Page 16 of Mischief Mayhem
Aside from having one brother with Leo at all times, we also had three prospects guarding the place at various points outside. Any day, his aunt, Gabriella Caputi, might get wind of where he was and attack the place to get him back. It had been six months since he’d first arrived and so far, she hadn’t made a move. The intel we were getting from inside the mafia suggested she still didn’t know where we were keeping him, and we wanted to keep it that way.
“It was a hell of a party,” I said, my stomach lurching when I remembered how delicious V had smelled, how desperately I wanted to bury myself between her legs, and how much it had ached when she left me there alone.
Leo smiled, his warm brown eyes seeming more kind than he actually was. Last August, he’d sent his henchmen after us, resulting in a shootout not far from the clubhouse. V and I had almost died that night. The only reason we’d spared Leo this long had been to use him against Gabriella.
The MC’s president, Crow, wanted the war to end, and perhaps getting Leo Caputi on our side could help with that. Unfortunately, Leo didn’t see it that way, and I had a number of scars on my body that kept me from fully embracing that idea myself. Our families had been enemies since before either of us were born. His uncle had killed my brother. KC had killed his uncle and his brother. I, myself, had killed countless more. Where did it end?
When Crow first asked me to get close to him, I didn’t think there’d be any way I could. He was a Caputi. I was a Rose. We had nothing in common. After three months, I was sorry to say that was still true. I was the only one he talked to, but I suspected that was because I’d nursed him to health, seeing him at his literal weakest and bringing him back to himself. I’d had to bathe him more times than I would ever admit. I spent so much time with him, more than anyone else, and that formed a bond that few could ever match, much to my chagrin.
“Hmm,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee. “I miss cocaine.”
I laughed and sat opposite him at the table, taking in his appearance. Once upon a time, he’d been twenty pounds skinnier and strung out on everything under the sun. When we’d taken him, Bear had shot him in the knee and it hadn’t healed right. After he’d sobered up and gotten healthy enough for surgery, Selene had corrected the injury, and now he had a hard road to recovery. Every morning, one of the more forgiving Roses (usually me) came over to help him bathe and dress. After that, it was an hour of physical therapy exercises. Judging by the sleepy eyes and the fact he still had on my old robe, he hadn’t done any of that yet. It seemed much easier to just kill him and be done with it, but what the hell did I know?
“Are you ready for a shower?” I asked, rubbing a hand over my face. Despite having taken my own prior to coming here, Verona hung heavy in the back of my nose, a tangy floral scent that refused to stop tormenting me. I’d been wasted, true, but I remembered all of it—and fuck, I wanted more. I wanted it when I was sober, when I could enjoy the whole thing with a clear head. But the regretful look she’d given me right before she left had me locking down my own desires. It didn’t matter what I wanted. Clearly, that was a onetime thing for her.
“No pleasantries, huh?” Leo shook his head and tsked his teeth, taking another long sip of coffee. “Right to business, then.” He assessed me with his curious stare, his long chestnut hair curling around his shoulders. He’d been given access to a razor to shave his face, but we hadn’t offered a haircut. Objectively, I thought the longer locks suited him better, but I wouldn’t tell him that. Leo was an attractive guy, and if he wasn’t him and I wasn’t me, I’d be into him, at least enough to try to hit it. Now that he’d put on some more weight, he’d started to fill out in all the right places. But there was no world in which I would ever sink so low as to fuck a Caputi. Ew. My dick might literally shrivel up and rot off.
“How’s your knee this morning?” I went around the table to help him up, grabbing the crutch from across the room so he could lean on it as we walked down the hallway to the bathroom.
“It hurts,” he said. “How’s your chest?”
“It hurts.” I grabbed the recently healed wound, clearing my throat as I ignored the awkward topic of conversation. The Roses had fucked up his knee, the Caputis had made Swiss cheese of my torso. On and on the cycle went.
When we got to the bathroom, I helped him out of his robe and grabbed the garbage bag we used to cover his leg wrappings. Once it was secure around his thigh, he used my shoulder to hop his weight into the tub before I leaned down to adjust the water temperature.
He didn’t thank me, and I didn’t stay for conversation. I left him alone, choosing to go to the living room while I waited until he was done. As I sat on the couch, I looked at the pictures lining the mantel and various surfaces. KC, Bear, and me on a fishing trip that some of the older brothers had planned. V and me in high school. One of Trojan and me when we were younger.
Another agonizing stab went through my torso as I tried to remember the sound of my brother’s voice or the way he used to thunder down those stairs in the morning, bright-eyed and ready to drive me to school. I’d been almost ten years younger than Trojan, and he’d protected me from our piece of shit stepfather my entire life. Who the hell knew where our biological father was?
Trojan joined the army when he turned eighteen and went away for basic training. Without his favorite punching bag there to take the hits, our stepfather set in on me and my mom. I endured the beatings for four years after that. One night, the fucker knocked my mom out cold and left her bleeding on the kitchen floor.
I’d thought he’d killed her right in front of me, robbing me of the only real parent I had. I went to my bedroom and grabbed the shotgun my brother had given me for hunting. I loaded it, cocked it, and waltzed back into the kitchen, prepared to threaten him into never laying a hand on my mother again.
“Oh, look at you. Little tough man, huh? What are you going to do?” he teased, swallowing down another mouthful of Jack. “Shoot me?”
Hands trembling, I gulped and held firm. If I backed down, he’d never listen. He’d never leave us alone.
“Stop hurting my mom, or . . . or I’ll kill you!” My voice had never shaken so hard before or since, but I forced my tiny body to stand firm.
My stepfather laughed harshly, walking forward like he didn’t think I had the guts, and leaned down to grab the barrel, pointing it right at his forehead.
“Go on then, do it.” He sneered, staring down the long, cool metal with soul-piercing eyes. “Do it.”
Tension brewed between the two of us so thick and terrible that I coulda cut it with a knife. I shivered, my nerves trembling so hard, my teeth rattled. A child should never have to watch someone beat their mother, much less kill the abuser to stop the violence.
“You don’t have the ball?—”
Before he could finish, I took a step back, stumbled, and clenched down on the gun to steady myself. It went off. A loud bang reverberated through the tiny house and my stepfather’s head exploded. Blood dripped from everything, the ceiling, the countertops, the breakfast table—the entire world covered in red. Warm specks of flesh and brain hit me in the face, and I stayed stock-still while his massive body hit the ground.
My mother had peeled herself off the floor, awakened by the gunshot, and once she’d understood what had happened, she let out a loud, high-pitched scream. It still haunted my nightmares.
“How are we supposed to live now?” She shook her head and grabbed the gun, complaining about the mess she’d have to clean up, worrying about what she was going to tell the cops when they came around looking for him. With resounding shock and horror, I realized she wasn’t pissed I’d killed her husband. She’d been upset about the money.
In the end, she’d taken the fall. Her lawyers had advised her to blame it on me, that I’d get a lighter sentence since I was a kid, but she wouldn’t steal my future. Which was why I kept sending her cash after she got twenty-five to life with the possibility of parole for good behavior.
That was the night I realized people could use their body to get what they wanted, that my mother had done that much of her life. People only saw her as an object, as something to play with and throw away, and she saw other people as a meal ticket, using her sexuality to feed both of us. She’d done what she had to do for survival. While a part of me hated her for failing to protect the fucker from beating on Trojan and me, I couldn’t blame her for not knowing any better. Her parents had been pieces of shit, she was raised to be a piece of shit, and so was I.
Trojan had taken guardianship of me after Mom went away, and when he figured out what our stepfather had done to me in his absence, he’d wept for leaving.