Raw Bloody Power

Chapter 11

11

ESPRESSO MARTINI, PLEASE. SHAKEN, NOT STIRRED

Ivory

“Why did I agree to this? No, seriously. What was I even thinking?” I mutter to myself in exasperation, struggling to tie up the back of my dress. “There could have been another way, another solution, but nooo, I just leapt in front of the bus and accepted my fate like a dumbass. Ugh!”

Knock, knock!

“Ivs, you okay in there?” Dascha calls, amusement sounding in her voice, from the other side of our temporary bakery’s bathroom door.

It’s a little hole in the wall near my house with no store front, but there’s enough space for everything we need to crank out orders. My mom was tired of the constant mess in our kitchen—seriously can’t blame her at all—and within a day, my dad had this place secured for us. Happy wife, happy life, ya know?

“No,” I groan, undoing the lock to allow her entrance. “I can’t get these strings right.”

Slipping in behind me, she swats my hands out of the way and assesses the situation. “I got you,” she chuckles, effortlessly encasing me in the wine-red silkiness with a few swift tugs and a secure knot.

An impressed wolf-whistle follows as I inspect my reflection in the mirror and smooth my hands down my hips, shifting enough to get a peek of my ass. I wish the material was a bit more forgiving in the fupa department, but honestly, I couldn’t care less if Koshka approves of my body. I’m not trying to make him fall in love with me, just distracting him long enough for Rio to do what he needs to do so I can get my dad’s shipment back.

“Girlll, you look sexy as fuck in that dress. Hot date tonight?”

Sadly, no. Can’t remember the last time I went on a proper date actually.

“Something like that.” When I spin to face her, she’s waggling her eyebrows playfully, twirling the dark wayward strands of her hair. “Shut uppp,” I laugh, scooting past her to grab the matching lip liner/lipstick combo from my makeup bag.

“Spill the tea, bro. Who is he? How’d you meet him? When did you meet him?” she hedges excitedly, posting up beneath the threshold with her deep sun kissed arms crossed over her flour-dusted apron.

Oh, you know… I’ve known him my whole life. He was my bully when we were kids. Then we secretly dated in high school, some shit happened, we split up and didn’t see each other for years. Now I’m back against his wishes, he’s the reason the bakery went up in flames, and—ironically enough—needs my help after the fact.

I eye her for a moment, wondering what the hell I’m going to say as I tap the two products against my palm. Worst liar in the history of the world here, remember? She might not know my tells like my father does, but still.

“If tonight goes as planned, then I’ll give you deets, okay?” I brush past her and settle in front of the mirror again. “I don’t wanna jinx it.”

Dascha hums, a smirk tilting her lips, highlighting the knowing—or what she thinks is knowing—glint in her brown eyes. “You must really like him, then.”

I used to love him.

Was gonna leave my whole life to run away with him.

“It’s going well. That’s all I’m saying for now.”

And then when next week rolls around, I’ll just pretend like my imaginary date somehow fucked it up and we’ll never have to speak of this again.

“Fineee.” She disappears from sight, wandering back into the workspace. “Cakes are cooling in the fridge, by the way, and frostings are done.”

“Then go home!” I shout back, lining the bow of my top lip. “Enjoy your weekend. I’ll see you Monday.”

“Are you sure? I can lock up for you so you can just go. ”

“You’re good, I’ve got it. I gotta order an Uber anyway. No way in hell I’m driving anywhere tonight.”

The Obelisk is one of those parts of Central Park we often see in movies during those real dramatic scenes where one of the main characters runs up to it in search of someone, and the camera pans around them.

There’s no camera now, though, just me breathing in the faint autumn breeze, the clop of my heels against the pavers, the odd passerby going for a nightly stroll…and Rio posted up against the landmark’s barricade. If my father knew I was out here without the guys, I’d likely have my ass handed to me, but I can’t risk them reporting back to him. It’ll blow my cover and completely defeat the purpose of not coming clean about Rio sooner.

