the blood red peonies on his forearm. He’d thought he’d learned how not to fuck up so badly. He’d thought wearing a symbol of his mother’s life and death on his skin for the rest of his life would keep him from forgetting, ever again. Fucking stupid.

He couldn’t protect Abby. He couldn’t honestly say he’d ever met her. He sure as hell wasn’t throwing away his life, or his new family’s lives, for a woman who’d inserted herself into his path for the purpose of destroying them all. The strange conflict in his chest had finally agreed on that much when he’d realized that Abby had some kind of history with Cris and Felicity. The two closest people in Ryōma’s life. He didn’t know what that history was, only that if Cristiano felt Felicity was threatened, he’d turn on just about anyone. And Ryōma couldn’t blame him. Nor would he be the one to put his surrogate brother in that position.

No matter how much it hurt.

The SUV came to a stop even as Cris barked an order at the driver. “Tell the other car to drive around and secure the perimeter. We’ll be here as long as we have to, unless something comes up.”

“Yes, sir,” Tony said.

Cris popped his door open and Ryōma did the same. But Ryōma paused, knowing he couldn’t yet pull entirely away from Abby. He turned his head her way, finding her still buckled in and clutching her purse with both hands as if she were lost in the depths of her mind. “Hey. We’re here,” he said. He wasn’t sure how his voice came out, and he supposed it didn’t matter.

Abby jerked, her head snapping up. “Oh. Sorry.” She fumbled with her seatbelt and reached for her door .

Ryōma stepped out and waited for her by the back of the SUV. He wasn’t in agreement with himself, he could feel it. His head was fully on-board with the plan of severing ties and walking away. That was the smartest, safest, most logical thing to do. She couldn’t be trusted. But every time he let himself look at her, that thing inside him wanted to. Wanted to reach out and pull her close, to kiss her until the frown line disappeared from her brow, to whisper reassurances in her ear.

He’d indulged that side of himself with her every other time.

All without knowing her real fucking name, let alone that she had a serious ulterior motive.

When she was close enough, he moved a hand to the small of her back and walked with her toward the unassuming house. He didn’t have to like where this was headed. He didn’t have to be happy with anything. He was the muscle. He was fortunate to have been given a new home at all and it was his job to keep that home standing. That was all there was to it.

Cris paused behind them, at the door, and turned toward Tony once more. “Take up position in the front room.” Then he followed behind, his presence somehow both reassuring and foreboding at Ryōma’s back.

Ryōma watched Abby’s head turn as she glanced around and he wondered if she was surprised that it was an actual house inside. Or that it was at least well-maintained. He opened his mouth to say something, not even sure what, but Cris spoke again—this time for them.

“We’ve still got some spare clothes in one of the closets. Why don’t you let her clean up while we have the chance. ”

Ryōma fought the frown that wanted to bend his lips. Delaying only made everything more difficult. “Sure.” He guided her to the main hall. “Primary’s on the left,” he said, indicating. “That should have what you need.” He reached down, then, and tugged pointedly on the strap of her purse. He couldn’t let her hold on to her gun at this stage. Not with Cris’s safety on the line.

Abby hesitated, studying at the doorway ahead before turning enough to look up at him. “Thank you,” she said softly. He didn’t know why the fuck she said that when they both knew what was coming. She slipped off her purse, let it hang from his hand, and proceeded down the hall.