His head cranks my way as I approach. He doesn’t utter a single word but I don’t miss the palpable way his brown-eyed gaze rakes over me. I can feel it down to the tips of my toes.

“Hey.” I clutch my coat, blocking the burn of his inspection. Took me a good three minutes to leave the closet after he disappeared last night, a little rattled and stuck in this befuddled state of what the fuck just happened?

We don’t need a repeat.

Clearing his throat, he peels his stare away and retrieves something from his coat. I recognize it immediately—the folder he tried offering me that night in his office. “Here. Look it over.”

I glance at it again and shake my head, pushing his tattooed hand away. “You’ve already given me the run down. I’m good.”

“But you don’t know what he looks like. Just take it, Ivory.” He clips out, shaking it at me insistently.

Clearly he’s in a mood tonight.

Part of me wonders why, but I don’t bother asking. We aren’t friends. “Fine.” I snatch it from him and hug the damned thing to my chest. “Shall we get going, though? I can look this over in the car.”

“Whatever you say, Princess.” Pushing off the barricade, he takes off without me, leaving me to wonder why I agreed to this—again.

Let’s get this over with, I guess.

Benedikt Koshka looks nothing like I’d imagined. I was expecting some tall, lanky, beanpole who was dumb enough to pick a fight with my ex. But…he’s attractive.

Really attractive.

He is tall from what I can tell of the three photos staring back at me, but not lanky by any means. Inky black hair, a plethora of tattoos like Rio. Unlike Rio, though, his eyes are the lightest shade of blue. The type of blue you see only on a sunny, cloudless day.

“You can keep those for your spank bank, if necessary. I have no use for them,” Rio mutters over his arm above The Weeknd’s “I Was Never There,” his body shifted toward the driver window, away from me.

Rolling my eyes, I shut the folder and tuck it in between the passenger seat and center console, foregoing a reply. I simply turn my attention out the window as we navigate our way through the city and focus on breathing.

Not the easiest feat when the tension is so thick, you could choke on it. It’s confusing, maddening, even. I’m in a car, by myself, with the man who broke my heart, threatened me, sabotaged my business. The man who stole from me, who shoved a gun down my throat and will likely continue to make my life a living hell long after the evening is over.

What is wrong with me?

Why am I putting myself in harm’s way all because of a rule? Who’s to say he won’t breach it? Rio has always been impulsive, fearless even. Is he really afraid of what my father would do should any harm come my way?

I turn enough to steal a peek at him without giving myself away. His hair’s a bit longer these days. He used to keep it so short, always fading it out as close to a buzz as possible. Now there’s enough up top to run your fingers through it. A light stubble dusts his tense jaw, highlighting the harsh lines of his face and the vein somewhat bulging in his neck. It’s all in the eyes, though.

Hardened, heartless, there’s nothing kind to be found in them.

He must feel the weight of my scrutiny, glancing my way with a perked brow. “What? ”

“Can I ask you something?” comes out of my mouth before I can stop myself.

“Sure.”

“Why the bakery? Do you know how hard I worked to make that happen?”

Rio turns his attention back to the road and hitches a shoulder. “You didn’t listen.”

“Oh, but I did,” I scoff, a hushed laugh attached to it. “I was in Italy with my grandmother for almost two years before I came back home.”

“Should’ve stayed in Italy.” He shrugs again, so simple and unaffected, it spikes my temper like a wildfire. My eyes narrow like lasers, burning into the side of his head.

“My grandma died, you asshole! I had no choice but to come home!”

Despite the music filling the cabin, the stillness that follows is severe and unpleasant. God only knows how long it lasts. Feels like an eternity before he finally says anything.

“That sucks, I’m sorry.”

I mock gasp, setting a hand to my chest. “Wow, Rio Guerra apologizes.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he grates.

“So you’re not gonna admit burning my business down was a dick move?”

“Oh, it was one-hundred percent a dick move,” he snorts, the sound nothing short of no fucks given as he pulls the Yukon to a stop at the red light . “But no, I won’t apologize for it. Like I said, you didn’t listen. I told you there’d be consequences. ”

Who the hell does this man think he is?

I’d say I’m flabbergasted, but that’s not even it. I’m just…angry. Such a small, basic adjective, yet that pretty much sums it up. “Your word isn’t law, Rio. This is my home, too.”

“Yeah? And you left.”

“For school!” I defend. “Are you serious right now?”

“No, you ran for the hills when we were supposed to leave together! You remember that?” His brown eyes pin me like a dart. “We had a whole ass plan, and nowhere in them was you going to Harvard!”

“You ran me off! The shit you said to me that night…”

He’s moving, leaning over the center console to bring himself as close as possible with his foot still on the brake. “You deserved it,” he gruffs venomously. “I was willing to give up everything in my life for you. Everything! Clearly, that wasn’t enough.”

“You know that’s not true! I told you it wasn’t what you?—”

A horn blares behind us, alerting Rio of the now bright green bright.

He shifts back into his seat with a shake to his head and hits the gas, nearly throwing me into the dashboard from the sudden speed. “Don’t. Seriously, do not sit there and tell me it wasn’t what I thought it was because I saw it with my own two eyes.”

“Well, you saw wrong!” I blurt incredulously, but he volleys his head again.

“Just forget it. No sense in rehashing all the things that don’t matter anymore.”

“Oh my God, why do you do this?” Explosive and frustrated, I glare at him in disbelief, loathing the way I’m still perceived to be at fault for something I didn’t do. “Why do you shut down and just?—”

“Because it took me a really long time to get over you, Ivory!” he roars, slamming a hand on the wheel. “A long ass fucking time, okay? And frankly, I don’t want to relive that shit again, so just drop it. We’re almost there anyway.”

The uneasy tension, now multiplied exponentially, returns with a vengeance. Silence along with it. I sit there in shock as the city disappears, replaced by concrete and the orange glow of the Lincoln Tunnel. We say absolutely nothing for several minutes, him navigating traffic, me a statue of shock.

I want to tell him it was the same for me, that I cried myself to sleep for months on end, my heart obliterated, completely wrecked without him. That it took me years before I so much as looked at another man, much less accepted a date.

But I don’t.

Because he’s right. For one, I don’t want to relive it, either, and two, it’s senseless to rehash this so many years later. We’ve lived without each other for over a decade, eleven years to be exact. Why try to resolve it now?

“Here,” he says as we clear the tunnel into Jersey limits, handing me something he’s fished out of his coat. “You’re gonna need it.”

What looks like a small microphone sits in his outstretched palm.

“Turn it on, clip it to your bra, and forget about it. If he happens to catch on and shit goes to hell, I’ll be able to hear it and get you out of there.”

To say I’m taken aback would be putting it lightly. I wasn’t expecting a layer of protection, not even a slight veil. “I… I don’t have a bra on, though. I can’t with this dress. It’s backless.”

Rio expels a breath, his jaw tensing. “Then shove it between your tits.”

“Will it still work? Won’t the sound be like, muffled?”

“It should be fine, but we’ll test it when we get there.”

About ten minutes later, he’s backing the Yukon into a wide alleyway. The second he throws it in park and turns off the headlights, he retrieves his phone from the cupholder and passes it to me without so much as looking my way.

“What do you want me to do with that?” I gape.

“Number, so I can text you when to wrap it up.”

“Oh, right.” I take the proffered device with a tentative hand and tap into his calls. Feels beyond weird to have access to any aspect of his personal life, trying and failing not to notice the contact names lining his recents: Nadia, Mandy, Annette, Tasha, Liz, Rissa… Hitting the keypad, I punch in my number and call myself. The second my phone vibrates in my clutch, I end the call and hand it back to him.

“Is the mic on?”

“Uhhh…” I reach into my ample cleavage and pull out the mic. A little red light blinks back at us. “Yeah.”

“Wait until you’re about halfway down the alley. I’ll have the headset on by then and should be connected. ”

Nodding, I suck in a deep breath and slide out of the passenger seat. I wasn’t nervous at all the entire ride here—didn’t really have much time to think about it—but now that it’s time for me to actually do my part, my stomach flip flops uncomfortably.

“What if I say the wrong thing?” I whisper to myself. “What if he realizes what’s going on?”

My phone buzzes sheer seconds later, prompting me to pull it out of my clutch.

Unknown

You’ll be fine. Just relax. Enjoy a drink and let him chat you up.

“I’m guessing you can hear me just fine?” I question, glancing over my shoulder at the SUV.

Yup. Shouldn’t be long. Maybe an hour. Two at most.

“Okay. Well, here goes nothing. Where am I going?”

Turn left when you get to the end. You’ll see it almost immediately: Iron Fist. He’s at the bar already. Can’t miss him. Dark gray shirt.

Sliding the device into the pocket of my coat, I follow Rio’s instructions and walk the short distance to the bar. It’s nothing special, to be honest, like any other random bar in the middle of a city. Lots of iron decor after it’s namesake, the door included, but that’s it. Not too crowded, either, mostly the booths lining the perimeter taken with couples and small groups of friends. Their idle chatter and the football game on the various flatscreens masks my steps as I approach the bar top.

Here we go.

Benedikt’s right where Rio said he’d be, with several empty spaces to his left. I feel his eyes on me the second I slip onto a nearby stool, leaving only one between us. The bartender approaches as I’m shrugging off my coat.

“What can I get for you, pretty lady?” He smiles suavely, surely hoping to rack up the tips with compliments.

“Espresso martini, please, if you can manage it. Shaken, not stirred. If not, a whiskey sour’s fine.”

“Can do on the martini, but it’s gonna be a few minutes. Gotta brew up some espresso first.”

“No problem, take your time. I’m not in a hurry.” I smile.

“I.D?”

I know he’s obligated to ask, but it feels nice to be carded, smirking as I withdraw the card from my clutch and slide it along the polished wood toward him. I’m a few months shy of thirty, and I’m not exactly thrilled about it. Feels like my twenties went by in a blur.

Bartender dude grins as he scans it and slides it back. “Coming right up.”

He’s gone before I can thank him, grabbing the vodka, Kahlúa, and espresso liqueur on his way to the coffee machine.

“I’ve never had one of those,” a deeper than sin register says to my right. “Any good?”

The sound goes straight to the apex of my thighs. I swivel my head to find Benedikt studying me. He’s even more handsome in person, the piercing blue of his eyes against the raven strands of his styled hair nearly sucking the air from my lungs.

“They’re my favorite.” I purposely angle myself in his direction as I cross my legs. The hem of my dress rides up slightly, a motion he tracks without falter. “A little on the sweet side, though, so if you’re not into that kind of thing, probably not the drink for you.”

Benedikt nods and flashes me the tumbler in his hand. “I’m more of a bourbon guy. Whiskey will do, too, or scotch.”

“Yeah, definitely not the drink for you, then.” I chuckle.

So does he.

A hiccup of time passes before he motions to the empty stool between us. “You waiting on someone?”

“Nope, it’s just me tonight. Long day. Needed to get away.”

“Care if I join you?” he queries.

My lips quiver because got him . “Be my guest.”

Sliding his glass over, he moves with lithe grace, swiveling toward me as he extends a hand. “Benedikt Koshka.”

“Ivory Belucci.” I give him a full blown smile for added effect. “It’s nice to meet you, Benedikt.”

“Likewise.” A panty-melting, wolfish grin slinks across his face. “So, Belucci, huh? Any relation to the New York Beluccis?

I shouldn’t be surprised he has any knowledge of my family; most, if not all, organized crime syndicates make it their business to know of one another, but I can feel the way my eyebrows make friends with my hairline. “Actually, yes. Amadeo is my father. You know him?”

Benedikt does this little hum of approval and leans in closer, dragging that blue-eyed stare over the curves of my body. “I don’t, no, but I should’ve known a gorgeous little thing like you was a mafia princess.”